Arts, Faculty of
Theatre and Film, Department of
DSpace
UBCV
Liu, Yu-ning
Doctor of Philosophy - PhD
University of British Columbia
This dissertation, “Accidental Encounters: A Journey of Developing the Subjectivity of Taiwan’s Contemporary Xiqu Forms,” examines how three non-indigenous traditional Chinese theater forms—jingju (Peking opera), yuju (Henan opera), and kunqu (Kun opera)—developed unique trajectories after their transplantation to Taiwan. It explores how Taiwan’s emergence as a vibrant cultural environment over the past century has shaped the global presence and evolving interpretations of xiqu. Moving beyond conventional nationalist historiographies and text-centric analyses, this research employs performance analysis, interviews with actors, and archival work to trace the fluid cultural evolution of these xiqu forms. In doing so, it challenges entrenched notions of Chineseness, authenticity, and timeless tradition commonly associated with Chinese opera. Instead, it reveals that Taiwan’s political, economic, and social transformations—combined with linguistic diversity, cultural heterogeneity, and exposure to Westernization—have reshaped these imported forms. Jingju, yuju, and kunqu in Taiwan thus stand not as static cultural relics but as dynamic, adaptive genres that engage in continuous negotiation with their environment. The findings highlight that xiqu’s hybridity and transnational potential undermine the idea of a fixed, monolithic “Chinese” identity. Taiwan’s recontextualization of these forms opens new possibilities for understanding them as globally relevant performing arts rather than as artifacts confined to a single cultural or geographical frame. By foregrounding their capacity for reinvention, this dissertation illuminates how xiqu’s aesthetic and cultural significance can transcend the constraints of rigid East/West binaries and nationalist claims, thereby contributing to ongoing discussions of decolonization, cultural hybridization, and global performative exchange.
Accidental encounters: a journey of developing the subjectivity of Taiwan’s contemporary xiqu forms by Yu-ning Liu B. A., National Tsing Hua University (Taiwan), 2010 M. A., Taipei National University of the Arts (Taiwan), 2013 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY in The Faculty of Graduate and Postdoctoral Studies (Theatre) THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver) August 2025 © Yu-ning Liu, 2025 ii The following individuals certify that they have read, and recommend to the Faculty of Graduate and Postdoctoral Studies for acceptance, the dissertation entitled: Accidental encounters: a journey of developing the subjectivity of Taiwan’s contemporary xiqu forms submitted by Yu-ning Liu in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Theatre Examining Committee: Dr. Siyuan Liu, Professor, Theatre Studies, UBC Supervisor Dr. Catherine Swatek, Associate Professor Emerita, Asian Studies, UBC Supervisory Committee Member Dr. Lily Wong, Associate Professor, Literature, American University Supervisory Committee Member Dr. Alison Bailey, Assistant Professor, Asian Studies, UBC University Examiner Dr. Keren Zaiontz, Assistant Professor, Theatre Studies, UBC University Examiner iii Abstract This dissertation, “Accidental Encounters: A Journey of Developing the Subjectivity of Taiwan’s Xiqu Forms,” examines how three non-indigenous traditional Chinese theater forms—jingju (Peking opera), yuju (Henan opera), and kunqu (Kun opera)—developed unique trajectories after their transplantation to Taiwan. It explores how Taiwan’s emergence as a vibrant cultural environment over the past century has shaped the global presence and evolving interpretations of xiqu. Moving beyond conventional nationalist historiographies and text-centric analyses, this research employs performance analysis, interviews with actors, and archival work to trace the fluid cultural evolution of these xiqu forms. In doing so, it challenges entrenched notions of Chineseness, authenticity, and timeless tradition commonly associated with Chinese opera. Instead, it reveals that Taiwan’s political, economic, and social transformations—combined with linguistic diversity, cultural heterogeneity, and exposure to Westernization—have reshaped these imported forms. Jingju, yuju, and kunqu in Taiwan thus stand not as static cultural relics but as dynamic, adaptive genres that engage in continuous negotiation with their environment. The findings highlight that xiqu’s hybridity and transnational potential undermine the idea of a fixed, monolithic “Chinese” identity. Taiwan’s recontextualization of these forms opens new possibilities for understanding them as globally relevant performing arts rather than as artifacts confined to a single cultural or geographical frame. By foregrounding their capacity for reinvention, this dissertation illuminates how xiqu’s aesthetic and cultural significance can transcend the constraints of rigid East/West binaries and nationalist claims, thereby contributing to ongoing discussions of decolonization, cultural hybridization, and global performative exchange. iv Lay Summary The dissertation, “Accidental Encounters: A Journey of Developing the Subjectivity of Taiwan’s Contemporary Xiqu Forms,” explores the unique paths of three traditional Chinese theater forms—jingju (Peking or Beijing opera), yuju (Henan opera), and kunqu (Kun opera)—after they arrive in Taiwan. The research examines how these forms evolved beyond their original contexts, showcasing their capacity for reinvention and challenging rigid cultural boundaries. It highlights how Taiwan’s xiqu traditions have developed distinct identities while maintaining ties to their roots, reflecting the broader themes of decolonization, cultural hybridization, and global performative exchange. The study interprets the play The Painting of 18 Lohans as a metaphor for Taiwan’s jingju practitioners’ journey from imitation to self-assertion. It also investigates how political and cultural factors shaped the development of these art forms in Taiwan. The dissertation considers how these art forms in Taiwan have achieved global recognition. v Preface This dissertation represents the original and independent work of Yu-ning Liu. She conceived and designed the research project, conducted every component of the investigation and performed all associated analyses. Part of Chapter 2, Section 5, has been accepted and will be published in the Asian Theatre Journal in fall 2025. The author holds the copyright for this article. • “Différance Jingju: From Three Persons and Two Lamps to Smoke-locked Palace,” Asian Theatre Journal 42, no. 2 (Fall 2025). Some ideas in Chapter 2, specifically the rise of the female jingju (Peking or Beijing opera) practitioners, have been included in a book chapter submitted, accepted, and forthcoming. The author holds the copyright for this article. • “Free Jingju from Its Political and Ideological Burdens: A Case Study of Wang An-Chi, A Leader in the Creation of Jingju in Taiwan.” In Women’s Innovation in Theatre, Dance and Performance, vol 4, edited by Eva Aymami-Rene, Anita Gonzales, and Kimberly Jew. London and New York: Bloomsbury-Methuen Press (forthcoming). All research-related interviews have been conducted with the approval of the Behavioral Research Ethics Board (UBC BREB # H22-01286) I used ChatGPT to polish the grammar of several paragraphs. The final arguments and analysis are entirely my own. vi Table of Contents Abstract ......................................................................................................................................... iii Lay Summary ............................................................................................................................... iv Preface ............................................................................................................................................ v Table of Contents ......................................................................................................................... vi List of Tables .............................................................................................................................. viii List of Abbreviations ................................................................................................................... ix Glossary ......................................................................................................................................... x Chinese Names, Romanization and Translations ..................................................................... xi Acknowledgments ....................................................................................................................... xii Chapter 1: Introduction ............................................................................................................... 1 1.1 The 7th Presidential Concert at Chiehshou Hall ....................................................................................... 1 1.2 Transplantation as a Method .................................................................................................................... 11 1.3 Literature Review ....................................................................................................................................... 16 1.4 Research Methodology ............................................................................................................................... 23 1.5 Chapters Overview ..................................................................................................................................... 25 Chapter 2: Jingju and the Haunted Politics of Identity .......................................................... 29 2.1 The Painting of 18 Lohans and the Self-Narrative of Taiwan’s Jingju Practitioners .......................... 29 2.2 On the Isolated Mountain: Taiwan’s Jingju Artists as Traditional Art Restorers .............................. 33 2.3 No Restoration Without Creation ............................................................................................................. 44 2.4 The Desire for Secret Creation Without Attribution .............................................................................. 58 2.5 Facing the Truth: There Is No Restoration Without Creation .............................................................. 68 2.6 The Painting of 18 Lohans as a Manifesto: The Creation of a New Taiwanese Jingju ........................ 86 2.7 Conclusion: Beijing School, Shanghai School, Taiwan School? ............................................................. 90 vii Chapter 3: The Elusive Kunqu Masters: On the Road ............................................................ 94 3.1 The Peony Pavilion Has Been Revived After Three Dreams .................................................................. 94 3.2 Encounters Initiated by Defection ............................................................................................................ 96 3.3 The Best Actors are in China, and the Best Audience is in Taiwan .................................................... 111 3.4 When Kunqu Met America: From Lincoln Center to the Smithsonian .............................................. 118 3.5 Wen Yuhang Rooted in Taiwan .............................................................................................................. 133 3.6 Conclusion: Inter-Genre Interactions on and beyond the Island ........................................................ 142 Chapter 4: Ersatz Folk: The Ideal Non-local Bentu Yuju Theatrical Genre in Taiwan .... 146 4.1 Inventing “Difang” ................................................................................................................................... 147 4.2 The Homeland of Yuju ............................................................................................................................. 153 4.3 Yuju’s Tortuous Path to Taiwan ............................................................................................................. 157 4.4 Yuju in Taiwan .......................................................................................................................................... 168 4.5 Liu Laolao: Discovering a New Voice for Taiwanese Yuju through Rooted Chinese Culture and Local Innovation ............................................................................................................................................. 186 Coda ........................................................................................................................................... 192 Bibliography .............................................................................................................................. 200 viii List of Tables Table 2.1 Taiwanese Jingju troupes and their affiliations in the 1950s-1980s …………………42 Table 3.1 The complete list of WKS’ events between 1995-2009……………………………..123 ix List of Abbreviations CCP Chinese Communist Party GGOC GuoGuang Opera Company KMT Kuomingtang, The Nationalist Party MND Ministry of National Defense MOE Ministry of Education PRC People’s Republic of China ROC Republic of China SKC Shanghai Kunju Company x Glossary gezaixi 歌仔戲 Taiwanese opera guoju 國劇 national theater/national drama jingju 京劇 Beijing or Peking opera kunqu 崑曲 Kun opera xiqu 戲曲 traditional Chinese theater yuju 豫劇 Henan opera xi Chinese Names, Romanization and Translations In this dissertation, all Mandarin names are written with the family name first, as is the convention in Taiwan. For Taiyu (Taiwanese language that is a variation of the Minnan language), I use Roman pinyin with diacritics, and for the rest of the Mandarin, I use Roman pinyin without diacritics. If people’s names and events have a more widely known pinyin, their use will be respected. I have tried to be consistent with previously published English-language versions of xiqu plays or book titles and with proper names. Still, I have chosen the version I feel is most accurate in cases where there are discrepancies. Unless otherwise noted, all translations are my own. Finally, “China” in this study refers to the People’s Republic of China (PRC), while Taiwan refers to the Republic of China (ROC), with jurisdiction over Taiwan and some minor outlying islands. xii Acknowledgments At last, I have arrived at this moment of writing. Though the future remains uncertain, I have no regrets about this journey. I would like to express my deepest gratitude to my advisor, Prof. Siyuan Liu, whose exemplary scholarly dedication to historical research, rigorous academic discipline, and nearly hands-on guidance in academic writing have shaped my journey. My heartfelt thanks go to my incredibly supportive committee members, Dr. Catherine Swatek and Dr. Lily Wong, whose expertise in classical Chinese theater and Sinophone theories has inspired me to pursue a lifelong academic ideal. I am also deeply grateful to the professors at UBC who have enriched my learning experience: Dr. Kirsty Johnston, Dr. Hallie Marshall, Dr. Olivia Gagnon, Dr. Fuyubi Nakamura, and Dr. Timothy Cheek. Their inspiration and support have profoundly shaped my academic development. A special thanks to Dr. Xu Xiaowen and all colleagues in the Chinese Language Program. I would also like to thank Prof. Stephen Heatley, former head of the department, whose generous support helped me through difficult times. I am sincerely grateful to the Taiwan Government Fellowship to Study Abroad, along with the TECO Vancouver Office, for making my studies abroad possible and enabling me to study without concerns in my first four years. My thanks extend to the UBC Theatre Department and the Faculty of Arts Graduate Award for their financial assistance in my fifth and sixth years. Special thanks are owed to all my interviewees for your trust: Ms. Tong-ching Chang, Mr. Yuan-tseng Hsia, Mr. Wang Xiyi, Mr. Michael Wilper, Ms. Vivian Lee, Mr. Wen Yuhang, xiii and Ms. Chu Meili. Your stories and the personal histories kindly shared with me will never be forgotten. The dedication you have shown to traditional Chinese theater and the historical events you have lived through has been crucial to this study. These stories form the very foundation of this dissertation, and your contributions have brought life to this research in ways words alone cannot express. This work would not be possible without your willingness to share your experiences. The deepest thanks to my senior fellow student, Dr. Hanyang Jiang, whose vast knowledge and our countless intellectually stimulating conversations have deeply influenced me, as well as my cohort Dr. Yuqing Liu, Zhixuan Zhu, Jelena Todorovic, Mark Swetz, Allen Baylosis, Yuting Chen, Marios Kallos, Lara Aysal, and Stephen Oppong, for all the time we spent writing, laughing, whining and watching productions together. I also appreciate the guidance from Dr. Zhaokun Xin, Qiu Yanting, Dr. Xiaoqiao Xu, and the two beloved scholars, Colleen Lanki and Dr. Eury Chang, who are no longer with us but have been missed deeply. I thank my dearest friends beyond academia for navigating every storm with me. My profound gratitude to my cat, Dolce, who never hesitates to share his warmest cuddle and love and ensures I wake up at seven each morning. His presence has been essential to my daily routine and mental well-being. I also thank the beautiful landscapes of Pacific Northwest, whose mountains and lands have embraced me at every step. Last but certainly not least, special thanks to my parents, whose unconditional support and love have allowed me the freedom to soar and pursue my dreams across the world. xiv For all the Taiwanese xiqu performers and artists who generously shared their stories. 1 Chapter 1: Introduction 1.1 The 7th Presidential Concert at Chiehshou Hall1 In the spring of 1993, a rare spectacle unfolded within the stately halls of Taiwan’s Presidential Office. Its wood-paneled hallways bustled with musicians, stage crew, and curious onlookers. Although the Chiehshou Hall Concert series—later renamed the Presidential Concerts—had overwhelmingly spotlighted Western classical music,2 that night marked a radical departure. President Lee Teng-hui 李登輝 (1923–2020),3 guided by a vision of cultural inclusivity, 1 Jieshou tang yinyue hui 介壽堂音樂會 (The Chiehshou Hall Concert) in Taiwan has been held since 1991 and later was renamed the Presidential Concert (Zongtong fu yinyue hui 總統府音樂會). Jieshou (Chiehshou), a common name of roads, museums, parks, and schools in Taiwan since the 1950s, is the abbreviation for “celebrating a birthday (shou) to Chiang Kai (Jie/Chieh)-shek,” the former president of the Republic of China and a dictator. The name is a clear remnant of the authoritarian era of idolatry of political strongmen. As Taiwan gradually moves towards a liberal society, many buildings, roads, and public facilities named “Jieshou” have been renamed since the 1990s. The name of this concert hall, for example, was changed from Jieshou Hall Concert to the Presidential Concert. 2 Before the seventh Presidential Concert in 1993, the Presidential Concert series was an exclusive stage for Western classical music. Each of the previous six concerts had been dedicated to European composers, highlighting compositions from the Baroque, Classical, Romantic, and Early Modern periods. The first concert in 1991 featured works by Luigi Boccherini, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Camille Saint-Saëns, Felix Mendelssohn, and other European composers, performed by internationally acclaimed Taiwanese musicians on piano, violin, and cello. Subsequent concerts continued similarly, featuring major European composers such as Ludwig van Beethoven, Franz Liszt, Robert Schumann, Gioachino Rossini, Giacomo Puccini, and Johann Strauss II. Vocal performances included selections from European operas such as Die Fledermaus, Il Barbiere di Siviglia, Werther, La Traviata, and Le Nozze di Figaro, reinforcing the dominance of Western classical traditions in this prestigious venue. Although the fifth concert in September 1992 introduced some Chinese instrumental selections performed by guqin 古琴 (traditional Chinese seven-stringed zither) and pipa 琵琶 (traditional Chinese four-stringed lute) players, these pieces were presented alongside a Westernized orchestral arrangement by the Taipei Chinese Orchestra, rather than being featured as the core of the program. This demonstrated that, even when Chinese musical elements were included, they remained framed within a Western concert format rather than asserting a standalone presence. 3 Recognizing the positive influence of the presidential office, President Lee Teng-hui intended to enhance the cultural appreciation of all people and held twenty-five concerts during his twelve years in office (1988-2000). Unlike the mainstream KMT narrative, which tended to support a One China policy, believed that Taiwan is part of China, and that the Republic of China would win back the mainland China, President Lee Teng-hui was relatively neutral regarding the Taiwan/China issue his early days in the KMT. After all, he was born in Taiwan, with Japanese and Taiyu (Taiwanese Hokkien) as his mother tongues, went to Kyoto Imperial University for his B.A degree and to Cornell University in the U.S. to earn his Ph.D., and then joined the ruling party KMT with a technical specialty in agriculture. In his early political career, his non-waishengren origins made it difficult for him to gain the trust of the party’s top brass, and he did not easily demonstrate his tendency to lean toward Taiwan-centric ideology. 2 inaugurated the seventh Presidential Concert with a program devoted solely to xiqu 戲曲 (traditional Chinese theater). It was the first—and only—time in the history of these events that xiqu claimed center stage rather than appearing as a marginal sideshow.4 The evening’s significance ran beyond mere aesthetic novelty. By 1993, the political and cultural climate in Taiwan had shifted considerably. The lifting of martial law in 1987 opened new avenues for cross-strait cultural exchange, enabling troupes from the People’s Republic of China (PRC) to visit and tour Taiwan. Many of these visiting performers showcased themselves as the sole authentic guardians and inheritors of centuries-old xiqu traditions, leaving xiqu artists in Taiwan, especially those in Taiwan practicing jingju 京劇 (Beijing or Peking opera) who had developed in comparative isolation during the authoritarian era, anxious about their own legitimacy. President Lee’s all-xiqu concert was a strategic gesture of endorsement for Taiwan’s own theatrical lineages, asserting that local forms and performers were neither peripheral nor inferior. Lee Teng-hui’s decision to host this xiqu-focused evening underscored Taiwan’s broader transformation from an authoritarian regime into a fledgling democracy grappling with emerging freedoms and cultural complexities. The shift from martial law to a more open society had prompted debates on how Taiwan could simultaneously embody “Chinese culture” and define a new Taiwanese identity. Historically, Taiwan had long existed as an island subject to the Kuomintang’s (The Nationalist Party, KMT) official claim of representing orthodox Chinese traditions in opposition to the PRC. However, after the late 1980s, the state began to tolerate a 4 President Lee Teng-hui’s presidential concerts have clearly been influenced by the White House concerts in the United States. The White House concerts have been held for over 200 years, starting with the family life of President George Washington and continuing until today. Marching bands and talented artists have been invited to perform, or to partner with professional music companies to present concerts. More details can be found in White House Historical Association n.d. 3 wider range of expressions, no longer limiting the populace to the rigidly curated image of “Chinese-ness” that had once dominated political propaganda. In this context, a grand presidential event dedicated to xiqu was not just entertainment; it represented a carefully considered cultural statement, suggesting that Taiwan could be a venue for reimagined Chinese heritages rather than a mere bastion of old orthodoxies. That night, four celebrated actresses took the stage, each performing an excerpt from a distinct xiqu genre: kunqu 崑曲 (Kun opera), gezaixi 歌仔戲 (Taiwanese opera), yuju 豫劇 (Henan opera), and jingju. The entire occasion felt like a state-sponsored tapestry of Taiwan’s evolving relationship with Chinese cultural heritage. These four genres can be categorized into two distinct groups. The first consists of a locally developed form, gezaixi, which has a long-standing presence in Taiwan. The second group comprises imported genres, yuju, jingju, and kunqu, which arrived in Taiwan primarily in the 20th century due to shifting political circumstances. From 1949 until the lifting of martial law in 1987, the audiences for these two groups of xiqu were markedly different. The former, gezaixi, was predominantly enjoyed by native Taiwanese, who spoke Taiyu (Taiwanese Hokkien) as their primary language. In contrast, the latter forms were mostly attended by waishengren 外省人(mainlanders, lit. people from outside the province), Chinese migrants who arrived in Taiwan following the KMT’s retreat. Additionally, government policies and official oversight varied significantly between these two groups, further shaping their trajectories. This is why the convergence of these four xiqu genres in the presidential concerts, the most prominent political stage in Taiwan, was an unprecedented moment. It symbolized a rare convergence of cultural and political recognition, bringing together previously disparate traditions in a shared space of national representation. 4 In the opening segment, kunqu star Hua Wenyi 華文漪 (1941-2022), who had famously defected from the PRC in 1989, stepped onto the stage to perform an excerpt from The Peony Pavilion. Her portrayal of Du Liniang 杜麗娘, a sheltered young woman who risks everything for love and personal freedom, was imbued with a haunting lyricism and a meticulously crafted dance vocabulary. From each graceful hand gesture to her emotive vocal inflections, Hua conveyed the desperate yearnings of a heroine longing to break free from rigid social norms. For many in the audience, the performance echoed Hua’s life choices. Having left the PRC to pursue artistic independence, she transformed kunqu, traditionally associated with refined literati culture, into a potent symbol of liberation in Taiwan. Her onstage depiction of Du Liniang’s emotional turmoil, set against her offstage narrative of personal defection, underscored kunqu’s capacity to transcend historical confines and speak directly to contemporary desires for autonomy and self-expression. Next came gezaixi—Taiwanese opera—performed by Liao Chiung-chih 廖瓊枝 (b. 1935), an actress recognized as Taiwan’s Best Bitter Dan (Taiwan diyi kudan 台灣第一苦旦),5 in a scene from Chensan and Wuniang (Tân Saⁿ Gō͘-niû 陳三五娘) 6 known as Yichun liusan 益春留傘 (Yichun Keeps the Umbrella).7 For decades, gezaixi had endured the label of being coarse or even “yellow” (erotic), especially under the KMT’s cultural narratives, which favored more “refined” genres of xiqu, such as jingju and kunqu. Yet that evening, as Liao occupied the 5 Kudan 苦旦, literally “bitter dan,” means the tragic female role. Kudan is the most essential type of role in gezaixi, usually playing middle-aged women suffering hardships, poverty, and torture; they are classical, traditional women with solemn, ladylike, and dignified characteristics. 6 For Taiyu (Taiwanese language that is a variation of the Minnan language), I use Roman pinyin with diacritics, and for Mandarin, I use Roman pinyin without diacritics. 7 The widely recognized “Keeping the Umbrella Tune” (Liu san diao 留傘調) originated in chegu 車鼓, a style of folk parade music. According to xiqu scholar Lin Heyi, its later adaptation into Chensan and Wuniang firmly established it as a mainstay in gezaixi repertoires. See Lin Heyi 2015: 73. 5 national spotlight, she gave gezaixi a moment of well-deserved prestige. Her rich vocal expression and dramatic nuance revealed a form that could mingle humor and pathos in one stroke, a reminder that gezaixi belongs squarely within Taiwan’s broader theatrical imagination. Balancing comedic timing with a heartfelt undercurrent of longing, she employed the umbrella itself as a focal prop to illustrate the lovers’ precarious bond.8 The melody in this scene, instantly recognizable to most Taiwanese viewers, was a powerful testament to gezaixi’s deep resonance with local audiences. Freed from the weight of past prejudices, the performance allowed gezaixi to emerge as an art form capable of moving effortlessly between grassroots entertainment and the grandeur of a state-endorsed stage. After the intermission, the third performance of the evening highlighted yuju (Henan opera), represented by Wang Hai-ling 王海玲 (b. 1952). She performed the excerpt “Danqing biyan” 丹青筆硯 (Writing Calligraphy) from Tang Bohu dian Qiuxiang 唐伯虎點秋香 (Tang Bohu Chooses Qiuxiang), a story about a lively scholar, Tang Bohu, who fervently woos Qiuxiang, a maidservant he encounters by chance.9 This scene brought out the distinctly yasu 雅俗 (both elegant and down-to-earth) qualities of yuju. On the one hand, Tang Bohu is mischievous and flirtatious, cracking jokes and exchanging playful banter that suggests a popular folk sensibility. The comedy arises from his spirited attempts to capture Qiuxiang’s attention, employing quick wit and romantic overtures. On the other hand, as a traditionally trained literatus, Tang must demonstrate his mastery of brush and ink before an audience—no small feat for the performer on stage. In full view of the 8 In Taiwanese, the words 傘 (san, “umbrella”) and 散 (san, “separation”) sound identical, turning “keeping the umbrella” (留傘) into a pun on “preventing separation.” 9 The historical figure Tang Bohu, the charming main character of Writing Calligraphy, was the style name of Tang Yin (1470-1523), a literati-painter of the Suzhou School, which stressed artistic creativity as opposed to the rigid classicism of the court painters. See Yu 1996: 483. 6 audience, he spontaneously sketches an image of Qiuxiang, weaving in poetic flourishes about autumn’s fiery maple leaves and the crisp air quality. The combination of comedic banter and refined brushwork yields a performance that is entertaining and artistically elevated, underscoring the yuju tradition’s adaptability to diverse audiences. For Taiwan, yuju held a unique status. Transplanted to the island in 1949, this regional theater from Henan Province was initially supported by the Ministry of National Defense (MND) and took on patriotic themes to bolster anti-communist sentiment. Yet, through the decades, yuju practitioners in Taiwan also discovered room for experimentation and playful reinvention. The choice to present Tang Bohu Chooses Qiuxiang—particularly this flirtatious, art-minded scene—was a strategic curatorial move that showed how yuju, traditionally considered “folk,” was no stranger to elegance. Tang Bohu’s skillful calligraphy on stage conveyed the literati ideals of self-cultivation and poetic grace. At the same time, his lively pursuit of Qiuxiang revealed that yuju could just as deftly evoke the rollicking humor of daily life. Capping the program, in the prestigious finale slot (the dazhou 大軸, directly translated as “grand roll,” meaning the last play in a performance program), was jingju, personified by the veteran actress Gu Zhengqiu 顧正秋 (1929-2016).10 According to the xiqu tradition, the most 10 Gu Zhengqiu entered the Shanghai Theater School at the age of ten, ranking first in her cohort as a member of the “Zheng” generation of students. At fifteen, she became a disciple of Mei Lanfang 梅蘭芳. After graduating, she established her own theater troupe and, in 1948, brought her company to Taiwan, where they performed continuously for four years at Yongle Juyuan 永樂戲院 (Yongle Theater). Due to the Chinese civil war, she ultimately chose to remain in Taiwan. She subsequently withdrew from the stage at an early age, a decision also shaped by political factors. Her stage presence was mesmerizing, drawing the admiration of Ren Xianqun 任顯群, then the head of Taiwan’s Department of Finance, as well as Chiang Ching-kuo 蔣經國, the son of the most powerful person in Taiwan, Chiang Kai-shek 蔣中正. After marrying Ren, the couple faced political persecution—Ren was placed under surveillance and, in 1955, arrested on charges of “failing to report and harboring a Communist spy,” receiving a seven-year prison sentence. Popular accounts suggest that this was Chiang Ching-kuo’s act of retribution for losing Gu to Ren. Following this political turmoil, the family withdrew from public life, relocating to the remote Jinshan Nongchang 金山農場 (Jin Mountain Farm). Gu Zhengqiu retired from the stage, only making rare appearances for charity performances. For a detailed account, see Gu Zhengxiu and Jiji 1997. 7 remarkable and admired performers are often the last to perform. Given the orthodox nature of jingju at the time, despite the skepticism of the public, its status as a national theater genre had not been completely lost, and since Gu was also the oldest of the four, it was not surprising that she was scheduled as the last performer as an honor. The related question was how to arrange the dressing room, which ended up with Gu being able to have one dressing room to herself, while the other three actresses shared another. These questions of order and dressing room arrangement may not appear to be related to the performance itself, but they were symbolic of the way the government imagined cultural territory involving priorities, distribution of power, and construction of political discourse. Gu performed an excerpt from Suolin nang 鎖麟囊 (The Jewelry Purse). The story follows Xue Xiangling 薛湘靈, a wealthy bride whose simple gesture of giving a precious purse to a stranger in need ultimately rescues her from ruin. Though widely praised for its lyrical depth, this play was banned in mainland China for decades because its sympathetic portrayal of upper-class benevolence ran counter to the revolutionary discourse (Liu Siyuan 2021: 467). The criticism of The Jewelry Purse in China began in 1949. On December 4, Renmin ribao 人民日報 (People’s Daily) published Luo Qing’s 羅青 article, “Guangyu jiuyu gaige” 關於舊劇改革 (On the Reform of Traditional Theater), condemning the play’s “entire content and plot [for] promoting the so-called benevolence and virtue of landlords, bureaucrats, and usurers, and glorifying charity and unearned wealth” 整個內容、劇情，徹頭徹尾是替地主、官僚、高利貸者的所謂仁慈與德政宣傳的，歌頌恩賜，歌頌不勞而獲 (Luo Qing 1949: 5). By contrast, in Taiwan, The Jewelry Purse became a beloved staple that conveyed the moral framework underpinning jingju tradition. Inviting Gu to perform this once-forbidden work 8 at the Presidential Concert underscored not only the high regard for jingju on the island but also Taiwan’s self-positioning as a free artistic domain, unafraid of engaging themes the mainland had once deemed incompatible. Gu’s refined singing and richly expressive gestures evoked a bygone era when Taiwanese jingju stood as the Republic of China’s “national theater,” emblematic of both cultural continuity and a creative latitude that defined performance arts in Taiwan’s evolving sense of differentiating itself from China. In short, each of the evening’s performances carried a distinct message, carefully curated to position Taiwan as a site of cultural reinvention rather than mere preservation. Kunqu’s presence signaled an open invitation: “There’s a seat at the table in Taiwan for you.” With Hua Wenyi, a defector from the PRC, taking center stage, the performance underscored Taiwan as a refuge for artistic independence, where kunqu practitioners could find a home beyond the confines of state ideology. Gezaixi’s “Keeping the Umbrella Tune” functioned as a piece of collective biography, reclaiming a theatrical form long dismissed as “coarse” or “vulgar” under past cultural hierarchies. Its inclusion on the national stage asserted gezaixi’s legitimacy as a deeply embedded aspect of Taiwan’s social fabric, one that could seamlessly navigate between grassroots entertainment and high cultural recognition. Similarly, the concert repositioned and reiterated yuju within Taiwan’s cultural community, transforming its identity from a genre once associated with military-backed propaganda to a fully integrated part of Taiwan’s theatrical landscape. No longer a transplanted relic, yuju demonstrated its ability to engage diverse audiences and evolve independent of its mainland roots. Finally, jingju’s performance of The Jewelry Purse, a play long banned in the PRC, framed Taiwan’s jingju not as an extension of elite nostalgia but as a living, evolving 9 tradition unshackled by ideological constraints. Rather than serving as a static embodiment of national prestige, it showcased a version of jingju that could bridge class distinctions while resisting rigid political narratives. The selection of these four theatrical productions also hinted at a shift in the overall creative climate of traditional xiqu in Taiwan. In particular, jingju and yuju—two genres whose development in Taiwan has been deeply intertwined with politics and national defense—frequently staged loyalty- and patriotism-themed plays during the martial law era, thereby reinforcing the KMT’s ideology of retaking mainland China. At the time, these performances often emphasized an intensely masculine tone, and any play featuring romantic relationships was deemed decadent. However, in this event, both the jingju and yuju plays deliberately broke from that ideology: jingju presented The Jewelry Purse, centered on chance encounters, reunions, and mutual support, while yuju staged the flirtatious Tang Bohu Chooses Qiuxiang, focusing on love and serendipitous marriages. Both choices subtly pointed to these genres’ potential to explore themes beyond strict national and masculine ideals. This departure from overt masculinity was also reflected in the casting decisions that all four leading roles were played by women. While this choice might seem unexpected, it aligns well with the broader context of Taiwanese xiqu. Even today, Taiwanese traditional theater is largely dominated by women. This trend is particularly evident in gezaixi, where many troupes are composed entirely of female performers, with women playing the majority of key roles regardless of a character’s gender. Similarly, in Taiwanese yuju, the second generation of students is predominantly female, especially in the xiaosheng 小生 (young male role) type. Furthermore, when considering the most influential figures in Taiwanese jingju, which was 10 dominated by males since the beginning of the genres’ birth in the Qing dynasty,11 Wei Haimin 魏海敏 (b. 1957) stands out as the defining performer of the era. Additionally, prominent Taiwanese jingju playwrights such as Wang An-chi 王安祈 (b. 1955), Liu Huifen 劉慧芬, and Shen Huiru 沈惠如 are all women, further reinforcing the female presence in the field. Notably, in the contemporary development of Taiwanese xiqu, the female narrative has gradually emerged as a strategic means of bypassing national identity and traditional orthodoxy debates. By moving away from the historically male-dominated perspective, this strategy legitimizes Taiwanese xiqu within a context where its cultural identity remains ambiguous and uncertain, allowing it to establish its own unique position. This subtlety of the female perspective has served as a deliberate strategy to break away from the previously mandated political propaganda task of conveying unwavering patriotism in jingju. This non-continuity aimed to avoid the state-centric, public, masculine, and male-associated labels that jingju had been affixed with.12 To conclude, while the 7th Presidential Concert might appear as a single event, its significance extends far beyond the night’s performances. The deliberate juxtaposition of these 11 A brief review of the development of jingju shows that at different times it was dominated by different role types. When jingju first flourished, the laosheng 老生 (civil mature male role) was the centre role type of jingju, and the six most prestigious actors were called the “First Three Masters (qian sanjie 前三傑)” and “Second Three Masters (hou sanjie 後三傑).” By the late Qing Dynasty, qingyi 青衣 (“black robe,” meaning the singing-focused female role) role type then became the most important role. Mei Lanfang and the other three qingyi performers were together called “Four Major Dan” (sida mingdan 四大名旦). In Taiwan after the 1950s, as jingju carried the political mission of serving as national theater, a large number of patriotic-themed plays were performed, so the laosheng type of role rose again, and the most prestigious laosheng performers were praised as “Four Major Laosheng” (sida xusheng 四大鬚生). 12 For example, the productions include Wang youdao xiuqi 王有道休妻 (Wang Youdao Divorces His Wife, 2004), Sange rener liangzhan deng 三個人二兩盞燈 (Three Persons and Two Lamps, 2005), Jinsuo ji 金鎖記 (The Golden Cangue, 2006), Qingzhong qian de duihua 青塚前的對話 (Whispers at the Tombstone, 2006), Oulanduo 歐蘭朵 (Orlando, 2009), Meng xiaodong 孟小冬 (Meng Xiaodong, 2010) and Shuixiu yu yanzhi 水袖與胭脂 (Flowing Sleeves and Rouge, 2013). All feature female protagonists. These productions delved deeply into the inner transformations of female characters and explored how these marginalized females viewed historical narratives from their own perspectives. 11 four xiqu genres within the Presidential Office—each granted equal space to showcase its artistry—demonstrates how curation can function as a strategic narrative tool, particularly when orchestrated by the state. This act of cultural framing operated on two simultaneous fronts: domestically, it affirmed to the people of Taiwan that Chineseness and Taiwaneseness are not inherently contradictory but can coexist within a shared cultural space; internationally, it signaled to the world—especially to the diplomats in attendance—that Taiwan embodies a freer, more refined, and more open interpretation of Chinese cultural heritage. Through this carefully staged event, Taiwan positioned itself not as a passive inheritor of tradition but as an active force in redefining what xiqu could mean in a new political and cultural reality. 1.2 Transplantation as a Method Based on the historical context of the 1993 Presidential Concert, this dissertation focuses on jingju, yuju, and kunqu, exploring how their development in Taiwan exemplifies the concept of transplantation. While gezaixi also played a significant role in the event, it is more directly connected to local Taiwanese folk traditions. In contrast, jingju, yuju, and kunqu were brought from mainland China due to migration, political shifts, and even the exile of individual performers, and developed in Taiwan in ways that diverged from their original forms. Thus, the history of these theatrical genres is not a static transplantation of culture but a dynamic process of adaptation and transformation through interaction with the local environment. Within this framework, transplantation should not be understood merely as a replication or continuation of culture but as a phenomenon that actively engages with local traditions and social structures. This perspective is inspired by Siyuan Liu in Performing Hybridity in Colonial-Modern China (2013). Although Liu’s research primarily focuses on wenmingxi 文明戲, 12 (civilized play/drama)—examining how late 19th and early 20th-century modern Chinese theater evolved under the influence of Western spoken theater (huaju 話劇), xiqu, and a Japanese hybrid form known as shinpa—his concept of hybridity remains relevant to understanding the transplantation of xiqu to Taiwan. In Performing Hybridity in Colonial-Modern China, Liu emphasizes that wenmingxi was not a mere product of Western influence but rather an evolving and fluid form that hybridized elements from Euro-American theater, shinpa (a Japanese theatrical form that itself mixed Western drama with kabuki), and indigenous Chinese theater. This notion of hybridity as a process of fluidity is particularly applicable to the development of jingju, yuju, and kunqu in Taiwan. Much like wenmingxi in semi-colonial China, these xiqu forms were shaped by their new cultural and political contexts, rather than simply being preserved in their original state. Liu also introduces colonial modernity as a theoretical framework, challenging the long held modern/traditional binary in theater studies. He argues that modernization and colonialism are integrally connected processes, shaping how hybridized theater forms emerge. This perspective is highly relevant to the transplantation of xiqu in Taiwan, which took place within shifting political and ideological landscapes. The martial law era imposed ideological constraints on xiqu, but in post-martial law Taiwan, the genre opened itself to new influences. Liu’s discussion of “recurrent strategies of hybridity” also provides a useful lens for analyzing Taiwanese xiqu. He argues that the strategies of hybridization employed in wenmingxi continued to shape later developments in Chinese spoken theater, particularly in huaju. Similarly, in Taiwan, xiqu has continuously evolved through cross-genre collaborations, modernization efforts, and adaptations to contemporary theater trends. The continuation of 13 hybridized aesthetics and performance strategies in Taiwanese xiqu reflects a broader trend of cultural reinvention rather than static preservation. While Liu’s work focuses on hybridity in theater, Jessica J. Lee’s Dispersals: On Plants, Borders, and Belonging (2024) offers another compelling metaphor for understanding transplantation in xiqu. She introduces the concept of being out of place, reflecting the pursuit of order and the assumption that cultural phenomena—including theatrical forms—are inherently tied to particular national and cultural origins. Through the image of a man-made pond, Lee illustrates how a human-engineered landscape evolves over time with the natural growth of plants, only to be reshaped again by human intervention into a picturesque scene. Using plants as metaphors, she traces the journey from uprooted displacement to rooted belonging. The metaphor of roots underscores a cyclical relationship between a species and its environment, yet plants also possess seeds that carry their essence to distant lands and blossoms that offer ephemeral beauty—revealing an innate capacity for movement that transcends mere rootedness. They travel across boundaries and landscapes, scattering life wherever wind, water, or human touch may lead them. Rather than existing simply as symbols of stability and permanence, plants emerge as resilient, adaptive travelers, finding ways to flourish in the most unexpected places. Lee’s examination of plant migration across borders argues that transplanted species do not merely exist as displaced entities but undergo adaptation, metabolic change, and interaction with their new environments. This concept resonates with the transplantation of xiqu in Taiwan, as these theatrical forms did not remain static but instead sought ways to integrate and redefine themselves in a new cultural landscape. Just as plants must develop strategies for survival in 14 foreign ecosystems, jingju, yuju, and kunqu in Taiwan navigated linguistic, political, and artistic shifts, in an ongoing process of reinvention. The questions raised in the xiqu context are central to this dissertation: How does xiqu transcend borders and reshape cultural landscapes? When I encountered Lee’s line, “[p]lants that grow on the edge between two kinds of environments are asked to be agile” (Lee 2024: 4), a shiver ran through me. I realized this captured the very essence of why I undertook this research: to recognize how these three forms of xiqu, which journeyed across oceans to Taiwan, were not merely misunderstood, manipulated by those in power, or constrained by ideology, but were also transformed under these very pressures, evolving into forms distinct from their origins. This insight rests on rejecting the view of non-native xiqu as inferior to its homeland counterparts, instead embracing the flexibility and innovation that emerged not as anomalies but as vital transformations. Further inspired by Derrida’s reflections, which assert that any discussion of cosmopolitanism must begin with the notion of hospitality—the act of welcoming the foreigner (Derrida 2002: 356–359)—this dissertation celebrates the encounters between these three forms of xiqu, foreign to Taiwan, and their adoptive home on the island. It acknowledges the delicate interplay between their resilience as transplanted art forms and the hospitality extended by their new environment, illustrating how this confluence not only enriched Taiwan’s cultural landscape but also broadened and invigorated the contemporary horizons of the xiqu world. In the context of Taiwan’s xiqu, this approach highlights the potential for creative reinvention that emerges when an art form finds itself distant from the institutional or ideological norms of its place of origin. These transformations can be observed in the development of jingju, yuju, and kunqu in Taiwan. Since 1949, jingju has been heavily imbued with political symbolism, serving as a 15 representation of “orthodox Chinese culture” under the Nationalist government. However, over time, it began incorporating local elements shaped by Taiwan’s evolving political and social landscape. This included responding to the shifting political discourse, from extreme patriotic ideology to depoliticized literary aesthetics, and embracing Western theatrical concepts earlier than its mainland counterpart, such as the introduction of modern stage design, offstage singing, and dimmed lighting for actor entrances. These innovations illustrate how jingju’s transplantation in Taiwan was not a mere continuation of its past but a process of localization, resulting in a uniquely Taiwanese form of jingju. The development of yuju also exemplifies hybridity. Introduced to Taiwan as a military-supported theater after the Chinese Civil War, yuju initially served as a political propaganda tool, reinforcing Nationalist ideology. However, as Taiwan’s political landscape shifted, yuju gradually shed its military associations and integrated with local theater culture, evolving into a genre that balanced refinement and accessibility, making it a representative of both high art and popular entertainment. Kunqu, meanwhile, offers a different form of hybridity. In mainland China, kunqu has long been associated with the literati and elite culture. However, in Taiwan, its trajectory diverged significantly. In the 1990s, Taiwan became a refuge for kunqu, providing a stage for masters escaping political constraints in China. Taiwan not only hosted these performances—recording and publishing some of the finest kunqu productions by these artists—but also developed its own training and preservation efforts. By the 2000s, kunqu in Taiwan had entered an experimental phase, influenced by contemporary theater and cross-cultural collaboration. New kunqu productions emerged, integrating multimedia adaptations and performances in non- 16 traditional spaces, demonstrating that kunqu transplantation was not merely an act of preservation but an active engagement with Taiwan’s contemporary artistic landscape. The transplantation of xiqu does not imply the faithful preservation of its original form but rather its reconfiguration within new social conditions, reshaping its cultural significance and artistic attributes. This process of mutation and innovation is dynamic and ongoing, rather than a one-time historical event. Transplantation is not a unidirectional transmission but a multilayered adaptation and recreation. In this context, xiqu is not only a performing art that migrates across geographical boundaries but also a witness to broader socio-cultural transformations. Hybridity in this context does not signal the erosion of tradition but rather its agency, enabling xiqu to find new avenues for survival and growth within a different environment. Transplantation and hybridity are not opposing concepts but complementary perspectives. This dissertation will examine how jingju, yuju, and kunqu have redefined their cultural identities through transplantation and how hybridity has enabled them to develop theatrical expressions distinct from their mainland origins. By doing so, this study not only contributes to understanding the evolution of Taiwanese xiqu but also offers theoretical frameworks and analytical perspectives for broader cross-cultural studies of theater. 1.3 Literature Review By positioning jingju, yuju, and kunqu as transplanted forms whose growth in Taiwan has been neither linear nor uniform, I highlight the dynamic interplay between their historical legacies and the island’s evolving sociopolitical landscape. This view of transplantation as a continuous process, rather than a one-time cultural import, lays the groundwork for engaging existing scholarship on Sinophone studies, performance theory, and Taiwan’s own theatrical modernity. 17 In what follows, I situate these ideas within the broader literature, underscoring how they expand, challenge, or reconfigure earlier understandings of xiqu and its place in contemporary cultural discourse. My approach draws from and extends this cumulative body of thought by situating xiqu within Sinophone debates that interrogate the boundaries of “Chinese culture.” Rather than relegating Taiwan’s versions of jingju, yuju, and kunqu to the margins of an all-encompassing Chinese tradition, I treat them as central instances that expose how cultural identity is constantly being reassembled. The challenge posed by Sinophone studies to essentialist or unitary constructions of China has been especially transformative for my research. Without it, the tendency might be to regard Taiwan’s transplanted xiqu as derivative or inauthentic. Sinophone scholarship, however, enables a view of Taiwan as an active site of cultural production, where inherited forms can gain new resonance precisely because they are performed in a space where Chinese identity is both claimed and contested. This duality encourages a fresh reading of xiqu’s potential as an evolving art capable of reflecting—and sometimes reshaping—the political and cultural complexities of its environment. From the outset, many studies have offered literary or text-based analyses of xiqu, illuminating essential features of repertoire, structure, and historical lineage.13 Yet I am especially drawn to scholarship that situates xiqu within larger sociopolitical transformations, demonstrating how these art forms evolve in tandem with shifts in ideology, social structures, 13 For scholarship focusing on text-based analysis and xiqu’s internal development research, see Wichmann, Listening to Theater; Chou, Striking Their Own Poses; Swatek, Peony Pavilion Onstage; Guy, Peking Opera and Politics; Goldstein, Drama Kings; Lei, Alternative Chinese Opera and Uncrossing the Borders; and Wang, Staging Personhood. For scholarship examining the cultural and political history of xiqu, see Goldman, Opera and the City; Wang An-chi, Xingbie, zhengzhi yu jingju biaoyan wenhua; Chia, Hokkien Theater Across the Seas; and Stenberg, Minority Stages. 18 and transnational influences. Such a perspective underscores that jingju, yuju, and kunqu in Taiwan are neither static nor merely transplanted remnants but instead constitute living, adaptive theaters continually reshaped by the island’s own political and cultural currents. Central to my understanding is the growing field of Sinophone studies, which questions a fixed notion of “Chineseness” and instead emphasizes the multiplicity of linguistic and cultural practices across different Chinese-speaking communities. Scholars like Shu-mei Shih have been particularly influential. Her work in Sinophone Studies: A Critical Reader, Visuality and Identity, and The Lure of the Modern has challenged monolithic interpretations of Chinese culture. Shih’s discussion of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon in Visuality and Identity is particularly illuminating—she highlights how the film breaks with conventional wuxia 武俠 (martial arts) tropes not only in its visual aesthetics but also through its linguistic dissonance. By stripping away the standardized Beijing Mandarin typical of earlier wuxia films and instead presenting a mix of accents—Taiwanese (Chang Chen 張震), Hong Kong Cantonese (Chow Yun-fat 周潤發), Malaysian (Michelle Yeoh 楊紫瓊)—the film disrupts the illusion of a singular, essentialized “China.” Rather than diminishing the film’s “Chineseness,” this multiplicity exposes how that notion is constructed through transregional, multilingual, and diasporic articulations. This insight is particularly relevant to my analysis of jingju, where similar tensions emerge between the supposed “standard” form associated with Beijing and the diverse ways in which the genre has evolved beyond the mainland. Just as wuxia films found their most dynamic reinventions in Hong Kong rather than China, jingju in Taiwan has flourished in ways that depart from rigidly codified traditions. The island has not only served as a site for the preservation of kunqu and jingju but has also redefined them through local engagement, democratic cultural 19 participation, and an openness to cross-regional influence. This resonates with Ien Ang’s reflections in On Not Speaking Chinese and Allen Chun’s critiques in Forget Chineseness, both of which emphasize the necessity of moving beyond a singular, hegemonic framework of cultural identity. By situating jingju within this broader Sinophone context, I reveal how its evolution in Taiwan—much like the case of wuxia cinema—challenges the notion of an immutable, monolithic “China” and instead underscores the fluid, contested, and performative nature of cultural identity. As I pursued research on how Taiwanese xiqu adapts to political and historical contexts, I found essential reference points in the works of scholars who link performance to nationalist projects, postcolonial shifts, and Cold War realignments. Nancy Guy’s Peking Opera and Politics in Taiwan offers a foundational perspective on how jingju became deeply entangled with the KMT’s cultural agenda, while Bi-Yu Chang (2006)’s investigations into Taiwanese jingju reveal how the state leveraged certain genres to articulate national legitimacy. These studies set the stage for understanding why, for instance, jingju emerged as an emblem of orthodox Chinese culture in Taiwan, yet also how, after martial law, it opened to new creative impulses that sometimes echo the local experiences of performers and audiences. In a related vein, Rebecca E. Karl’s Staging the World places particular emphasis on the global dimension of nationalism’s rise in China, illustrating how the country came to understand itself through a wider international lens—one shaped by foreign pressure, world affairs, and the circulation of global knowledge—and, at both cultural and political levels, forged a modern national identity. By drawing these connections, it becomes clear that xiqu genres in Taiwan speak not only to a preserved Chinese heritage but also to the island’s distinctive social and political pathways. 20 My perspective on xiqu further aligns with scholars who examine the adaptability of Chinese theater in transregional and diasporic contexts. Daphne Lei’s Operatic China and Uncrossing the Borders illuminate the cross-cultural flows that shape jingju and other traditional forms, while Nancy Rao’s Chinatown Opera Theater in North America reveals how diasporic performance communities redefine themselves when subject to new audiences and institutional structures. These themes resonate with the transformations yuju underwent in Taiwan and help contextualize how kunqu, often regarded as a highbrow literati form, found renewed vigor in Taiwanese contexts—whether through experimental stagings or the artistic freedoms of a post-authoritarian era. Joshua Goldstein’s Drama Kings provides a crucial historical foundation for my analysis of jingju, particularly in how it transitioned from a regional theatrical form in the late Qing to a symbol of Chinese national culture in the Republican era. Goldstein’s work underscores the interplay between commercial and political forces that propelled jingju to national prominence—how its institutionalization, media visibility, and modernization paradoxically solidified its image as a “traditional” art form. These insights are particularly relevant to my discussion of jingju in Taiwan, where similar dynamics of reinvention occurred under different historical and political pressures. Just as jingju was reframed as an emblem of national identity in Republican China, its evolution in Taiwan—particularly under martial law—was shaped by state intervention, censorship, and recontextualization within a new cultural and political framework. Goldstein’s analysis thus provides a comparative lens through which to examine how jingju was redefined not only through transregional circuits but also through competing narratives of tradition, modernity, and identity. 21 David L. Rolston’s Inscribing Jingju further deepens this discussion by shifting attention from the actors and performance culture to the textualization of jingju—a process that has fundamentally shaped its historical development and institutionalization. While jingju has long been perceived as an actor-centered tradition privileging performance over script, Rolston’s detailed study reveals how the genre’s textual practices—scripts, commentary, adaptations, and censorship—were integral to its evolution. His meticulous attention to archival materials, playwright records, and textual transmission highlights how the written dimension of jingju has often been overlooked in favor of an emphasis on embodied performance. Furthermore, Rolston’s reflection on the nomenclature debate—whether to use “Peking opera” or “jingju”—reinforces broader concerns about translation, cultural framing, and the politics of naming. His preference for jingju aligns with my approach of situating the genre within a Sinophone framework rather than subsuming it under Western categorizations. This choice is particularly significant in the Taiwanese context, where jingju has been adapted, reimagined, and occasionally contested as part of local cultural identity rather than a monolithic symbol of “China.” By engaging both Goldstein’s and Rolston’s analyses through a Sinophone lens, I illustrate how jingju in Taiwan, much like the wuxia cinema examined by Shu-mei Shih, unsettles the idea of a singular, essentialized “Chinese” tradition. Instead, it emerges as a dynamic and historically contingent cultural form, shaped by transregional exchanges, textual reinventions, and the shifting forces of political and institutional influence. Shu-mei Shih’s discussion of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon highlights another crucial dimension: the disjunction between local and transnational receptions of the film. She argues that while the film disrupts essentialized notions of “Chineseness” within a Sinophone framework, 22 for American audiences—who often lack the cultural context to recognize these subversions—it instead reinforces a monolithic vision of Chinese language and culture. This gap in cultural perception, shaped by geopolitical and linguistic erasures in the global circulation of Chinese-language media, is central to Shih’s broader concerns about the politics of representation in a transnational context. This tension also informs my discussion of kunqu in Taiwan and, more broadly, underscores why discussions of xiqu in global frameworks must be decoupled from Chineseness and Chinese nationalism. While I emphasize Taiwan’s critical role in the contemporary kunqu revival, this revival itself is inextricably linked to kunqu’s designation as a UNESCO World Heritage tradition—an institutional recognition deeply embedded in Western-centered heritage frameworks. Much as Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon became legible to global audiences through a seemingly unified aesthetic of “Chineseness,” kunqu’s contemporary resurgence is partially shaped by its reframing within a global heritage discourse that often elides the complexities of regional differences and geopolitical histories. In light of this, I argue that the intervention of Sinophone studies in xiqu research cannot simply stop at identifying its “heterogeneity.” Instead, it must also account for the ways in which this heterogeneity is produced, performed, and negotiated within specific historical, political, and institutional structures. Taiwan does not merely furnish alternative sites of performance for jingju, yuju and kunqu; it is also a space where competing forces—heritage recognition, local artistic agency, and geopolitical power—converge and redefine the tradition. By interrogating how these xiqu genres in Taiwan negotiate both its local vitality and its position within a 23 transnational heritage economy, I reveal the layered interactions between cultural preservation, geopolitical influence, and uneven flows of global cultural capital. It is in this context that my work on xiqu in Taiwan, framed through the concept of “accidental encounters,” examines how the island’s unique historical and cultural conditions have shaped the development and reinvention of jingju, yuju, and kunqu through their informal and contingent engagements with local communities, evolving artistic practices, and shifting cultural policies. Rather than focusing on state-orchestrated initiatives, I examine how these xiqu forms adapted in response to on-the-ground dynamics such as performers adjusting their repertoires in reaction to audience reception, the emergence of cross-genre experimentation, or the evolving identities of Mainland-born artists navigating Taiwan’s cultural landscape. Drawing inspiration from Anna Tsing’s metaphor of mushrooms flourishing in disrupted ecosystems in The Mushroom at the End of the World, I frame xiqu not as a tradition merely persisting despite fragmentation but as one that actively grows through these fractures. This perspective reveals how Taiwan’s xiqu scene operates fluidly within the intersections of local identity formation, global artistic currents, and cross-strait politics. By foregrounding these adaptive and often unplanned processes, my dissertation repositions xiqu in Taiwan not as a relic of the past but as an evolving, transregional practice that continually redefines the meanings of “Chineseness” and “tradition.” 1.4 Research Methodology This dissertation adopts a multi-method approach that combines ethnographic interviews, archival research, and textual and performance analysis to investigate how xiqu forms have evolved in Taiwan. By integrating these methods, I examine xiqu not as a static cultural form, 24 but as a dynamic site of negotiation, adaptation, and reinvention across different historical, political, and aesthetic contexts. From 2022 to 2024, I conducted a series of semi-structured interviews with key practitioners, scholars, curators, and cultural workers. These interviews span multiple geographical contexts, including Taiwan, the United States, and Canada, providing a transnational perspective on the development and circulation of Taiwanese xiqu. In Taiwan, I spoke with artists such as yuju performer Chu Mei-li (Kaohsiung), kunqu and jingju performer Wen Yuhang (Taipei), and GGOC’s artistic director, playwright and leading scholar Wang An-chi (Taipei, via phone). In North America, I interviewed long-time kunqu aficionado Tong-ching Chang in Maryland (both in person and by phone), museum curator and manager Michael Wilper (Washington, DC), and cultural worker Vivian Lee (Vancouver, Canada). I also spoke with seasoned jingju practitioner Hsia Yuan-tseng at his home in Richmond, BC, and with Wang Xiyi, a leader of kunqu gatherings, in Maryland. These conversations were conducted in private homes, rehearsal spaces, cafés, and theaters, offering candid insights into institutional history, aesthetic priorities, identity formation, and artistic decision-making. The interviews were not merely additive to the written archive but functioned as spaces of embodied memory, intergenerational reflection, and performative theorization. In addition to conducting interviews, I engaged in archival and media research to provide historical context for these perspectives. My primary archival materials include internal documents, program booklets, and promotional texts from institutions such as the National Center for Traditional Arts (NCFTA), GuoGuang Opera Company (GGOC), and regional troupes such as the Taiwan Bangzi Opera Company. To further reconstruct the discursive and 25 sociopolitical atmospheres of various historical moments, I draw extensively from periodicals and newspapers such as Minsheng Bao, United Daily News, Performing Arts Review, and the New York Times. These sources were crucial not only for tracing performance reception and public debates but also for understanding the evolving language through which xiqu was described, evaluated, and politicized. Finally, this study incorporates close textual and performance analysis of selected scripts and productions, including The Painting of 18 Lohans, Three Persons and Two Lamps, Peony Pavilion, and Liu Laolao. I attend to dramaturgical structure, vocal delivery, bodily movement, scenic design, and the spatial logic of performance in order to understand how aesthetic choices intersect with cultural memory, gender politics, and identity construction. This method allows me to capture the material and affective dimensions of performance that are often overlooked in script-centered studies of traditional theater. Together, these methods provide a layered and grounded understanding of Taiwanese xiqu as a site of complex cultural labor—where questions of tradition, identity, and nation are actively worked through in rehearsal rooms, policy meetings, newspaper columns, and on stage. 1.5 Chapters Overview In the next chapters, I use jingju, kunqu, and yuju as case studies to illustrate how these border-crossing theatrical forms have been able to expand beyond traditional confines and offer new possibilities for contemporary performance. At the core of my inquiry lies a critical question: had Taiwan not contributed to the cultural tapestry of the past century, what would xiqu’s global footprint look like today? 26 Chapter 2, “Jingju and the Haunted Politics of Identity,” explores the evolution of jingju in Taiwan, using The Painting of Eighteen Lohans (2015) as a central metaphor. The play’s narrative—centering on the restoration of a damaged painting—mirrors the ways in which Taiwan’s jingju community has grappled with preservation and innovation. From the early post-1949 institutionalization under the KMT—when jingju was embedded in national ideology and absorbed into the military system—to the emergence of improvisational learning methods like “Teacher Lu” (錄老師, lu laoshi) cassette recordings, the chapter highlights the tensions between authority, censorship, and creative agency. The comparison between Three Persons and Two Lamps (2005), a contemporary jingju production by Taiwan’s GuoGuang Opera Company, and its later kunqu adaptation The Smoke-locked Palace (2012) by the Shanghai Kunju Company, further illustrates how Taiwanese jingju has forged its own artistic identity. While The Smoke-locked Palace adhered to traditional aesthetics, Three Persons and Two Lamps experimented with scene structure, gender roles, and emotional continuity, reflecting a broader shift in Taiwan’s jingju toward a more flexible and exploratory approach to performance. Chapter 3, “The Fugitive Kunqu Masters,” examines the contemporary revival of kunqu and Taiwan’s role in this process. This chapter is inspired by a lyrical statement by Wang An-chi: “Mudan sanmeng cai huanhun” 牡丹三夢才還魂 (It took three dreams for The Peony Pavilion to revive), 14 which refers to three landmark kunqu productions that contributed to the form’s 21st-century revival: Hua Wenyi’s 1992 Taiwan performance of The Peony Pavilion, 14 The Peony Pavilion, also known as Huanhun ji 還魂記 (The Return of the Soul), literally means the revival of the soul. The play was written in 1598 by Tang Xianzu 湯顯祖 (1550–1616), a celebrated Ming-dynasty playwright often regarded as the “Shakespeare of China.” In Wang’s expression, “The Return of the Soul” not only refers to the happy ending of the play, where the female protagonist Du Liniang 杜麗娘 and the male protagonist Liu Mengmei 柳夢梅 finally become a couple, but also uses The Peony Pavilion as a metaphor symbolizing the revival of kunqu in the contemporary society and recognition by contemporary audiences after becoming almost extinct. Wang has mentioned this concept in her endorsement of Wen Yuhang’s autobiography (Wang 2021: 12-20). 27 Chen Shi-zheng’s 1999 zuben (full-version) Peony Pavilion at Lincoln Center, and Kenneth Hsien-yung Pai’s 2004 Youthful Peony Pavilion. While Taiwan has historically had little direct association with kunqu, it played a significant role in each revival, either as a performance site, a refuge for displaced artists, or a bridge between kunqu and global audiences. Taiwan’s engagement with kunqu began mainly through the efforts of literati enthusiasts and university-affiliated scholars who preserved the form through textual study, amateur performances, and workshops long before professional kunqu productions were introduced. These enthusiasts not only maintained kunqu gatherings modeled after Ming and Qing literati practices but also actively documented and circulated knowledge about kunqu across transnational networks. Taiwan thus provided an alternative space for kunqu artists marginalized in China—figures like Hua Wenyi and Wen Yuhang—who found both refuge and recognition in Taiwan’s cultural landscape. The 1992 Peony Pavilion performance in Taiwan marked a pivotal moment, transforming kunqu from an esoteric art form into a widely recognized cultural phenomenon, creating momentum for subsequent revivals. The chapter interrogates how Taiwan’s kunqu revival evolved within the broader cultural policy shifts of the post-martial law period. Unlike the state-driven preservation efforts in China, Taiwan’s kunqu practices have been shaped by independent cultural organizations, experimental stagings, and cross-genre adaptations, offering an alternative model of kunqu revival that challenges Sinocentric narratives. Chapter 4, “Ersatz Folk: The Ideal Non-local Bentu Theatrical Genre in Taiwan,” traces the evolution of yuju in Taiwan, from its wartime migration via Vietnam to its present adaptation as a distinctly Taiwanese theatrical form. Initially preserved under the KMT’s military system as a tool for morale boosting and cultural reinforcement, yuju transitioned from a state-supported performance genre to a broader cultural practice that engaged with Taiwan’s shifting theatrical 28 landscape. This chapter examines how yuju integrated local elements and reexamined its stylistic conventions, particularly through inter-genre exchanges with jingju and gezaixi. A key example is the adaptation of Liu Laolao, which reflects yuju’s evolving narrative strategies and its ability to incorporate contemporary theatrical aesthetics. Rather than solely viewing yuju’s presence in Taiwan as a nostalgic reconstruction of mainland heritage, this chapter highlights its gradual shift away from nationalistic narratives and increasing engagement with local artistic and cultural discourses. Taiwanese yuju practitioners have embraced innovations in stagecraft, acting techniques, and performance styles, transforming the genre into a dynamic form that engages in dialogue with Taiwan’s broader theatrical ecology. This transformation marks a departure from its original role as a propaganda tool and signals yuju’s redefinition within Taiwan’s diverse performance culture. By examining these changes, the chapter underscores how yuju has moved beyond its historical constraints, positioning itself as an evolving and adaptive theatrical form rather than an example of static cultural preservation. Through these three chapters, this dissertation demonstrates that xiqu in Taiwan is not merely a peripheral extension of mainland traditions but a vital and contested site of artistic negotiation. Taiwan’s role in jingju, kunqu, and yuju is not simply about safeguarding endangered traditions but also fostering new creative possibilities. By shifting the focus away from state rhetoric and toward performance practices, I argue that Taiwan has served as both a haven for xiqu’s reinvention and a crucial node in its transregional circulation. 29 Chapter 2: Jingju and the Haunted Politics of Identity Jing-he: This painting became all tattered while it was hidden in Zi-ling. My disciple and I restored it because we didn’t want to see the treasure in ruins. And that’s “The Painting of The Eighteen Arhats” in front of you. So it’s the real one, but what is meant by “real?” Where can we find authentic artworks in this world now? 淨禾：真跡在紫靈，斑駁殘破，我與徒兒，不忍珍品毀損，將它修復，才有今日 「十八羅漢圖」。即便是真，又何為真？這世上哪裡還有真跡？ (Wang and Liu 2015: 107)15 2.1 The Painting of 18 Lohans and the Self-Narrative of Taiwan’s Jingju Practitioners In Taiwan’s modernized jingju production, Shiba Lohan tu 十八羅漢圖 (The Painting of The Eighteen Arhats, The Painting of 18 Lohans, 2015),16 the restoration of a painting becomes a powerful metaphor for the history and transformation of Taiwan’s jingju 京劇 (lit., “theater of the capital,” generally translated as Beijing opera or Peking opera).17 The play’s central plot revolves around the emotional and technical complexities of restoring an ancient, damaged painting, where every brushstroke of the restorer brings the artwork closer to its original form yet inevitably alters it in the process. This act of restoration mirrors Taiwan’s own process of 15 The English translation of the script is primarily based on the English subtitles provided in the DVD edition of The Painting of 18 Lohans released by the GuoGuang Opera Company (GGOC), which were made by Professor Hsieh Yao-ling 謝瑤玲. Since the original translation was intended for stage surtitles—where audience reading time is limited—it is sometimes abbreviated. Therefore, I have made slight adjustments to Professor Hsieh’s translation for the purposes of this study. Nevertheless, the core translation framework remains her contribution, and I would like to extend my sincere gratitude for her work. 16 For the play’s title, I use the official translation employed by GGOC, The Painting of 18 Lohans. However, when referring to the painting of the same name, I use The Eighteen Arhats to distinguish between the two. 17 Although it did not originate in Beijing, as its name implies, jingju is closely connected with Beijing, the present-day capital of the PRC. To put it briefly, jingju was originally from huixi 徽戲 (Anhui opera) after huixi troupes performed in Beijing for the Qianlong emperor’s eightieth-year birthday in 1790. It merged the singing styles of hanju漢劇, huiju, qinqiang 秦腔 and various other music styles to become jingju, a dominant xiqu genre. See Rolson 2021: 13-21 and Mackerras 1972. 30 maintaining and reinterpreting its jingju tradition in the face of political, cultural, and artistic challenges. Much like the restorer’s effort to piece together a fragmented past, Taiwan’s jingju has been tasked with preserving Chinese cultural heritage while simultaneously evolving in response to contemporary influences and the shifting political landscape. Restoration, at its core, is not simply an attempt to return an object to its former state, but to preserve meaning—an endeavor that speaks to Taiwan’s cultural, political, and artistic struggles. The role of the restorer in the play parallels that of Taiwan’s jingju artists, who found themselves in a similar position of balancing cultural conservation with the need for reinvention. Over the decades, Taiwan’s jingju has become both a symbol of cultural resilience and a battleground for artistic freedom. Just as the painting, though repaired, retains traces of its original form but is inevitably altered by the restoration process, Taiwan’s jingju traditions have evolved while still striving to maintain their foundational ties to Beijing’s original forms. The narrative of The Painting of 18 Lohans is not inherently metatheatrical, nor was it likely conceived by its creators as a clear statement about the development of Taiwan’s jingju. However, I interpret this story as a collective autobiography and manifesto of Taiwan’s jingju practitioners. In my reading, it reflects the journey of these artists who, after the KMT retreated to Taiwan in 1949, gradually evolved from a position of self-doubt and inferiority to one of artistic confidence and self-assertion. The play, in my view, subtly outlines their transition from viewing themselves as mere imitators of Beijing’s dominant jingju tradition to ultimately embracing their own voices as creators. While the creators of The Painting of 18 Lohans may not have consciously framed the work in these terms, I interpret it as depicting their collective struggle to preserve traditional jingju while simultaneously forging a distinct identity in Taiwan. This process, spanning decades, reflects the broader transformation of Taiwan’s jingju scene, 31 where practitioners not only overcame their initial sense of inadequacy but also came to assert the unique cultural and artistic value of Taiwan’s own jingju tradition. The play itself represents a significant moment in Taiwan’s jingju history, particularly as The Painting of 18 Lohans became the primary production of the GuoGuang Jutuan 國光劇團(GuoGuang Opera Company, GGOC hereafter) for its twentieth anniversary season. The company’s decision to feature this work as a centerpiece highlights its thematic importance within the broader narrative of Taiwan’s jingju scene. It represents not only the culmination of years of artistic growth and internal struggle but also a collective expression of Taiwan’s jingju practitioners who have spent decades navigating the complexities of cultural preservation, adaptation, and innovation.18 The creation of The Painting of 18 Lohans as the GuoGuang Opera Company’s twentieth-anniversary production is a momentous event that reflects the evolving relationship between Taiwan and jingju. As Taiwan’s only national jingju troupe, GuoGuang holds a unique position within the landscape of Taiwanese theater, tasked with preserving the classical traditions of jingju while also navigating the complexities of Taiwan’s political and cultural identity. The decision to perform The Painting of 18 Lohans as the company’s centerpiece for its twentieth anniversary was not just an artistic choice; it was an intentional statement of Taiwan’s journey in developing a unique jingju tradition that is both rooted in the past and evolving in response to contemporary challenges. The Painting of 18 Lohans is a significant turning point in this journey, marking a shift from cultural inferiority to artistic self-confidence. While deeply influenced by Beijing’s 18 During my four years employed at GGOC (2014-2018), there was a project to rewrite all performers’ short biographies used for playbills. As the person in charge of this initiative, I conducted interviews with the thirty-one performers who were part of the company in 2015. I am deeply grateful for their open sharing of their journeys in jingju learning and their insights into China’s jingju performance. 32 classical jingju forms, the production introduces a distinctive voice and interpretation reflective of Taiwan’s own cultural and political history. As the only national jingju company, GGOC’s role in this process is crucial.19 In a society where cultural identity has long been shaped by the forces of both Chinese tradition and modernity, the troupe’s decision to stage The Painting of 18 Lohans is more than a celebration of artistic achievement; it is a moment of self-assertion, an effort to define jingju not just as an art form of historical significance but as a living, dynamic cultural expression that belongs to Taiwan as much as it does to Beijing. The play itself becomes a metaphor for this broader cultural evolution. In the simplest terms, The Painting of 18 Lohans follows the nun Jing-he, who rescued a young boy, Yu-qing, in the mountains. As they restore an ancient painting together when Yu-qing grows up, a subtle bond forms between them. Years later, Yu-qing leaves the monastery and becomes entangled in a dispute over the painting’s authenticity, leading to a deeper exploration of art and human emotions. The restoration of the painting, for me, serves as a parallel to the restoration of Taiwan’s jingju identity. As the restorers work to bring the painting back to life, yet inevitably altering it in the process, so too has Taiwan’s jingju undergone changes as it adapts to the unique socio-political landscape of the island. This act of “restoring” the art form has not been about replicating Beijing’s jingju, but about creating something that speaks to Taiwan’s experiences, values, and creative possibilities. The Painting of 18 Lohans thus embodies a transition—from a 19 As Taiwan’s only remaining national jingju troupe, GGOC is, in fact, a direct descendant of the institutionalized and militarized troupes. In 1994, following the lifting of martial law in 1987 and amid the declining popularity of jingju as a form of mainstream entertainment, the three surviving military-affiliated jingju troupes were dissolved. Their responsibilities of inheriting jingju were transferred to the Ministry of Education (MOE), which subsequently established the GGOC. This reorganization left fewer than forty professional jingju performers. Later, with the founding of the Ministry of Culture (MOC), GGOC came under its jurisdiction, further reducing the troupe’s state-driven mission and expanding its artistic aspirations. 33 history of external influence to the creation of an authentic artistic identity that reflects Taiwan’s self-awareness and confidence in its own cultural production. For Taiwan’s jingju practitioners, The Painting of 18 Lohans represents the maturation of their artistic identity. Over the decades, they have moved from being imitators of Beijing’s tradition to asserting their own voice in the world of jingju. This process of transformation, which is both artistic and psychological, mirrors the trajectory of Taiwan itself—emerging from the shadow of external influences to define its own place in the world. According to Wang An-chi, a leading figure in Taiwan’s contemporary jingju scene, the journey depicted in The Painting of 18 Lohans reflects the collective psychological journey of Taiwan’s jingju artists. The shift from “peeking” at Beijing’s authoritative tradition to fully confronting their own creative potential parallels the way Taiwan’s jingju scene has evolved from a marginalized art form, grappling with questions of cultural identity, to a distinct, self-confident entity that embraces both tradition and innovation. This moment of self-empowerment is not merely symbolic. It represents a deeper cultural and artistic movement that reflects the fusion of Taiwan’s traditional jingju heritage with the growing need for artistic innovation. The Painting of 18 Lohans is not just a reclamation of legitimacy; it is the creation of a new artistic narrative. Through this production, Taiwan’s jingju practitioners have forged an authentic voice that stands alongside the prestigious history of Beijing’s opera while also contributing something original and meaningful to the global stage. 2.2 On the Isolated Mountain: Taiwan’s Jingju Artists as Traditional Art Restorers In The Painting of 18 Lohans, the narrative unfolds between two contrasting worlds: the isolated, serene mountain retreat where the restoration of the painting takes place and the 34 bustling secular world surrounding it. On the mountain, the master Jing-he 淨禾 (performed by Wei Hai-Min 魏海敏, b. 1957), the master, and his disciple Yu-qing 宇青 (performed by Wen Yuhang 溫宇航, b. 1971) devote themselves entirely to restoring the painting with reverence and focus. They approach their task with great respect for the original artwork, considering the restoration an act of cultural preservation. To me, this scene symbolizes Taiwan’s initial attempts at jingju preservation in the post-1949 era. The restoration work depicted in the play, which aims to return the painting to its original state, mirrors the efforts of Taiwan’s jingju practitioners to preserve Beijing’s traditional jingju forms. Much like the restoration, which involves the painstaking effort to return the painting to its previous state, jingju artists in Taiwan were tasked with maintaining the classical repertoire while also facing the pressures exerted by political, cultural, and artistic change. The restoration is described as almost unachievable—like returning to a lost, perfect past—a circumstance that parallels the struggle that Taiwan’s jingju artists faced when seeking to preserve a form disconnected from its mainland origins. The isolated retreat on the mountain where Jing-he and Yu-qing work can be understood as a metaphor for Taiwan’s own situation after the KMT retreat in 1949. In this time of political separation from China, Taiwan’s jingju became both a tool of political identity formation and a cultural artifact at risk of being lost. Jingju found itself isolated, its practitioners attempting to preserve the tradition while adapting it to Taiwan’s cultural and political context. This isolation, though protecting the tradition, also limited its ability to evolve freely. 35 However, it is worth noting that the encounter between jingju and Taiwan, an island on the periphery of the Sinophone world, can be traced back to the end of the Qing Dynasty.20 During Japanese colonial rule and World War II, many Shanghai jingju troupes, also known as waishengren 外省人 (meaning coming from outside of Taiwan) at the time, visited Taiwan for commercial performances (Hsü 2010). But it was only after the retreat of the Nationalist government led by the KMT in 1949, which was defeated in the Chinese Civil War by the Chinese Communist Party (CCP), that jingju became the single dominant theatrical genre in Taiwan, acclaimed as national theater and protected by the institutional system. This situation did not change until the 1970s, when Taiwan gradually opened up. It can be said that jingju in Taiwan was metaphorically placed in a time capsule between 1949 and the 1970s, its sole goal that of inheriting and preserving Chinese tradition. This situation was the result of multiple interacting factors. Historically speaking, jingju has been synonymous with guoju 國劇 (national theater/national drama) ever since jingju master Mei Lanfang’s 梅蘭芳 visits to the U.S. and the Soviet Union in 1930 and 1935, respectively, with the missions of popularizing “China” in the West.21 Before the Chinese Civil War, since there was only one China, guoju as a term did not encounter too much controversy. But once both sides of the Taiwan Strait claimed they were the only legitimate representative of China, guoju was used by the KMT government to assert jingju’s position as the ROC’s national theatrical drama. Regarding international politics, on the one hand, Taiwan was a frontline state against communism during the Cold War and sought to be recognized as the sole representative 20 Jingju arrived in Taiwan during the 1890s. The earliest recorded performance in Taiwan was in the seventeenth year of the Guangxu emperor’s reign in the Qing Dynasty (1891), when Liu Mingchuan 劉銘傳, the governor of Taiwan, invited a jingju troupe from Shanghai to perform for his mother’s birthday. More records of early jingju performances in Taiwan can be found in Lü Sushang (1961: 195-6) and Hsü Ya-Hsiang (2000). 21 For further discussion on Mei Lanfang and the process of nationalization of jingju, see Goldstein (1999) and Tian (2012). 36 of China on the world political stage. Therefore, preserving the traditional appearance of Chinese culture helped to establish its legitimacy as the representative of China at the international level. In particular, this strategy contrasted with the campaigns the CCP waged against traditional culture and values during the Cultural Revolution (1966-1976) in mainland China.22 On the other hand, concerning domestic politics, the intense conflicts among people in the ROC’s domain also forced the KMT government to respond more proactively.23 On May 4th, 1954, Zhongguo Wenyi Xiehui 中國文藝協會 (Chinese Literary and Artistic Association) was officially established as part of the celebration of the May Fourth Movement, one of the most significant days for recognizing how literature can serve as a soft weapon to defend the country. In August of the same year, the KMT announced its Bendang xianjieduan wenyi gongzuo gangling cao’an 本黨現階段文藝工作綱領草案 (Draft Outline of the Party’s Literary and Artistic Work for the Current Stage), stating the primary direction of the KMT’s literary and artistic policies. The outline emphasized how to use literature, jingju included, for propaganda. Two years later, the KMT government also established the Zhongguo Wenyi Jiangzhang 中國文藝獎章 (Chinese Literary and Artistic Award) to reward literati with specific political tendencies in artistic and literary works. Qi Rushan 齊如山 (1877-1962), a key figure in the modernization of jingju who collaborated closely with Mei Lanfang to elevate the art form through historical 22 For further discussion on the debates about nationalizing jingju in Taiwan, see Bi-Yu Chang 2006: 89-104. 23 The conflict during this period mainly stemmed from the two groups in Taiwan: the two million waishengren 外省人 (lit., people from outside of the province, meaning people who retreated to Taiwan from China between 1945-1949, speaking Mandarin or Chinese dialects) and the benshengren 本省人 (lit., people within the province, meaning people who had lived in Taiwan for more than a hundred years, and been ruled by Japan’s colonization for the previous fifty years, mainly speaking Japanese and Taiwanese Fujian dialects). Although both groups shared a traditional Chinese cultural heritage, the significant differences in language, lifestyle, and daily customs over the past century have led to increasingly intense conflicts between them. For more discussion on the conflict between the waishengren and benshengren in Taiwan, see Hsiau (2000) and Yang (2020). 37 research and dramaturgy, was one of the early awardees.24 In 1965, the Ministry of National Defense, another agent of state apparatus, started to host the Guojun Wenyi Jinxiang Jiang 國軍文藝金像獎 (Military Golden Award of Arts and Literature), featuring a drama and xiqu competition that was aimed at recognizing and rewarding outstanding performances, with special attention given to both individual jingju performers and jingju troupes.25 The above-mentioned awards clearly indicate how the state shaped traditional jingju into a symbol of Chinese classical culture, using it to assert the legitimacy of the KMT-led Republic of China (Taiwan) government in supporting and defending these traditional cultural values. However, in reality, the respect for tradition and insistence on complete restoration in jingju are not purely political factors. The state could so quickly appropriate and weaponize it as a tool for asserting national identity because jingju is a cultural tradition that honors the past. The aesthetic concepts surrounding restoration—reproduction, imitation, and preservation—are central to understanding how jingju practitioners approached their craft. 24 The KMT also officially established its goal through the “Dangqian Wenyi Zhengce” 當前文藝政策 (Current Literary and Artistic Policy) announced at the Dijiujie Wuzhong Quanhui 第九屆五中全會 (Fifth Plenary Session of the Ninth National Congress) in 1967, actively promoting the Three People’s Principles new literary and artistic movement through the Chinese Cultural Renaissance Movement (CCRM). For more details, see Wenji zhengce huibian (1968: 23) and Zhongguo wenyi xiehui huiyuan tongxun lu (1953: 1). According to a report from the United Daily News titled “Fuxing minzu lai wenhua dahao xiaoxi bo Shenzhou,” Zhang Qiyun 張其昀, the Minister of Education, emphasized in his speech, “Cultural warfare is a fight for the hearts and minds. We believe that today’s good news, spreading to Mainland China, will surely bring joy and inspiration to countless loyal and patriotic individuals trapped behind the Iron Curtain. They will pray for the flourishing of Chinese culture, and the vast expanse of the divine land will once again see the light. The unified and prosperous Republic of China will be able to rebuild soon, standing tall in the world.” 文化戰就是攻心的奮鬥。相信我們今天的大好消息，傳佈到大陸，無量數困在鐵幕裏的忠貞愛國之士，一定會歡欣鼓舞，禱祝中國文化的發揚光大，茫茫神州，將重見天日，統一強盛的中華民國終能早日重建，以屹立於世界, United Daily News 1956: 3) Four years later, in 1960, efforts were initiated to compile a twelve-volume series on the literary history of China over the past fifty years, with Qi Rushan contributing to the volume on guoju (“Minban wenyi jianzhang,” United Daily News 1960: 2 ) 25 It is noteworthy that jingju (guoju) is the only standalone competition category. All other drama genres, including spoken drama and other forms of traditional xiqu, compete for a separate set of awards. The awards and prizes include Best Shenghang (Male Role): Prize money of NTD $20,000. Best Danhang (Female Role): Prize money of NTD $20,000. Best Jinghang (Painted-Face Role): Prize money of NTD $20,000. Best Chouhang (Clown Role): Prize money of NTD$ 20,000. And Best Ensemble: Prize money of NTD $20,000. 38 In Traces of the Brush: Studies in Chinese Calligraphy (1980), Shen Fu (1936-2024) delves into the history of calligraphy as an art appreciated in China, the role of handmade copies in the world of calligraphy before the advent of modern technology, and the differences between reproductions, forgeries, and originals in calligraphy. Calligraphy serves as an example, wherein the learner goes through stages of copying in lin 臨 (to copy in a freehand manner), mo 模 (to copy by tracing), fang 仿 (to imitate) and zao 造 (to invent). Reproducing within the norms is a crucial part of the calligraphy learning process, with the ability to invent one’s own style only coming after making a qualified copy. Similar concepts can be found in the learning process of jingju, although they are not identical across all art forms. Imitation always serves as the first stage of jingju learning. Many interviews and biographies of jingju performers mention the requirement to copy and imitate the teacher’s stance and singing style as closely as possible without comprehension. The audience similarly values xingsi 形似 (“resemblance” or extreme similarity) in their reviews of jingju. This antiquity-oriented and ancient value-driven approach sees all creative work as built upon the ability to imitate tradition and is shared among many Chinese arts. These aesthetic concepts are crucial to discussing the dialectics of authenticity and forgery in The Painting of 18 Lohans. In the world of the mountain where Jing-he and Yu-qing are dedicated to restoring the ancient painting, the narrative portrays this hands-on process of inheriting tradition. What is crucial in this process is that there is no questioning of tradition and no desire for creation. As restorers, their only task is to reproduce the past glory of the work faithfully. The situation is vividly depicted in the jingju reviews in Guoju yuekan 國劇月刊 (National Drama Monthly), as pointed out by Zhang Qifeng 張啟豐: “The common characteristic of these jingju reviews is undoubtedly the recollection of the past. The writers of 39 the reviews often use their previous experiences of witnessing the grandeur and performances of various schools’ masters in places like Beijing and Tianjin as comparative coordinates to analyze and comment on the performances at that time [in Taiwan].” 該劇評的共同特色是必定追憶過往，劇評的撰寫者多會以之前在京津等地親見流派大師的風采及其演出作為比較之座標，去分析評論當時伶人們的表演. (Zhang 2011: 175) Actors, likewise, follow a similar approach, as mentioned in many actor biographies, which describe how they recreate traditional jingju that they have not fully learned by piecing together memories of their masters’ past performances. Through the fragmented process of piecing together memories and imagination, these reconstructed objects take on an idealized form, shaping an even more authentic and traditional vision of jingju in Beijing, one that is not just remembered but reimagined into a perfected version of the art. Due to the strained relations across the Taiwan Strait, achieving a truly synchronous comparison becomes impossible. The image of jingju in Beijing, imagined jointly by Taiwan jingju critics and jingju performers, thus becomes an even more orthodox, unattainable, absolutely sacred, and unquestionably correct existence. What makes this situation so subtle is the paradox at its core best expressed in the idiom wuxin chaliu liu chengyin 無心差柳柳成蔭 (lit., unintentionally planting willows, yet they grow into shade), which suggests unintended consequences taking shape and flourishing. In other words, although those involved in the restoration process never intended to become creators or adapters, their efforts to reconstruct tradition inevitably gave rise to something new. They began merely as restorers, aiming to reassemble the fragments of a vanished original rather than to impose their own artistic vision. What I wish to highlight here is that this process did not emerge from a fully conscious sense of creativity. More often than not, performers were merely attempting to fill in and restore 40 the missing pieces, functioning much like the restorers depicted in The Painting of 18 Lohans. This deliberative process, despite lacking explicit creative intent, nonetheless constituted an act of creation. The following excerpt from the play illustrates such a moment of restoration: Jing-he: Last night, why is it…he didn’t make a single stroke or patch up any spot. This is really curious. The water in the ink pot is dark, which shows he had washed the brush many times. It must be he kept thinking about it but could not make a stroke. (Jing-he observes repeatedly.) Jing-he: Oh, I see. This stroke seems inconsistent. It needs to be patched up in one breath. But there is some damage. Which part was left blank, and which part was damaged? I guess he didn’t want to make the decision so he left it up to me. Ah, that’s not it! Yu-qing always wants to share my burden, so he would never try to burden me instead. Maybe he wanted to put in a stroke, but he dared not to do it without asking me, so he got stuck at this point. He is clearly asking me if I would feel at ease by letting him make the stroke. […] (Yu-qing touches the door and window, this is the door and window that Jing-he touched. He touches the chair; this is the chair that Jing-he sat on, and Yu-qing tries to imitate the way Jing-he sat. He picks up the ink, thinking that this is the ink that Jing-he touched.) (Yu-qing picks up the brush and bites the tip.) (Yu-qing looks at the painting.) Yu-qing: Master indeed understood my thought. She wanted me to do it. This empty space here does not look like an intentionally blank spot by the original artist, Can-bi. It looks like some color has faded. But if I follow the traces of his brush, making connections and filling in gaps, isn’t this acting rashly and harmful to the principle of restoration? (He thinks.) So, I should just patch up the crack on the fabric. The space… should be kept blank for now. 淨禾：因何昨宵夜裡，一筆未添，一點未補，叫人好生猜疑。這缸中墨色，卻又 深濃，顯然反覆洗滌，想是他思量再三，竟又停筆。 （淨禾反覆觀察。） 淨禾：喔喔，我明白了。 這一筆似未相連，實則潛氣流轉、一貫而下。只是其間 又有缺損，何處原是留白？哪些又是脫落？想是他不敢作主，要留待於我⋯⋯。唉呀，不對，宇青處處為我分憂解勞，豈有反推之於我之理？想是他意欲主筆，又不敢逕自作主，故爾停滯於此，分明問我，是否放心交託於他。 [……] 41 （宇青摸摸門窗，這是淨禾摸過的門窗。摸摸椅子，這是淨禾坐過的椅子，宇青試學師父坐的樣子。拿起墨，這是淨禾觸摸過的墨。） （宇青拿起筆，用嘴咬一咬筆鋒⋯⋯） （宇青看畫。） 宇青：師父果然明白宇青心事，意欲交託於我。 此處虛空，不似殘筆有意留白， 倒像脫色缺痕。 只是我若順其筆跡，銜接彌補，豈非傷了修復本意，反成妄作？（思考） 我不免、只作絹底彌縫，這畫面麼⋯⋯暫且留其殘缺。(Wang and Liu 2015: 62-63) This passage exemplifies the restorative, reconstructive quality of the process: one born of hesitation, deliberation, and cautious interpretation rather than overt creative ambition. The performer, in this scenario, approaches the task of “filling in the gaps” as if guided by an imagined dialogue with the original creators of the work. Each brushstroke or musical phrase is executed not in pursuit of a novel interpretation but in a humble attempt to retrace the artist’s original intent. There is a palpable reverence for tradition at play—an almost sacred refusal to overstep the boundaries set by the historical masters. Rather than striving to add something personal or distinctive, the goal is to align oneself as closely as possible with the creative logic and conceptual framework that gave birth to the piece in the first place. In other words, it is a process of mindful restoration rather than authorship, a careful piecing together of what was lost so that the original form might once again emerge. In the name of restoring and preserving jingju, the KMT government aimed to prove Taiwan’s Chinese identity and its legitimacy of governance by incorporating jingju troupes into the national military system, such that the troupes became institutionalized and militarized. From the 1950s to the 1980s, almost all of the Taiwanese jingju troupes were under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of National Defense, as shown in Table 2.1, with all actors viewed as military personnel, some even holding military ranks (Liu Huifen 2011: 382-384). 42 Table 2. 1 Taiwanese Jingju troupes and their affiliations in the 1950s-1980s27 26 To ensure the continuation of talent, military-affiliated jingju troupes began establishing military-affiliated jingju schools starting in 1954. These included the most famous ones, such as Xiao Dapeng, Xiao Haiguang, and Xiao Luguang. These informal jingju schools were somewhat akin to the traditional training systems of early xiqu troupes. After a few years of training, students quickly transitioned into performances, using practical experience as a substitute for extended training. They helped bridge the gap between the traditional roots of the art in mainland China and its evolution in Taiwan, ensuring that the techniques, aesthetics, and stories of jingju continued to thrive. Today, the alumni and traditions of these jingju schools continue to shape Taiwan’s jingju landscape, demonstrating the enduring legacy of these pioneering institutions. 27 According to Fifty Years of Jingju in Taiwan, there were numerous military jingju troupes in the early days. In addition to the headquarters of various military branches, many command posts had their own jingju troupes. Leisure and recreation units of army divisions or brigades, such as the military band or recreational team, also had their own troupes. Based on available archives, notable troupes include: Guangming Jutuan 光明劇團 (Guangming Troupe, later renamed as Sansan Jutuan 三三劇團 (Sansan Troupe)), Xianfeng Jutuan 先鋒劇團 (Vanguard Troupe), Gangpao Jutuan 鋼炮劇團 (Steel Cannon Troupe), Junsheng Jutuan 軍聲劇團 (Military Sound Troupe), Huoju Pingju She 火炬平劇社 (Torch Troupe), Guoguang Jutuan 國光劇團 (Guoguang Troupe, later renamed as 3588 Kangle Dui 三五八八康樂隊 (3588 Recreation Team), Zhengyi Jutuan 正義劇團 (Justice Troupe), Guohua Jutuan 國花劇團 (National Flower Troupe), Jiuliu Jutuan 九六劇團 (96 Troupe), Fengyu Jutuan 烽煜劇團 (Fengyu Troupe), Yongqing Jutuan 永慶劇團 (Yongqing Troupe), Sanliu Jutuan 三六劇團 (36 Troupe), Laoshan Jutuan 勞山劇團 (Laoshan Troupe), Rongguang Jutuan 榮光劇團 (Rongguang Troupe), Yuehua Jutuan 粵華劇團 (Yuehua Name of the troupe Period Military affiliation Training system26 Dapeng (Ta-peng) guoju dui 大鵬國劇隊 (Dapeng National Theater Troupe) 1950-1995 Air force Xiao dapeng 小大鵬, 1954 (Little Dapeng) Haiguang (Hai-kung) guoju dui 海光國劇團 (Haiguang National Theater Troupe) 1954-1995 Navy Xiao haiguang 小海光, 1969 (Little Haiguang) Luguang (Lu-kung) guoju dui 陸光國劇隊 (Luguang National Theater Troupe) 1958-1995 Army Xiao lugang 小陸光, 1963 (Little Luguang) Mintuo (Ming-t’o) guoju duei 明駝國劇隊 (Mintuo National Theater Troupe) 1961-1984 The Combined Forces Branch of the Military N/A 43 This institutionalization of jingju troupes had both a controlling and a mobilizing effect. On the positive side, it ensured that jingju had specific performance schedules each year, fixed performance venues and a stable audience, guaranteed basic income for the artists, and even established jingju schools, with highly regimented training programs, to maintain a sufficient number of performers in the future.28 All of these measures ensured jingju’s prominent development in Taiwan. However, institutionalization also involved militarized personnel management, strict hierarchical relations of absolute obedience, and mandatory censorship of the performance repertoire.29 This operational method ensured that jingju would not have too much creative space apart from the inherited tradition and that its performance repertoire would be favorably aligned with traditional Chinese values such as loyalty to the nation, filial piety to the elders, and righteousness, achieving the KMT’s political propaganda objectives.30 Interestingly, the absolute obedience in the military also strengthened the absolute reverence for tradition, even Troupe), Taipeng Jutuan 太鵬劇團 (Taipeng Troupe), Baitao Jutuan 百韜劇團 (Baitao Troupe), and others. However, these troupes were relatively small in scale. The table below only lists the most significant ones. 28 This situation became more evident after the MND took over the Guoguang Xiyuan 國光戲院 (Guoguang Theater) in 1965, renaming it the Guojun Wenyi Zhongxin 國軍文藝中心 (Military Arts Center) and establishing a rotational performance system. State-owned/military-owned jingju troupes took turns performing at this theater, contributing a portion of the box office revenue to the government. With designated performance spaces, the livelihood security of actors improved, and the success of public performances was less directly tied to the artistic quality of the production. 29 In 1979, the government first announced “Youyi shiye guanli yuanze” 遊藝事業管理原則 (Management Principles for the Entertainment Industry), which stipulated that the Ministry of Education was responsible for reviewing the scripts based on “Guoju juben shencha banfa” 國劇劇本審查辦法 (Regulations on Reviewing National Drama Scripts). Later, in 1988, “Lunxianqu guo(jing)ju juben shencha yaodian” 淪陷區國（京）劇劇本審查要點 (Review Guidelines for National [Peking] Opera Scripts in Surrendered Areas) were published, setting up numerous restrictions targeted to the plays from China, which resulted in only limited old plays being allowed to be performed. Despite the measures taken to circumvent these policies, it was not until the abolition of the “Regulations on Reviewing National Drama Scripts” in 1990 that the government’s control over the creation of jingju in Taiwan came to an end. For details about the regulation and policy, see Wu Yi-ying 2018. 30 This situation persisted until changes were made to the competition rules. The new regulations emphasized that participants must not solely perform existing scripts but must showcase their ability to create new plays without violating the ethical principles of the Sanming zhuyi 三民主義 (Three Principles of the People). Only then did a transformation begin to take place. However, despite these changes, the newly written plays at this time still did not deviate from the ethical values of loyalty and filial piety. 44 evolving into an absolute longing and reverence for Beijing, the holy land of jingju. All these measures pushed the development of jingju in Taiwan towards an extremely conservative role as a guardian of tradition. However, what is particularly tricky is that the more conservative, traditional, and Chinese-representative jingju had been shaped to be in Taiwan, the more awkward its role in Taiwanese society was destined to be after the lifting of the martial law (1987) and the transition to openness. 2.3 No Restoration Without Creation Despite the firm control, the state could never completely eliminate the participants’ agency. Taiwanese jingju performers possessed their own awareness—reverence for traditional xiqu—but also had to innovate under unique circumstances. Interestingly, initially, creativity within Taiwanese jingju was not purely driven by desire but, at its core, was a form of adaptation and negotiation. The narrative of The Painting of 18 Lohans, particularly the scenes in which Jing-he and Yu-qing collaborate to restore an ancient painting, brings this complexity of restoration and innovation to life. The story illustrates how Taiwanese jingju practitioners, as cultural inheritors, evolved from mere preservation to an understanding that restoration inevitably incorporates elements of creation, giving rise to a deeply ambivalent emotional journey. In the story, Yu-qing is an abandoned child found by Jing-he in the mountains. Jing-he, a nun, raises him with care, and as Yu-qing grows older, he learns the art of restoring ancient paintings from her. Their relationship is marked by deep companionship. However, as Yu-qing matures, Jing-he begins to sense an unclassifiable bond forming between them—something that transcends familial or spiritual affection and edges into the realm of the forbidden. Troubled by 45 these feelings, she decides that Yu-qing must leave. Yu-qing, however, begs to stay until they complete the restoration of the final painting, The Eighteen Arhats.. To suppress their growing attachment, they set strict boundaries: Jing-he restores the painting during the day, while Yu-qing works on it at night. Though they collaborate, they never occupy the same space or see each other. Despite their cautious efforts to contain their emotions, when the painting is finished, Jing-he is startled to realize their mutual affection has inadvertently seeped into the artwork. Their emotions, unbidden and undeniable, have become an inseparable part of the restored painting. Jing-he reflects on this in a poignant moment of song: Jing-he: The Painting of The Eighteen Arhats. The Painting of The Eighteen Arhats. I really fulfilled my pledge in my lifetime. Now, I have no more concerns. I shall chant sutras and meditate for the rest of my life. But somehow, I feel uneasy and disturbed. Could it be because I am too content, or? (When she looks at the painting again, she is quite disturbed to see that her love and affection for Yu-qing are reflected in the brushstrokes and the painting.) Jing-he: [Sings] Staring at the painting, I can’t help but feel afraid. Was it done by Can- bi, or was it done by you and me I can’t tell. I cannot hide the secret in my mind. We share intimate love through our brush tips. I look up and see a lot of sunlight and feel my heart flutter… 淨禾：十八羅漢，十八羅漢，不想我淨禾今生，竟能了此心願，從此心無挂礙，青 燈黃卷，一意清修。只是此刻，因何心事繚繞，陣陣不安，也不知是喜極而泣，還是？ （再看畫，看到自己和宇青的幽情密意，竟反映在畫圖筆墨之間，頗為不安。） 淨禾：（唱）對畫圖、不由人、驚心陣陣，是殘筆？是你我？竟難分清。一點心 事、難藏隱，幽情密意、在筆鋒。猛抬頭、霞光萬道、神搖心旌⋯⋯ (Wang and Liu 2015: 66) This evocative scene underscores the impossibility of separating restoration from creation. The process of restoring The Eighteen Arhats becomes a metaphor for the journey of Taiwanese jingju itself—an art form that cannot remain a perfect reproduction of the past but 46 must inevitably reflect the personal and cultural context of its practitioners. Through the characters’ emotional and artistic entanglement, the play captures the tension between fidelity to tradition and the unavoidable incorporation of innovation. Returning to Taiwan’s history, the way innovation gradually seeped into the partitions of jingju under the guise of restoration begins with the figure of the “recording teacher,” a “mentor” conspicuously absent from the resumes of nearly all actors aged 40 to 80 yet undeniably foundational to their development. The term Lu laoshi 錄老師 (Teacher Lu, “Lu” is used as the last name and is short for luyindai 錄音帶, cassette tape) refers to the cassette tapes smuggled into Taiwan through underground channels or personal luggage, often from Hong Kong or other Western Bloc locations. These tapes carried the sounds of jingju from China, enabling a covert exchange of knowledge and artistry. During my interview with Hsia Yuan-tseng 夏元增 (b. 1943), a jingju actor who specialized in the clown role type, he mentioned, “It was not easy to obtain a radio in the military at that time. My teacher managed to get one and would hide under the covers to listen to it every night. Sometimes he wanted to hear news about his family in China, and sometimes he wanted to listen to jingju. However, everyone was very cautious because being caught was considered treason.” 31 In its earliest stages, the use of tape recorders was primarily for personal purposes. It is important to remember that under strict martial law between Taiwan and China during the Cold War, all forms of communication, including letters and telegrams, were prohibited. Many single 31 Jingju audiences also had their way of obtaining new resources from China, according to Wang, “During 1981-82, when home video recorders were not yet popular, video tapes from China had already become popular in Taiwan. Fans would use various means to obtain them through underground channels, but they were not always willing to share their findings with others. Even if they did lend them out, it was always on the condition of exchanging them for other equally valuable items, as the rarity of the tape determined its worth.” (Wang An-chi 2006: 392-94) 47 soldiers who had retreated to Taiwan with the KMT government during the Chinese Civil War, jingju performers among them, used the frequency dials of their radios to catch fragments of broadcasts from Chinese radio stations.32 Later, Taiwanese jingju performers began using clandestine methods to hone their craft. They secretly tuned into and recorded underground broadcasts from the “enemy” on Mainland China’s radio stations and smuggled banned tapes through third countries. These recordings featured performances by legendary figures such as the sida mingdan 四大名旦 (Four Great Dan) and other iconic jingju masters, filling the void created by Taiwan’s lack of access to jingju masters and thus the absence of the classic jingju repertoire.33 Cassette tapes seemingly filled the gaps left by the absence of legitimate masters, lineages, and the traditional repertoire. However, for jingju, an art form that emphasizes kuochuan xinshou 口傳心授 (lit., passing down [knowledge and skills] mouth to mouth and heart to heart) oral transmission and personal mentorship, the term Lu laoshi became a self-deprecating phrase among Taiwanese jingju performers. This term reflected the painful reality of lacking access to qualified jingju masters, mentors, and performers, forcing practitioners to rely 32 During the period of cross-strait prohibition, underground radio stations were one of the very few ways for both sides to possibly receive news from each other. The term "underground" here refers to its illegal nature in Taiwan. During this time, anything from Mainland China that came to Taiwan was branded with the label name fei/gongfei 匪/共匪 (Communist bandit). In the context of xiqu, they were referred to as feixi 匪戲 (CCP bandit-made plays), and underground radios were called feidie diantai 匪諜電台 (bandit-spy radio stations). These China’s radio stations were intended for Chinese audiences and were not originally designed to broadcast to Taiwanese audiences. At that time, technology was still in its early stages, and it was almost impossible to receive a stable broadcast signal in Taiwan. One had to continuously adjust the frequency and listen in an extremely unstable state so as to intermittently hear performances by China’s performers. For more research on the underground radio, see Jones 2020 and Wang An-chi 2006: 351-412. 33 The most famous actors in Taiwan in the 1950s were qingyi 青衣 (demure female roles focusing on singing) Gu Zhengqiu顧正秋(1929-2016), Zhang Zhengfen 張正芬 (b. 1931); laosheng 老生 (older, mature male role) Le Jintang 李金棠(1921-2020), Hu Shao’an胡少安 (1925-2001), Zhou Zhengrong 周正榮 (1927-2000), and others. However, many of the aforementioned actors quickly left the stage owing to political factors (such as political persecution during the White Terror Period, 1947-1987) and personal choices (such as marriage and childbirth). Relatively speaking, many outstanding performers were still active on Taiwan jingju’s stage, but compared to the packed houses of jingju masters and artists in Beijing, Tianjin, and Shanghai, the difference was stark. 48 on recordings as a compromise. By repeatedly imitating the voices on these tapes, they attempted to compensate for the inability to learn directly from teachers. Unlike real masters and teachers who could generously share performance nuances, characteristics, and stylistic components, Lu laoshi was inevitably less effective. The traditional method of kouchuan xinshou relied on the embodied knowledge and interactive teaching of a master, enabling the transmission of subtle details such as body movements, vocal techniques, and performance styles—elements that were often missing or distorted in recordings. To attribute one’s learning to Lu laoshi was to acknowledge the absence of an authentic lineage and mentorship, undermining the performer’s legitimacy as a recognized apprentice and, by extension, as a qualified inheritor of tradition. The reliance on subpar recordings, particularly during a time of technological limitations, also introduced potential inaccuracies into the learning process. These limitations not only hindered the fidelity of the art form but also perpetuated a sense of inadequacy and incompleteness among Taiwanese jingju practitioners, further highlighting the gaps left by the lack of direct access to traditional masters. Taiwan’s jingju development has consistently been fraught with difficulties. Yet, paradoxically, the deficiencies inherent in the Lu laoshi methodology also created a fertile ground for creative experimentation. Beginning in 1975, the military’s literary and arts competitions introduced a new regulation requiring that annual jingsai xi 競賽戲 (competition plays/productions) use newly composed or revised scripts, ostensibly to “encourage creativity,” freeing jingju performers within the armed forces from the sole requirement of staging traditional laoxi (Wang 2002: 92-93). However, mindful of the prevailing political climate leading up to the 49 October observances,34 the military-affiliated jingju troupes chose their subject matter cautiously. As a result, plots centered on themes of national resilience and loyalty, such as Goujian fuguo 勾踐復國 (The Restoration of Goujian) which depicts Goujian’s efforts to restore his kingdom; Wuwang zai Ju 毋忘在莒 (Never Forget Ju),35 a play that reinforces the historical admonition; Yue Fei岳飛 (Yue Fei), which portrays his resistance against the Jurchen invaders, and various productions dramatizing the overthrow of the Mongol Yuan regime, repeatedly appeared on stage, reflecting the troupes’ concerted effort to align their creative endeavors with the official ideology. Rather than freely experimenting with novel stories or aesthetics, these performers, who had previously devoted themselves solely to imitating their masters’ vocal and physical techniques and had never envisaged crafting characters, composing scripts, or narrating new tales, found themselves compelled to adapt and innovate within a politically delimited sphere. Their initial strategy was to reorganize and adapt clandestinely acquired recordings, recontextualizing this fragmented and imperfect source material for stage production. As Hsia noted in our interview, “The radio reception was very noisy; sometimes it would interfere, but 34 October holds profound symbolic and historical significance for the Republic of China’s National Day, celebrated on October 10th, also known as “Double Tenth Day.” This date commemorates the 1911 Wuchang Uprising that led to the overthrow of the Qing Dynasty and the establishment of a republican government. Before the lifting of martial law, the state’s narrative during these October celebrations was even more intense and uniform, emphasizing patriotic sentiment, national identity, and allegiance to the Republic’s vision while leaving little space for alternative discourses. 35 During the KMT-ruled martial law period, many slogans carried strong political implications. However, among the numerous slogans, Wuwang zai Ju stood out prominently, often spray-painted on countless walls. This was no coincidence; rather, it was because the phrase closely aligned with the KMT’s historical circumstances, ideological needs, and strategies for controlling Taiwanese society. The origin of Wuwang zai Ju dates back to the Warring States period (476 BC-221 BC) when the State of Qi 齊 was invaded by the State of Yan燕. The King of Qi fled to Ju莒 and, during his exile, used this phrase to remind himself: “Never forget the fall of the capital. One day, the lost land must be reclaimed.” This historical analogy made Wuwang zai Ju a symbol of the KMT’s ruling legitimacy, reinforcing the idea that Taiwan was merely a temporary base, and that the ultimate goal was to retake the Mainland and restore China. Compared to other slogans, Wuwang zai Ju was not merely a political catchphrase; it functioned as a historical allegory, embedding in the KMT a mission of waiting and eventual return. 50 we recorded that tune, transcribed it, and that was the main source of information. After that, we integrated it into the modernized plays when we needed a new tune.” In other words, these flawed audio documents—continuously in need of remedial patchwork before being presented on stage—forced the practitioners into an intricate process that involved more than mere replication. Instead, it laid the groundwork for an emergent creative practice, one that blended reverence for tradition with the exigencies of the political and cultural milieu. A story recounted by GGOC director Wang Guanqiang 王冠強 (b. 1957) in a YouTube interview sheds light on this process. In the interview, he described how Taiwan’s Mingtuo Jingju Troupe, one of the military-affiliated troupes, adapted Manjiang hong 滿江紅 (Red Fills the River,1960) into Jingzhong baoguo 精忠報國 (Serving the Motherland in Ardent Loyalty, 1981).36 According to Wang, the troupe’s principal actors gathered in a room to watch a recording of Red Fills the River in which the main character Yue Fei is performed by Sun Yue 孫岳 (1933–2004), a renowned laosheng actor from The China National Beijing Opera Theater, fully aware that it would be used as source material for an upcoming jingju competition. Under the political circumstances of the time, directly drawing from the works of a “Communist Chinese” troupe was strictly forbidden. Nevertheless, a new script titled Serving the Motherland in Ardent Loyalty soon emerged, which, as Wang noted, was clearly related to the recorded performance.37 36 Red Fills the River was written by Fan Junhong 范鈞宏 and Lu Ruiming呂瑞明. It tells the story of Yue Fei, a renowned general and national hero of the Southern Song Dynasty (960-1276) who resisted the Jin and reclaimed lost territories. However, he was forced to withdraw by the minister Qin Hui through the imposition of twelve “golden plaques.” Eventually, he became a victim during the peace negotiations between the Song and Jin, falling prey to a wrongful and unjust accusation, leading to his tragic demise in a fabricated case. The premiere of the production was led by Sun Yue 孫岳 and Yang Qiuling 楊秋玲, produced by Zhongguo Jingju Yuan Situan 中國京劇院四團 (The Fourth Troupe of The China National Beijing Opera Theater). 37 Given Yue Fei’s widespread cultural resonance as a loyal general who resisted the Jin, whether the resulting adaptation constituted “plagiarism” of the mainland company’s work remains debatable. However, Wang An-chi, who served as a judge for the competition at the time, recounts in an article that the play had originally been ranked 51 Such practices—whether described as borrowing, rearranging, modifying, referencing, transplanting, or replicating—were, in fact, widespread during this period, As Wang An-chi noted in “Smuggling and Undercurrents Before Cross-Strait Exchanges” 兩岸交流之前的偷渡與伏流, “As for the revision of feixi, in particular, testing the system was not only not a secret, but also a collective memory” (Wang 2006: 379-380).38 However, it is critical to highlight that the fragmented and incomplete nature of the available sources effectively compelled Taiwanese jingju practitioners, despite their initial deference to existing models, to assume a creative role in the adaptation process. Even when the performers’ primary intention was to faithfully reproduce or pay tribute to established works, the very act of piecing together these partial and dispersed elements inevitably introduced new layers of interpretation and innovation. In other words, their engagement, shaped by both necessity and reverence, inherently expanded the boundaries of jingju artistry and opened a space for originality under the guise of restoration. It is worth reiterating that these recorded fragments were far from complete or coherent. To render these disjointed vocal materials intelligible and stage-ready, Taiwanese jingju practitioners had to engage in a range of inventive procedures: devising bodily movements for singing passages heard only through underground broadcasts, compensating for missing textual first. Yet, it inexplicably was “disappeared/canceled” from the final results, failing to secure any awards, not even for its actors or for best ensemble. Another judge, Chen Hong陳宏, privately advised Wang, “Don’t ask too many questions. You used a ‘bandit play’ to participate in a military competition—consider yourselves lucky you weren’t punished. Do you still expect to win first place?” 不要多問了，拿匪戲參加軍中競賽，沒有處分已是萬幸，還想得冠軍？ (Wang 2016: 196-197). 38 The jingju audience also had their way of obtaining the new resources from China, according to Wang, “During 1981-82, when home video recorders were not yet popular, video tapes from China had already become popular in Taiwan. Fans would use various means to obtain them through underground channels, but they were not always willing to share their findings with others. Even if they did lend them out, it was always on the condition of exchanging them for other equally valuable items, as the rarity of the tape determined its worth.” 民國七十、七十一年起，家用錄影機尚未普遍，中國大陸錄影帶卻已開始在台灣流行，戲迷們各顯神通，自地下管道取得新貨，每有所獲即宣揚炫耀，卻未必願意與人同賞，即使偶爾願意外借，也都是以戲易戲交換得來的，交換貨品的珍貴程度必須相當。 (Wang An-chi 2016: 198). 52 elements when the recordings were of poor quality or interrupted, filling in gaps caused by sudden external disturbances (such as police inspections), proactively replacing potentially “bandit-related” expressions to evade censorship, and adjusting segments that had failed to pass official script reviews. None of these processes would have been necessary had the conventional channels of transmission remained open, especially given the practitioners’ deep reverence for tradition. Yet ironically, it was these very constraints that prompted a form of jubu chuangzuo 局部創作 (partial creation), as Wang An-chi has highlighted in her account of how jingju troupes responded creatively to political pressures and the challenges inherent in adapting their repertoires (2006: 351–412). At first glance, it may seem that the door to creative freedom had been flung open, yet dangers still loomed in the background. When discussing the possibility of creating and inheriting, there is also another constraint worth noting—the regulations and standards regarding banning and script censorship of jingju in Taiwan. In fact, there has never been a clear directive or explicit policy regarding such banning and censorship. However, through “Jiaoyubu gongbu zhi zhunyan jumu ji juben shencha banfa” 教育部公佈之准演劇目及劇本審查辦法 (A List of Approved Plays and Regulation of Script Censorship) announced by the Ministry of Education (MOE) and scatteringly collected in Zhonghua guoju shi 中華國劇史 (A History of Chinese National Theater, Lee 1969) and Guoju yuekan 國劇月刊 (National Theater Monthly), the MOE had revised the list of approved plays for jingju three times. The first time was around 1949, when the Taiwan Provincial Department of Education formulated a “pingju zhunyan jumu” 平劇准演劇目 (List of Approved Plays for Jingju) of about 270 plays, which was published and 53 implemented. 39 Later, with the influx of illegal audio tapes and VHS imported from China, revisions were made in 1966 and 1981. These revisions were all designed to ban Communist-related plays, and were aimed to help facilitate the review process at the local government’s level. If a play is on the list of approved plays, it is allowed to be performed; if not, it is banned. Looking into the list carefully, it is easy to find that among these review reasons, the most commonly mentioned reason for not passing the review is gongfei cuangai ben共匪篡改本 (CCP’s tampered/damaged version). According to the above records, although official explanations often cited reasons like “not sufficiently reviving tradition” or “lacking national consciousness,” the underlying rationale for censorship was primarily anti-communism. In other words, the main reason for determining whether a newly adapted or traditional play can be performed was not whether the play itself is suitable, but rather whether the play had anything connected to the CCP, with either the plot related to communism, the main creators having any affiliation with the CCP, or the play having been promoted by the CCP. However, this core reason for censorship has never been explicitly clarified. Instead, due to various excuses involved, such as in the name of tradition and in the name of the patriotism, 39 The list included about 270 plays. For a more detailed discussion, see Jia Liu 1987: 18-19. Yanjing Sanren 燕京散人 also had a similar observation published in United Daily News, pointing out that “those plays not listed [in the 270 permitted plays], although not permanently banned, are at least temporarily not allowed to be performed until they have been reviewed” 不在這准演劇目以內的呢，雖非永久禁演，卻也是至少還沒有審查到，而暫不許演唱. (March 2, 1956) In addition, the extensive cultural policy can also be referred to as the “Fan Gong kang E zongdongyuan gangling” 反共抗俄總動員綱領 (Anti-Communist and Anti-Soviet General Mobilization Program), which clearly outlines the direction of institutionalized reform. Its five key points can be summarized as follows: 1) expose the CCP regime’s totalitarian control over thought, enabling Free China [ROC] to gain a correct understanding of the CCP; 2) promote education of the spirit of propriety and justice, the spirit of avenging shame and restoring the nation; 3) advocate for cultural reform to ensure that the content of literature, art, music, drama, and film meets the requirements of revolutionary nation-building; 4) popularize scientific knowledge, promote academic unity, publishing academic journals, and compile the Chinese Culture Series; 5) strengthen international cultural cooperation. 一、揭露中共政權對思想的極權統治，使自由中國對共產黨獲得正確認識。 二、厲行明禮尚義、雪恥復國之精神教育。 三、倡導文藝改革，使文學、美術、音樂、戲劇、電影之內容符合革命建國的要求。 四、普及科學知識，促成學術界總結合，發行學術性期刊並編纂中國文化叢書。 五、增強國際文化合作. See Central Reform Committee of the KMT, n.d. 54 performers were left unsure of what to do. The only thing they knew for sure was to get a zhunyan zheng 准演證 (performance permit), but the criteria for obtaining such a permit remained confusing and inconsistent. In her memoir, Gu Zhengqiu mentioned the situation in 1950, “When we arrived in Taiwan, the national crisis made things stricter. Not only did the script need to be sent to the security headquarters for review in advance, but any performance also required a performance permit to be issued before it could be performed.” 到了台灣，國難當頭比較嚴格，不僅僅劇本需要事先送至警備總部做一番審查之外，任何的表演都需要准演證才能演出 (Gu and Jiji 1997: 77). Not only did the fragmented recordings themselves require restoration—improving incomplete and poor-quality audio—but the political context also demanded negotiation and adaptation. The KMT government, which claimed to safeguard jingju as an authentic Chinese tradition distinct from the aftermath of the Cultural Revolution on the mainland, simultaneously subjected traditional plays to rigorous scrutiny. Any phrase or aria the government deemed detrimental to its authority required careful revision. This situation was particularly delicate. On the one hand, the KMT authorities asserted that Taiwan had preserved traditional culture free from the destruction seen in Communist China. On the other hand, it actively intervened, subtly altering lines and narratives under the guise of censorship. In an interview, Hsia Yuan-tseng described the prohibition and subsequent “fine-tuning” of Silang tanmu 四郎探母 (Silang Visits His Mother). This case is especially noteworthy because the play did not directly violate censorship regulations. However, its powerful emotional resonance with post-1949 audiences—particularly former soldiers who had hastily retreated to Taiwan with the KMT government without saying goodbye to their parents—rendered it problematic. The storyline’s poignant scene, in which Yang Silang, having lived for eighteen 55 years in the enemy’s northern territory after a military defeat, is finally reunited with his mother, prompted widespread sobbing during performances in the 1950s. This intense audience response raised political sensitivities, and the play was effectively banned. To overcome this obstacle, the military troupe introduced a subtle yet significant alteration, adding a 91-character speech to the script. In this revised version of Silang Visits His Mother, the protagonist, Silang, presents a map of the northern territories during his reunion. Through this strategic addition, the former “traitor” figure was recast as an undercover agent, thereby transforming the emotional charge of the narrative into a more politically acceptable form. As a result, the production managed to pass the censors and return to the stage. This type of modification, unlike the earlier examples concerning clandestine recordings, arose directly from the political circumstances and had nothing to do with technological limitations. Yet it represented another form of remedial or supplementary work—an act of “repair” intended to ensure the continued circulation of a beloved play. In this sense, political exigencies fostered their own version of creative intervention, reinforcing the idea that maintaining the repertoire, whether through restored recordings or script alterations, often required a delicate balance between preserving tradition and adapting to contemporary demands. More often ridiculous than not, censorship bore little direct relation to the content of the plays themselves. According to the “List of Approved Theatrical Works and Script Review Procedures” issued by the Ministry of Education, the overwhelming majority of approved theatrical works were scripts that existed before 1949, the year the People’s Republic of China was founded. Any play not included in the official list of approved works required a separate review. A particularly revealing example is Mei Lanfang’s Mu Guiying guashuai 穆桂英掛帥 (Mu Guiying Takes Command, 1959), which was banned solely because it was created after 56 1949 (Wu Yi-ying 2018: 30–32). In contrast, Mei’s works composed before 1949 remained permissible. In other words, most pre-1949 creations were generally allowed, while any works developed after 1949 were strictly forbidden.40 There were, of course, instances in which political intervention in artistic practice became excessive. For example, General Wang Shuming 王叔銘 (1905-1998), a first-ranking Air Force officer known colloquially as “Tiger Wang 王老虎,” once highly suggested the Air Force-affiliated Dapeng National Theater Troupe alter the introductory shuban 數板 (a rhythmic spoken or chanted introduction) of the modest Xiaofangniu 小放牛 (The Little Cowherd).41 The original, rustic lyrics were replaced with lines extolling Taiwan as a “treasure island,” and the shepherd boy’s later verse was likewise transformed to praise President Chiang Kai-shek as a democratic leader and vilify the Communist Party as the national enemy, culminating in the exhortation of the tripartite military to reclaim the mainland. When I interviewed Hsia Yuan-tseng, he recited these politicized lyrics with ease, as though indelibly etched into his memory.42 40 In Wu Yi-ying’s master’s thesis “Liangan jinxi yanjiu” 兩岸禁戲研究 (A Study on the Prohibition of Jingju on Both Sides of the Taiwan Strait), it is mentioned that the jingju school, “Zhang 張 [Junqiu 君秋] School,” established in 1960, is referred to as the forbidden jingju school in Taiwan. The representative works of the Zhang School, including Zhuangyuan mei 狀元媒 (Top Scholar as a Matchmaker), Qin Xianglian 秦香蓮 (Lady Qin Xianglian), and Xixiang ji 西廂記 (The West Chamber), were all strictly prohibited in Taiwan at the time. Other newly adapted and created jingju produced by the artists based on PRC were also prohibited, such as Li Shaochun’s Yezhulin 野豬林 (Wild Boar Forest, 1950), Mei Lanfang’s Mu Guiying Takes Command (1959), and others (Wu Yi-ying 2018: 30-32). 41 Shuban is often used in xiqu, including jingju. It typically consists of a set number of syllables arranged to establish the vocal rhythm, set the narrative tone, or mark the commencement of a particular scene or thematic section. This structured vocal pattern helps guide both performers and audiences into the dramatic and musical environment of the performance. 42 The contents provided by Hsia go: “Under the bright sun and in splendid springtime, Taiwan truly is a treasure island. The land is adorned with countless blooming flowers in every color, thriving along the verdant riverbanks” 艷陽天，春光好，台灣確實是個寶島。萬紫千紅花遍地，趁著青青河邊草; the last part of the lyrics changed to: “President Chiang [Chiang Kai-shek] is a democratic leader; the Communist Party is the enemy of the nation. The Army, Navy, and Air Force unite to oppose the Communists in mainland China” 蔣總統是民主領袖，共產黨他是國家的仇，陸海空聯合反攻大陸. 57 Still, the capacity to recognize such alterations as politically motivated might be considered a relative privilege. In many cases, political oversight and censorship created situations in which original texts were lost or politically revised versions were mistakenly accepted as part of the “authentic” tradition. Such instances underscore the extent to which political forces could reshape, and sometimes obscure, the cultural memory of performance traditions. Overall, the complex circumstances of Taiwanese jingju during this period reveal a paradoxical pathway toward creativity. On the one hand, the absence of a coherent jingju canon prompted practitioners to operate in the shadows—surreptitiously tuning in to underground broadcasts, smuggling banned recordings, and painstakingly reconstructing incomplete source materials. On the other hand, shifting policies that alternately demanded adherence to tradition and encouraged reform left performers caught between contradictory mandates with no stable artistic home to return to. Once channeled through politically sanctioned directives, these illicit, fragmented voices came to carry multiple layers of legitimacy and authority. Lu laoshi represented a direct link to a venerable homeland and its revered masters, a profoundly personal and nostalgic reminder of lost origins, and an aesthetic touchstone of genius and tradition. As it happened, under conditions constrained by limited technology and intense political scrutiny, the fervent desire to restore and re-enact a “missing but better” tradition unexpectedly opened a space for experimentation and innovation. 58 2.4 The Desire for Secret Creation Without Attribution At the same time, these developments unfolded within an environment colored by profound ambivalence. The KMT-led ROC government publicly asserted its exclusive claim to orthodox Chinese heritage, branding the guoju performed under its auspices as the sole, authentic guardian of an untainted cultural essence. Yet Taiwanese jingju practitioners privately grappled with the knowledge that their technical skills, stylistic breadth, and direct lineages could not match those of their mainland counterparts. They were haunted by a persistent sense of inadequacy, toggling uneasily between officially sanctioned pride and an unspoken acknowledgment of inferiority. The creative innovations that emerged from this uneasy terrain were thus not the product of unbridled confidence or natural artistic evolution. Instead, they arose from a tense negotiation between political imperatives, cultural longing, and the performers’ own quietly simmering insecurities. This complex emotional state, I argue, is vividly encapsulated in The Painting of 18 Lohans through the character of He Feipeng 赫飛鵬, the owner of an antique shop and a master forger, portrayed by Tang Wenhua 唐文華 (b. 1961). The main character, He Feipeng, specializes in counterfeiting and selling fake paintings, running a calligraphy and painting store in Mozhe City.43 He is celebrated for his refined aesthetic taste and remarkable skill in imitating classical works, which earns him a reputation as a representative of the literati in the city. However, He Feipeng’s role is more complex than that of a mere antagonist. While he engages in dubious activities like forgery and selling counterfeits at exorbitant prices, the play delves deeper into his internal conflict. Despite his technical brilliance, in terms of creation, he struggles with an extreme lack of confidence. 43 The name of the city, Mozhe City 墨哲城, implies that the people in this area are mostly literati and scholars. But as the plot goes on, there is a hint of mockery, in that the so-called literati here prefer to follow the trend of elegance rather than truly understanding and appreciating the arts. 59 He evaluates his works based only on how closely they resemble those of the masters he imitates. If a painting does not meet his impossibly high standards, even by the slightest margin, he orders his wife, Yan-ran嫣然 (performed by Ling Jialin 凌嘉臨, b. 1988), to destroy it. The following excerpt illustrates the tension between He Feipeng and Yan-ran in their first on-stage interaction, revealing the complexity of his perfectionism and inner turmoil. (He Feipeng is working on a forged painting with a bit of anxiety having heard about Mount Zi-ling. He is so unsettled that he mistakenly draws a stroke on the paper.) Mr. He: Can-bi? Mount Zi-ling? Being preoccupied with some thoughts, I made a careless stroke while painting. (Looking at the painting) Ahhh, not just one careless stroke…. I actually painted what was on my mind. I forgot I was imitating Huai-yu’s painting. (He calls the servant.) Jin-an…no…Yan-ran. Yan-ran, where are you? (Yan-ran starts to roll up the painting without a word.) Mr. He: What are you doing without even asking? Yan-ran: Why bother to ask? How many times have you asked me to do the same thing? You made a careless stroke and want me to destroy the painting. Mr. He: Yan-ran, don’t talk like that. Don’t you know that in painting such a “precious ancient treasure,” one must not make a single mistake. Yan-ran: What do you mean by “painting such a precious ancient treasure”? It’s an imitation; it’s a replica. Mr. He: In transactions of paintings and calligraphy, ancient works are the most precious. don’t you know? Yan-ran: Of course I know. You dared not ask Jin-an to do this. So I am the one who needs to ruin the painting. There is certainly something fishy about this. You don’t think your own paintings are good enough for others to see? （赫飛鵬正進行偽畫製作，又因紫靈巖之事，顯得不安。 心緒不寧，竟錯點了一筆在紙上。） 赫飛鵬：殘筆？紫靈巖？…….唉，心中有事，錯用了一筆，（看畫） 唉呀，何止 錯用一筆，怎麼畫出了心中之所想，竟忘了是在仿懷玉之作？！恍神了，恍神了。（叫僕人）進安，不，嫣然，嫣然，妳在哪裡？ （嫣然不講話，也不問，就把畫隨手捲起。） 赫飛鵬：妳怎麼也不問就………？ 嫣然：何必多問？這樣的事情，叫我做過多少次了 ？又是一筆錯點，要我毀畫。 赫飛鵬：嫣然，不要這樣說話，妳豈不知，這「託古為尊」之作，一絲一毫、差錯 不得。 嫣然：甚麼「託古為尊」？分明仿作。 赫飛鵬：書畫交易，以古為貴。妳不懂啊。 60 嫣然：我怎麼不懂？不敢叫進安，只敢叫為妻毀畫，分明不可告人。難道你自己的 畫作，就見不得人麼？(Wang and Liu 2015: 53-54) This dialogue sheds light on He Feipeng’s obsession with both tradition and perfection, his struggle with identity as an artist, and his reliance on Yan-ran to erase evidence of his perceived failures. It also highlights Yan-ran’s keen awareness of his work's contradictions and insecurities. Through this exchange, the play emphasizes He Feipeng's internal conflict and the broader theme of authenticity versus imitation. This struggle resonates with the challenges faced by Taiwanese jingju practitioners in defining their identity and legitimacy. This sense of inferiority stems on the one hand from the political narrative loudly propagated by the KMT-led ROC government in Taiwan, which claimed itself as the sole legitimate Chinese government and designated Taiwanese jingju performers as the rightful and sole inheritors of the jingju tradition. On the other hand, the performers themselves were acutely aware of the gap in technical expertise between themselves and their counterparts in mainland China. This was further compounded by the fact that many master-level jingju artists, who held seniority over Taiwanese performers in terms of both rank and skill, had remained on the mainland and did not follow the KMT government to Taiwan in 1949. These dual feelings of self-confidence and self-doubt created a complex psychological state for Taiwanese jingju practitioners. They were buoyed by the ROC government’s rhetoric of jingju as Taiwan’s most elite art form, yet privately, they recognized the stark reality of their limitations. They saw themselves as imitators who could never attain the level of legitimacy held by jingju performers in China. This intricate emotional dynamic is unintentionally embodied in the character of He Feipeng in The Painting of 18 Lohans. His internal conflict—pride in his technical skills as a 61 forger and recognition of his limitations as an original creator—mirrors the struggles of Taiwan’s jingju practitioners. Through He Feipeng, the play explores the nuanced tension between the lofty rhetoric of cultural superiority and the private acknowledgment of being a step removed from the authentic tradition. This complex emotional dynamic became even more nuanced in the 1990s as cross-strait exchanges resumed after over four decades of isolation. During the era of separation, the ROC government and Taiwanese jingju performers could afford to turn a blind eye or, like an ostrich burying its head in the sand, maintain the illusion that Taiwanese jingju was more traditional and authentic than its mainland counterpart. However, the resumption of cross-strait communication revealed the fragility of this claim. The proverbial expression, “Even an ugly wife must meet her in-laws” 醜媳婦也要見公婆, aptly describes the sense of apprehension and vulnerability that Taiwanese jingju performers experienced during this period. In 1992, the ROC government allowed performance troupes from China to engage in commercial performances for the first time since 1949. In April 1993, Beijing Jingju Yuan 北京京劇院 (Beijing Jingju Theater) took the lead and performed at the Zhongshan Tang 中山堂 (Zhongshan Hall). This marked the return of China’s theatrical troupes to Taiwan’s stage after a hiatus of forty-four years, since the Zhongguo Guoju Tuan 中國國劇團 (Chinese Theater Company), led by Wang Zhenzu 王振祖 (1914–1980), arrived in Taiwan in 1949. The curation of this program struck a deep nerve with Taiwanese jingju performers. Its title, Xichu mingmen 戲出名門 (“a renowned repertoire performed by descendants of masters”), seemed almost like a satirical jab, mocking Taiwan’s claims of legitimacy by highlighting its lack of bloodline-based authenticity. For an art form like jingju, which places great emphasis on familial heritage, master-disciple lineage, and stylistic schools, the identities and backgrounds of 62 the performers in this program further underscored the secondary status of Taiwanese jingju practitioners. In stark contrast, nearly all the lead performers in Xichu mingmen had direct connections to the most glorious period of jingju’s history during the late Qing and early Republican eras—whether through mentorship or bloodline and often through both. The performers included Mei Baojie 梅葆玥 and Mei Baojiu 梅葆玖 (daughter and son of Mei Lanfang), Zhang Xuejin 張學津 (son of Zhang Junqiu 張君秋), Tan Yuanshou 譚元壽 (great-grandson of Tan Xinpei 譚鑫培), Qiu Shaorong 裘少戎 (son of Qiu Shengrong裘盛戎), Bai Qilin 白其麟 (son of Liang Xiujian 梁秀娟), Ma Xiaoman 馬小曼 and Ma Changli 馬長禮 (daughter and foster son of Ma Lianliang 馬連良), and Ye Shaolan 葉少蘭 (son of Ye Shenglan 葉盛蘭), among others. These performers embodied not only the technical mastery of jingju but also a cultural and lineage-based legitimacy. Their backgrounds and heritage vividly contrasted with the Taiwanese performers’ lack of a similar foundation, further marginalizing and relegating them to a subordinate position in the broader jingju tradition. The performances brought by the troupe further emphasized their mastery of the so-called classic laoxi 老戲 (traditional repertoire)—with not a single play created after 1949.44 The production delivered a harsh blow to Taiwanese jingju performers from their identities and bloodlines to their technical skills. Media coverage of the event was equally unforgiving, with 44 From April 14th to 29th, 1993, the Beijing Jingju Theater performed a total of fourteen shows, including the following repertoire pieces: Longfeng chengxiang 龍鳳呈祥 (Dragon and Phoenix Auspiciousness), Feng huanchao 鳳還巢 (Phoenix Returns to the Nest), Yu huanghou遇皇后 (Meeting with the Queen), Zhan Machao 戰馬超 (Warrior Ma Chao), Dingjin shan 定軍山 (Mount Dingjun), Jiangxiang he 將相和 (Reconciliation of the General and the Prime Minister), Lü Bu yü Diaochan 呂布與貂蟬 (Lü Bu and Diaochan), Shaqiao jianbie 沙橋餞別 (Farewell at Sha Bridge), Tiao huache 挑滑車 (Overturning the Carts), Bawang bieji 霸王別姬 (Farewell My Concubine), Qunying hui 群英會 (Gathering of Heroes), and Silang tanmu 四郎探母 (Silang Visits His Mother). 63 headlines such as “Accompaniment and Costumes All from Father Mei Lanfang’s Troupe; Mei Baojiu to Visit Taiwan Next Month, Representing the Glory of the Mei School” 琴師、戲服 全是父親當年組合 梅葆玖下月來台 重視梅派風華, which directly highlighted the unparalleled legacy of the mainland performers.45 Coupled with sold-out performances and overwhelmingly positive reviews from the arts and culture community, this event left Taiwanese jingju performers grappling with a new challenge, which was no longer just internal self-doubt but also societal skepticism. Comprehensively presenting various jingju performance schools and showcasing the completeness of the role types of the jingju company were the most important factors considered in the arrangement of the repertoire. For the Taiwanese audience at that time, the attractions of a jingju company arriving from Beijing were not only watching the elite and skillful performances of these actors on stage but also revisiting what they had missed for the past forty years due to the cross-strait separation. They were probably better described as seeing the performances through the lens of nostalgia, which their fathers’ generation once saw in their hometown forty years ago.46 After this performance, which succeeded in multiple aspects such as ticket sales and media attention, jingju troupes from China successively crossed the strait to Taiwan.47 45 For more details, see Zhang Mengrui 1993:14 and Anonymous 1993: 8. 46 In her account, journalist Cao Yunyi wrote, “Among the packed audience, 80% were elderly theater enthusiasts whose excited expressions seemed to transport them back to their younger days, reliving the performances of their favorite leading actors.” The title of the article, “Are Children Inferior to Their Fathers? Can One Continue to Wear the Splendid Garment? Beijing Jingju Theater’s Glories and Criticisms,” also provides us with a glimpse of the audience's reaction at that time. See Cao, Yunyi 1993. 47 These includes Zhongguo Jingju Yuan 中國京劇院 (China National Beijing Opera Theater), Tianjin Jingju Yuan天津京劇院 (Tianjin Municipal Beijing Opera Theater), Tianjinshi Qingnian Jingju Tuan 天津市青年京劇團 (Tianjin Municipal Youth Jingju Company), Shanghai Jingju Yuan 上海京劇院 (Shanghai Beijing Opera Theater), Jiangsusheng Jingju Yuan 江蘇省京劇院 (Jiangsu Provincial Beijing Opera Theater), Gansu Jingju Tuan 甘肅省京劇團 (Gansu Provincial Beijing Opera Company), Shandongsheng Jingju Yuan 山東省京劇院 (Shandong Provincial Beijing Opera Theater), Jiangxisheng Jingju Tuan江西省京劇團 (Jiangxi Provincial Beijing Opera Company), Wuhan Jingju Tuan 武漢京劇團 (Wuhan Municipal Jingju Company), Nanjingshi Jingju Tuan 南京市京劇團 (Nanjing Municipal Beijing Opera Company), Zhejiang Jingju Tuan 浙江京劇團 (Zhejiang Provincial 64 The Beijing Jingju Theater’s first appearance in Taiwan may be interpreted as a significant wake-up call for Taiwanese jingju performers participating in traditional competitions. In that case, the premiere of the modernized jingju production Yangmen nüjiang 楊門女將 (Women Generals of the Yang Family) presented by China National Beijing Opera Theater a few months later can be said to have left Taiwanese jingju performers in awe. Both jingju theaters have presented a series of splendid traditional and modernized jingju plays, surpassing the performance level of jingju in Taiwan in terms of the actors’ skills, vocal techniques, well-coordinated stagecraft, profoundness of scripts, and portrayal of characters. This dalu re 大陸熱 (China fever) period, coined by Wang An-chi, has brought an unprecedented sense of identity crisis to the jingju community in Taiwan (Wang 2002: 126). However, it is worth noting that these jingju companies’ performances in Taiwan were almost entirely ad hoc, featuring joint performances by famous actors. Some of them were invited to support touring in Taiwan only, and even famous actors performed minor roles in each other’s plays—circumstances almost impossible to see on China’s stages. This irregular and luxurious combination of performances quickly made Taiwanese jingju performers seem worthless compared to China’s advantaged jingju troupes. Naturally, these performances affected the audience attendance rate and the profit of ticket sales for local markets, particularly that of traditional Taiwanese jingju. It was indeed a challenging time. On the one hand, Taiwanese jingju performers faced artistic questioning from jingju’s loyal fans, who doubted their technical abilities and worthiness as performers; on the other hand, they also faced enormous social criticism for being Chinese representatives in the context of Taiwan’s bentuhua 本土化 (lit., Beijing Opera Company), Fujian Jingju Yuan福建京劇院 (Fujian Provincial Beijing Opera Theater), Ningxia Jingju Tuan寧夏京劇團 (Ningxia Regional Beijing Opera Company), and so on. See Cheng Hsin 2015: 5, 17, 34-35. 65 localization, i.e., Taiwanization) movement. Under these circumstances, the perplexity and confusion of Taiwanese jingju performers were foreseeable. However, in hindsight, while it is undeniable that the China fever was partly due to the outstanding works presented by China’s jingju performers, it was also in part due to the novelty brought about by the isolation of the two sides of Taiwan Strait for forty years. In 2005, the Chuanda Jingji Yishu Gongsi 傳大經紀藝術公司 (Ars Formosa Company), which had been responsible for inviting China’s jingju troupes to perform in Taiwan since 1992, acknowledged long-term financial losses and announced that it would stop inviting China’s jingju troupes to perform in Taiwan in the future, perhaps marking the end of this period.48 For the younger generation, jingju seemed too Chinese, too traditional, and entirely disconnected from their lives. For the older generation, Taiwanese jingju appeared too unorthodox, too amateurish, and unworthy of continued government and military support. This dual perception called into question the necessity of investing in and sustaining jingju in Taiwan, placing its practitioners in an increasingly precarious position. Societal skepticism rose against Taiwanese jingju performers precisely at a time when their art had, in fact, undergone prolonged innovation—initially through clandestine recordings referenced earlier, then through the 1970s 48 More about the suspension of inviting China’s jingju troupes by Ars Formosa Company can been found in the following two news headlines: Ji Hue-ling’s 紀慧玲 “Dalu jingju dengtai yousheng ershuai 12 nian qian pobing yanchu laoximi kandao luolei erjin piaofang lengqing chuanda xuanbu buzai banxi”大陸京劇登台由盛而衰，12 年前「破冰」演出，老戲迷看到落淚 而今票房，傳大宣布不再辦戲 (Jingju Troupe Invited from China from Prosperity to Decline. 12 Years Ago, the Ground-breaking Performance Moved Veteran Fans to Tears; Now the Box Office Is Lackluster. Ars Formosa Company Announces It Will No Longer Invite Jingju Troupes from China), retrieved from Minsheng Daily 民生報, June 17, 2005. A 12; and Li Yu-ling’s 李玉玲 “Dui’an jingju mingnian Taiwan mei xi chang Tianjin jingju yuan xiayue lai piaofang jin liangcheng shichang weisuo Chuanda zanting yaofang zhongguo jingju yuan niandi zuihou yidang” 對岸京劇明年台灣沒戲唱，天津京劇院下月來，票房僅兩成，市場萎縮，傳大暫停邀訪，中國京劇院年底最後一檔 (No Jingju Theaters From Across the Strait Next Year; Tianjin Provincial Jingju Theater to Visit Taiwan Next Month With Only 20% of Tickets Sold and A Shrinking Market, Arts Formosa Company Suspends the Invitation of China’s Jingju Theaters, with the Last Show Scheduled at the End of the Year), retrieved from United Daily News, May 26, 2005. C6. 66 introduction of Western theatrical concepts by Guo Xiaozhuang’s 郭小莊 (b. 1951) Yayin Xiaoji雅音小集 (Little Troupe of Elegant Voices), introducing directorial systems and challenges to traditional xiqu stage aesthetics, and later through Wu Hsing-kuo’s 吳興國 (b. 1953) avant-garde Dangdai Chuanqi Juchang 當代傳奇劇場 (Contemporary Legend Theater) and the premiere of Yuwang chengguo 慾望城國 (The Kingdom of Desire, 1986), a jingju adaptation of Macbeth). Despite decades of experimentation, Taiwanese jingju performers continued to suffer from a crisis of confidence—lacking both the unbroken lineage and the foundational training to cement their legitimacy. This lingering insecurity prompted a relentless questioning of what Taiwanese jingju truly is and whether it could be considered authentic jingju at all. Beyond the waves of public doubt, The Painting of 18 Lohans provides a nuanced allegory for this sense of inadequacy and self-effacement. The portrayal of He Feipeng, the master forger who dares not sign his works, encapsulates the unspoken inferiority complex haunting Taiwanese jingju performers. He Feipeng’s insecurities, laid bare by his wife’s incisive commentary, highlight a deep psychological entanglement with authenticity and authorship: Mr. He: (Resentful) So many portraits I made of you, were all abandoned as well? Yan-ran: I did not like the way you painted me. But you certainly have excellent skills. (Opens the scroll.) Look, This “Red Begonia” of yours, though different from the one by Huaiyu. It is not bad at all. Why do you want to destroy it? Mr. He: This is not the real thing. Yan-ran: Whatever you paint, they are all real things. Mr. He: I make good replicas. (He is very strong in front of people with the softness of a businessman, but not in front of his young wife.) Yan-ran: But whatever you paint, they are all real things created by you, He Feipeng. Mr. He: But they are not real paintings created by Huaiyu. Yan-ran: Is Huaiyu really better than you? Mr. He: Certainly I am better than Huaiyu and Shihui. I can imitate Shihui because I really grasp his skills. I can make replicas of Huaiyu only because I know how he made his strokes. The paintings like “Flying Flowers and Drunken Moon” and 67 “Asking Directions in the Mountain in Autumn,” I know them so thoroughly that I can make wonderful replicas. After I made the replicas, I realized Shi-hui and Huai-yu are merely so much and not more. Not just Shihui and Huaiyu, even Saoye and Tinghua, for me … (Sings) Do not say that the works of Shihui and Huaiyu are valueless. I can paint like them easily and my paintings are as good as theirs. Master Saoye is good at painting flowers and birds. Mr. Tinghua specializes in painting mountain and cliffs. In the historical record about paintings, they are praised for one special skill only. But I am skillful in so many. 赫飛鵬：（悻悻然） 我為妳畫了多少幅畫像，不是都被棄置一旁了麼？ 嫣然：我不願你將我畫成那樣，才不喜愛。只是你的畫筆，卻是絕佳。（把畫又打 開，看看）你看，你畫的這「海棠紅」，雖與懷玉不同，又有哪些兒不好？為何要毀？ 赫飛鵬：這不是真跡啊。 嫣然：夫君每日所畫，皆是「真跡」。 赫飛鵬：（悻悻然） 我仿得像啊。 （赫飛鵬在人前很強勢，也有生意人的柔軟，但在嫩妻面前卻不然。） 嫣然：夫君每日所畫，皆是你赫飛鵬的「真跡」。 赫飛鵬：但不是懷玉的真跡。 嫣然：難道懷玉就勝過夫君不成？ 赫飛鵬：自然是我赫飛鵬勝過懷玉、勝過石輝！若非我深諳石輝之筆，焉能仿得石 輝？若非我能有懷玉之墨韻，焉能畫出懷玉？「飛花醉月」「秋山問道」，早已揣摩於心，這才能揮灑成章。仿過之後，才知石輝、懷玉也不過如此，慢說石輝、懷玉，就是那掃葉、聽花，於我、又有何難哉？（唱）休道那 石輝、懷玉 無價品 ，我一揮而就 偏與爭鋒。 掃葉上人、擅花鳥，聽花先生、山石精。史策畫品、只論其一藝。我一身能兼、幾人能？ (Wang and Liu 2015: 54-55) He Feipeng epitomizes the predicament of many Taiwanese jingju practitioners following 1949, a time when Taiwan’s jingju was widely regarded as secondary and perpetually inferior to its mainland counterpart. On the surface, He Feipeng lacks the will to create; he questions his qualifications as a creator and refrains from signing his name to his own works. This internal struggle, carefully concealed behind a calm demeanor, resonates with the broader insecurities of Taiwanese jingju performers, who faced the lingering assumption that their art could never match the perceived authenticity and lineage of Beijing jingju. However, Yan-ran later confronts He Feipeng—“Since the three characters ‘He Feipeng’ command everyone’s respect, do you not 68 wish to leave them on your paintings for posterity?” 既然赫飛鵬三字，人人尊敬，難道就不想留在畫作之上，千秋傳世？ He Feipeng then dismisses such posthumous glory by singing, “Eternity and renown, I have already overturned; who cares about lonely glory after one’s passing?” 千秋萬歲、我已翻轉，誰在意、寂寞身後名. This short conversation showcases how the play complicates the notion that flawless imitation erases one’s subjective imprint. Rather than conceiving authenticity as solely defined by lineage or originality, He Feipeng’s predicament reveals that even artists who dare not surpass imitation cannot fully relinquish their interpretive agency. In this light, The Eighteen Arhats illuminates a subtle yet critical tension: even absent overt innovation, the act of reproducing tradition necessarily entails a personal imprint. Much like the embodied performances of Taiwanese jingju practitioners—who, despite their uncertainties, inherit and adapt classical repertoires—the imitator’s voice, touch, and vision inescapably inform the ongoing transmission of cultural tradition. 2.5 Facing the Truth: There Is No Restoration Without Creation He Feipeng’s predicament ultimately cannot be resolved by his own efforts, yet a nun from the mountains discerns the core truth behind the dilemma. After two versions of The Eighteen Arhats cause a stir in Mozhe City, the local literati invite Jing-he down from her secluded retreat to distinguish between the genuine and the imitation. Confronted with two nearly identical paintings—one painstakingly restored by Jing-he and Yu-qing in mutual understanding and respect, and the other created by an unjustly imprisoned Yu-qing driven by anger and a thirst for revenge—Jing-he finds that both works display exceptional technical skill. Yet, the crucial difference lies not in their outward authenticity or brush technique, but in the emotional tenor inscribed within each stroke. One painting embodies the reverence and profound rapport shared 69 between restorers, while the other conveys the pent-up resentment and fury of a victimized artist seeking retribution. This emphasis on emotional resonance offers a resolution to the play’s thematic tension over what constitutes a “real” or “fake” work of art. More importantly, it gestures toward broader aspirations for Taiwanese jingju. The point is no longer whether a performance is strictly “authentic” or if it can even be categorized as jingju. Rather, the focus shifts to how this art form, as a vehicle for creative expression, can meaningfully engage with contemporary audiences. It is precisely this success in reimagining authenticity and connecting on an emotional plane that this section will explore through the story of Three Persons and Two Lamps, examining how its production and circulation exemplify such transformative possibilities. Since the 1980s, a series of contemporary jingju experimental productions have emerged in Taiwan, including the focal point of this section, a case study of a contemporary jingju, Sange ren’er liangzhan deng 三個人兒兩盞燈 (Three Persons and Two Lamps, 2005, “Three Persons” hereafter),49 produced by Taiwan’s state-owned troupe, GuoGuang Opera Company (GGOC), in 2005. Subsequently, the play’s rights were acquired by the Shanghai Kunju Tuan 上海崑劇團 (Shanghai Kunju Company, SKC), leading to its rebranding and production as a kunqu (Kun opera) version titled Yansuo gonglou 煙鎖宮樓 (The Smoke-locked Palace, 2012, “The Palace” hereafter).50 The sale of the copyright received a great deal of attention. Most experts and 49 Three Persons and Two Lamps was written by the young playwright Chao Chou-jun 趙雪君, with Wang An-chi, artistic director and resident playwright of the GGOC and the most important jingju playwright in Taiwan, writing the lyrics, and Lee Hsiao-pin李小平 directing. Chao wrote the script as the final project for Wang’s xiqu creative writing course at National Taiwan University. Because she was not familiar with the conventions of jingju lyrics, when GGOC decided to mount a performance, Wang rewrote all the lyrics, while Chao was responsible for the storyline and dialogue. See Wang An-chi, “Wo dongde nide shenqing.” (2008a: 32). 50 The cooperation of the play’s kunqu adaptation was due to the strong efforts of the artistic director of the Shanghai Kunju Company, Cai Zhengren 蔡正仁, who, after watching the premiere of Three Persons and Two Lamps, believed that the play would be even better suited to kunqu as a medium for interpretation. More details can be found in Ye Hua, “Liangzhan deng ‘ying’ gonglou,” (2012: 21). 70 scholars welcomed it, as did the renowned kunqu master Cai Zhengren 蔡正仁, who considered that this play, with its themes of lyricism, romance, and exploration of loneliness, was particularly suitable for kunqu, a form of xiqu that addresses delicate internal emotions (Wang 2013b: 23). It served as the first instance of a Taiwan-originated jingju creation being reproduced and reinterpreted in China instead of the other way around.51 However, it was not a successful production; in the following paragraphs, I argue that the inability of the SKC to reproduce this play mainly derived from the necessity of reducing and eliminating sections of the script that met with political censorship; it also stems from temporal and spatial disparities in the training of performers from the two regions, which marks the complexities of différance jingju. The story of Three Persons, which can be traced back to Tang poet Meng Qi’s 孟棨Benshi shi 本事詩 (Poems of real events, a poetic genre popular in the Tang Dynasty),52 a popular poetic genre in the Tang Dynasty, was not first staged by GGOC. In the 1950s, Qi Rushan, a playwright and former brain trust for Mei Lanfang, adapted the story as Zhengyi yuan 征衣緣 (The Destiny of a Soldier’s Winter Clothes), with a focus on patriotic sentiments of soldiers willing to sacrifice themselves for their country and, as well, an undisguised intention to condemn the CCP as the national enemy who destroyed the peace in China.53 Fifty years later, 51 As of 2023, this remains the only instance and marks the recognition of Taiwan’s creative ability in jingju by China’s traditional theater industry. 52 The original poem consists of less than one hundred words, and describes a palace maid who sews a note discreetly into a coat when she is ordered to sew winter clothes for border soldiers. One of the soldiers finds the note, which promises “to meet each other in our next life” 相約來世緣. According to Tang Dynasty law, maids in the palace were regarded as belonging to the emperor as potential wives and should not promise anything without his permission. However, Emperor Tang Xuanzong was touched by this event and allowed the two to marry each other in this life without waiting until the next. 53 For further details, see Qi Rushan, “‘Zhengyi yuan’ deng yipi.” In Act Three, for example, the women in the palace, despite having thoughts of marriage, are more concerned with repaying the emperor’s grace and defending their country. One of them says, “Look at those soldiers on the front line; they are all heroes who fight for the country. It is not only a woman's good fortune to marry such a man, but this also helps him to kill more enemies. It not only defends the country but also helps me to seek revenge for my parents and vent my resentment.” (Ibid., p.27). When Qi wrote this play, China had already divided into two camps and he himself was trapped in Taiwan. He stated that “denouncing the Communists and raising national vigilance” 以痛斥共匪提高國民警覺 was the 71 without even knowing the story had been adapted and staged, Chao, the co-playwright of Three Persons, took a very different approach to it (Chao 2008: 26). She explores the multiple layers of emotions, describing the soldiers’ reluctance to serve the country and finding free will and agency in the palace maids who do not simply wait passively for the emperor’s attention. Experimenting with the play’s gender frame, she portrays the unknown maids as the main characters and relegates the emperor, the historically significant male figure, to a supporting role. Apart from highlighting the possibilities of going beyond the gender norm among ordinary people, the play’s structure also challenges conventional formats. The script explicitly states that “the entire play is devoid of scene divisions, denoting rapid transitions with a total of fifteen changes” (Wang and Chao 2005: 187). This departure is markedly distinct from the traditional jingju, which employs the concept of chang 場 (acts/scenes) as demarcations for the action—typically commencing with actors’ appearance on stage and involving various comings and goings before the ending when all actors exit. The percussive structure between scenes is lucid, establishing unequivocal intervals. Despite adaptations introduced through modern theatrical elements such as set design and lighting, the complete absence of scene divisions remains an exceedingly uncommon practice at the time. In Three Persons, a play highly prioritizing the exploration of emotions, the deliberately blurred scene boundaries can be seen as a method for prolonging emotional continuity, accentuating the fluidity of character emotions, and creating an effect of lyricism. At the same time, this artistic choice challenges the tradition of xiqu practice, such as pengtou cai 碰頭彩 (applause at the first entrance), where actors use primary goal of this play. See Qi Rushan 1979b: 2890 and Chen Shu-mei, 2005: 94. Regarding the performance, The Destiny of a Soldier’s Winter Clothes was premiered by the Gu Jutuan 顧劇團 (Gu Company), led by Gu Zhengqiu. With little emphasis on character development, the play mainly focuses on creating the image of a patriotic heroine who always prioritizes the country’s needs over the individual’s (as do the majority of the traditional jingju plays) and calling the audience’s attention to the need for national vigilance. 72 conventionalized ways to enter the stage, whether through a poem, a display of acrobatic choreography, or striking a pose, to captivate the audience and garner applause. However, the lack of scene divisions and diminished opportunities for grand entrances do not necessarily prevent actors from gaining the audience’s favor. This différance performance style, invoking Jacques Derrida’s neologism that articulates both the differentiation and deferral of meaning, offers performers other ways to invite the audience emotionally into the story. It thus creates a space for both differences in meaning-making and deferring of meaning. One of the scenes eliminated in The Palace is “Mei Yuan” 梅苑 (Plum Garden, Scene 8 in Three Persons), a poignant exemplification of the above-mentioned fluid mental progression on stage. In this scene, a group of eunuchs, following the emperor’s command, bestows on Yang Guifei 楊貴妃 (also known as Consort Yang) delicate fabrics, fragrant incense, porcelain, and lychees. When accompanying the emperor’s previous lover, Consort Mei (or Mei Fei), as she passes through her desolate Plum Garden, Shuangyue 雙月, one of the three main palace maids, witnesses the plight of an abandoned woman who was deeply loved, observing her fall from favor. An unexpected feeling of envy arises within her, for the spectacle of lost love signifies its previous existence. She sings, I envy you, once favored and graced by the emperor. I envy you, still bestowed pearls to soothe your melancholy. Plum Garden, your palace, is still here today, available for mourning or wandering. Even if you are no longer favored by the emperor in this lifetime, you have already experienced the full spectrum of joys and sorrows. I truly envy you that when in dreams, with smiles and tears you come together. 我羨妳、曾荷恩寵、得青睞。 我羨妳、猶有珍珠、遣悲懷。 梅苑梅林、今猶在， 可供憑弔、可徘徊。 縱使妳、今生無復、承歡愛， 已然是、悲喜歷盡、遍嚐歡哀。 堪羨妳、入夢時、笑靨啼痕、相偕來。(Wang and Chao 2005: 204)54 54 Except for the titles of the plays, all translations from Chinese to English are mine unless otherwise noted. 73 Before the song is completed, the downstage lights gradually fade while the music persists and seamlessly continues the previous melody. Another section of lights illuminates Guangzhi 廣芝, another palace maid who loves Shuangyue, wandering in another part of the palace. Seemingly gazing at Shuangyue, she laments: In the human realm, there are myriad variations of emotions and worldly love. It is not necessarily considered love only when there is mutual longing. Here in the lonely palace, we find companionship, mutually sharing our solitude and experiencing joy and sorrow together. No need to compete for who wears the most glamourous makeup, nor wait for the emperor’s love. As long as we are considerate of each other, caring about each other’s warmth and coldness, ours is a rare encounter in a thousand years; a destined connection in this lifetime. 人間情、世間愛、千種萬般， 未必相思才情牽。 寂寂宮苑得相伴， 互訴寂寥、同享悲歡。 不必比妝艷， 何必盼天顏？ 貼心體己、問寒暖，千載難逢，今世緣。(Ibid.: 205) Consort Mei, lacking any singing part or acting segments throughout, stays silent behind a window screen placed upstage center with only minimum lighting. Her presence on stage allows her loneliness to be savored by Shuangyue and Guangzhi. More significantly, the audience enjoys not only the singing passages of the maids but also their contemplation of emotions and loneliness under Consort Mei’s gaze. The scene highlights women’s private, unspoken desire to express an individuality commonly suppressed in traditional jingju storytelling, which focuses exclusively on loyalty, chastity, righteousness, and benevolence in service to the greater good. In terms of performance, the director arranges for the lights to dim before an actor’s singing ends, a new singing passage begins in the dark, or an actor comes on stage without using any singing, declaiming, acting, or dancing conventions, relying instead on emotional extension and a more 74 realistic performance style (Wang and Li 2020: 207-223). These unconventional performance styles would not be seen in traditional jingju. The character setup also challenges the conventional norms and traditions of jingju. The story focuses on seven main characters,55 but none can be regarded as the sole protagonist, which is unthinkable for the traditional repertoire. Rather than having one central character, this ensemble structure differs from the conventional playwriting practice in xiqu, which often centers around a famous actor. This différance partly stems from the reality that Taiwan indeed lacked renowned jingju stars at the time. The three palace maid performers, Chen Meilan 陳美蘭, Chu Shenli 朱勝麗, and Wang Yaoxing 王耀星 in the play, were considered second-tier solid performers but not superstars who could dominate the stage and carry the box office. The ensemble structure also arose from the broader social atmosphere in Taiwan during the early post-martial law period, which deliberately neglected jingju as a traditional Chinese art form. In the context of the pro-Taiwan localist discourse, jingju was seen as a representation of Mainland Chinese culture and therefore should not continue to be promoted using (Taiwan’s) national resources. This marginalization thus gave jingju greater freedom to disobey traditions. 55 The story focuses on seven main characters, none of whom can be considered the sole protagonist. One of them, Xiangqi湘琪, becomes enamored of the emperor after a chance encounter and takes his loving words to heart. Since then, she never changes her appearance or attire, hoping that the emperor would recognize her and reunite with her, as he had promised. By contrast, Guangzhi 廣芝, a fellow maid, does not harbour high expectations for the emperor’s affection. Instead, she focuses on living her own way and cares for another maid, Shuangyue雙月. The two form a deep emotional connection that surpasses mere friendship or sisterhood, even before they notice. Outside the harem, a subplot involves two soldiers named Chen Ping 陳評 and Li Wenliang 李文梁, who are recruited and deployed to fight in a distant war. Chen Ping, who is physically frail, discovers the hidden poem in his coat dispatched by the military headquarters. It happens to have been sewed by Shuangyue, who did this jokingly to address her desire for ordinary love and marriage. Unfortunately, Chen Ping is caught while excitedly sharing the find with his buddy Li Wenliang. Chen Ping and Shuangyue both face the death penalty, the former because of hiding the note and the latter because of sewing the note, but the emperor, being a compassionate and amorous person, seeks to make amends for his neglect of his concubines by arranging a marriage for Chen Ping and Shungyue. Only at this moment does Shungyue recognize the depth of her feelings for Guangzhi. 75 The performance was highly successful, attracting many new and young university audience members interested in gender exploration but unfamiliar with jingju performance conventions. Even though the story is set in ancient times, the GGOC found an emotional connection with contemporary audience members, demonstrating that tradition does not necessarily have to frighten away young audiences. Later, this work won the Jury’s Special Prize (Pingshentuan Tebie Jiang 評審團特別獎) of the Taishin Arts Award (Taishin Yishu Jiang 台新藝術獎).56 For a classical, conservative, and traditional art form to win an award that aims to encourage creativity in contemporary arts was a rare achievement.57 Seven years later, after obtaining the copyright, the SKC renamed the play Yansuo gonglou 煙鎖宮樓 (The Smoke-locked Palace) to avoid the implicit connotations of intricate relationships among the three individuals.58 Directed by the same director, Lee Hsiao-pin 李小平 (b. 1965), it premiered in Shanghai in 2012 and later toured Taiwan and other places. For Taiwan’s jingju industry, this moment was an essential turning point, from the self-doubt of 56 The committee of the Taishin Arts Award explained the rationale of the prize as follows: “A young playwright injected new ideas into a traditional form with a fresh perspective. This has created a promising and positive impact on the aesthetics and forms of jingju and all traditional theatrical performances. This work is an excellent example of being rooted in tradition while also opening up new possibilities” 一位年輕的劇作家以新的視野為傳統形式注入新意，對京劇本身乃至所有傳統戲曲的形式與美學，造成了令人期許的良好影響，是立足傳統又能開拓新局的佳作. See https://www.taishinart.org.tw/art-award-year-detail/2005/263 57 Established in 2002, the Taishin Arts Award is sponsored by Taishin Bank and supported by the Taishin Bank Cultural and Art Foundation. It encompasses visual arts, performing arts, and interdisciplinary art creations, with a particular emphasis on contemporary art that embodies an innovative spirit. During the first decade of its establishment (including the year Three Persons and Two Lamps won the award), the award categories were limited to “Visual Arts Exhibition” and “Performing Arts Programs.” This means that jingju had to compete with many more innovative and contemporary performance arts, making its recognition even more challenging. See Taixin Yishu Jiang, “Taixin yishu jiang jianjie.” 58 In the denouement of Three Persons, Shuangyue, under the emperor’s arrangement, marries Chen Ping. However, shortly after their marriage, he succumbs to illness. Subsequently, she shares her life with Li Wenliang, a sworn brother of Chen Ping. Several years later, Guangzhi is granted freedom from the imperial palace after an amnesty, and in the concluding scene, Shuangyue, along with Li Wenliang, awaits Guangzhi at the palace gate, inviting her to join them in their shared life. The script intentionally omits details about the trio’s lifestyle, the existence of formal marriage or not, leaving it open-ended. This is the origin of the title “Three Persons and Two Lamps.” 76 one’s status as secondary to recognition by the top-notch SKC.59 However, the results were far from expected. The Palace received only a few, mostly poor, reviews, while many critics ignored it.60 On the surface level, this was because The Palace was censored for its lesbianism and queer orientation during the rehearsal period. The Shanghai government allowed the play to be performed only if the production erased as much lesbian sentiment as possible. As Wang An-chi commented, “In terms of plot, I understand that there are different aesthetic preferences and attitudes towards the themes and ideas of the play between the two sides of the Taiwan Strait. Therefore, I am willing to remove the queer emotional bond between Shuangyue and Guangzhi” (Wang 2013b: 23). However, after being forced to eliminate the play’s greatest strength—the delicate and subtle affections explored—the production, unsurprisingly, failed. Since this is a play where the plot is driven by emotion, the companionship between the protagonists can no longer be established when this kind of affection is not allowed. The failure of The Palace, or the reproduction of Three Persons, reflects issues on multiple levels; it is not merely those of censorship and freedom of expression. Firstly, this difference in reception reflects a shift in the dynamics among contemporary xiqu performers. 59 For a deeper understanding of the reverence that many Taiwanese jingju practitioners hold for the China’s jingju and the complex mindset, see Wang An-chi, “Bianyuan yu zhuliu de kangheng” (2012: 16-22). 60 For example, as pointed out by Lin Hsin-hui in her theater review, “The lesbian subplot disappeared completely in the kunqu version, presumably to conform to mainland China’s censorship guidelines. As a result, the character of Guangzhi is incomplete, and the emotional support for Shuangyue is weakened. […] The three lead actors learned their performance from the jingju version, and their performances in many scenes were identical but lacked inspiration. Although Luo Chen-xue 羅晨雪, who is in her twenties, can be excused, Shen Yi-li沈昳麗 and Yu Bin 余彬 are both members of the Kun sanban 崑三班 (third generation kunqu performers trained after the Cultural Revolution) and are around forty years old. While their basic skills are undoubtedly solid, their adherence to strict rules and regulations constrains their creativity. It makes it difficult for them to break free from conventionalized performances and use these conventions to create new characters. This is an unfortunate reality” 在京劇版便已隱諱到不行的女同性戀情節，在崑版中完全不見，應是為了配合大陸的尺度，如此一來「廣芝」這個人物便不夠完整、「雙月」的情感也失了部分依託 […] 三位主演可謂以京劇版的表演為師，多處依樣畫葫蘆，有其形而無其神。其中羅晨雪不過二十來歲，難以苛責，但沈昳麗和余彬都屬崑三班，大約也近四十了，其基本功之紮實固然毫無疑問，但過於嚴謹的規範制約了演員的創造空間，使得他們難以擺脫程式化的表演、更難以運用這些程式去創造新的人物，也是無奈的事實. See Lin Hsin-hui 2013. 77 Since the rise of jingju in the Qing Dynasty,61 relationships between performers have traditionally been more competitive than cooperative. However, as mentioned earlier, Three Persons features seven main characters, with none standing out as the clear lead. The character design is similar to pointillist painting, lacking a single and central protagonist. Under Western influence, Taiwanese jingju practitioners have become more attuned to the audience’s demand for change and are more willing to embrace collaboration. Unlike in the past, they generally accept that while each performer’s role may not be extensive, they collectively contribute to the performance.62 This is crucial for creating the atmosphere of the entire play and bringing out the performance style that delves into the inner and emotional world of the characters. The shift from a competitive to a cooperative attitude highlights whether the audience appreciates the actor’s skill in portraying the character or empathizes with the character so deeply that they forget who is performing the role. Traditionally, for instance, Mei Lanfang’s portrayal of Yang Guifei was famous because audiences came to the theater to admire Mei’s performance style and technique as Yang Guifei, rather than seeing him fully embody the character. In contemporary Taiwan, however, with the rise of a group of new audience members who are unfamiliar with xiqu conventions, actors’ willingness to let the characters take center stage and step back to hide behind the characters enables joint creation of a stage illusion 61 For instance, the performers compete with each other for the chance to perform the main character and contest the order of performance, where a later position implies a more prestigious status. From the audience perspective, the jingju audience came to the theater to see the performance of that one actor rather than the presentation of an entire stage art, and this prevented the actors from sharing the stage and supporting each other. However, owing to a limited number of performers, limited competition between talents, and a comparative lack of audiences conversant in the jingju aesthetic, Taiwanese jingju troupes, as a countermeasure, have been experienced in collaborating and sharing the stage with other performers. 62 From my experience working in the GGOC as an assistant editor who has conducted interviews on a daily basis for around four years, I witnessed that the performers in GGOC gradually came to understand that while cooperation may not allow the audience to recall their names or remember a single performance segment when they leave the theater, it does allow the audience to remember the entire play as a result of their cooperation. This spirit of compromise fits well with the aesthetic of contemporary young audiences, especially considering that most of them lack the ability to recognize jingju’s traditional performance styles, schools, and conventions. 78 possible, enhancing the atmosphere of the story. This is particularly significant in the opening scenes of both plays, which sets the tone for the entire play. Three Persons begins with presenting a scene behind a veil; none of the performers can be recognized by their names as young men are reluctantly being taken away to join the army, their parents bidding farewell with tears and anguish. The scene, jointly presented and sung by a group of performers, challenges the grand narrative of history by attempting to depict the impact of war on ordinary individuals from a micro perspective. The actors’ willingness to hide behind their characters allows the performance to begin before the curtain rises, with a poem titled “Bingche xing” 兵車行 (The March of the Soldiers) by Du Fu 杜甫 (712-770), one of China’s greatest poets. As the music transitions, the lyrics shift to “Chang hen ge” 長恨歌 (Song of Everlasting Sorrow) by another famous poet, Bai Juyi 白居易 (772-846), which portrays scenes of commoners hoping for their daughters to enter the palace and become favored concubines of the emperor, enjoying a life of luxury. However, as the lyrics continue, the music gradually turns lonely and desolate, and behind the veil, the palace maids adopt slow movements that express a sense of resentment and desolation. Only then does the main curtain slowly open, and the palace maids stop striking poses in slow motion and begin their preparations for the emperor’s birthday feast. This extended prologue narrates the circumstances whereby ordinary families have no control over whether they have sons or daughters and what becomes of them (00:00-05:32 GuoGuang Opera Company 2005). The Palace omits the entire section narrated from the perspective of ordinary people. This decision is not related to censorship of lesbianism but rather reflects whether to adhere to the traditional conventions of xiqu. Continuing with the traditional practice, The Palace begins with the three main actresses taking turns to perform liangxiang 亮相 (striking a powerful pose) and 79 each singing their respective segments. This typical xiqu performance convention ensures that the audience sees the performers rather than the characters. More importantly, it perpetuates the emperor-centric historical narrative, starting with a grand celebration of emperor’s birthday marked by elaborate events within the palace. The contrast in the opening scenes highlights the differences in creative approaches between Taiwan and China and the willingness of Taiwanese jingju performers to deviate from the convention of actor-centric performance for the sake of atmosphere creation.63 Another aspect of the performance is the actors’ temperaments fostered by the rigid jingju training system. Audience reviews of The Palace repeatedly mentioned that “it is difficult to distinguish the characteristics of the three palace maids on stage” and “if it weren’t for the different colors of their costumes, I wouldn’t be able to tell which one is which.”64 Interestingly, this was never an issue in the original jingju version; the audience pointed out the differences between the characters and could easily recognize the relationship between the characters and the performers who played them.65 In addition to the forced simplification of the script for the Shanghai production due to scrutiny of its lesbian storyline, there are two other factors that contributed to the differing 63 In Taiwan, this kind of going against performance conventions can be traced back to a 1980 performance of Gantian dongdi Dou E yuan 感天動地竇娥冤 (Injustice to Dou E). In the opening scene, when the curtain rises, the actress portraying the female protagonist Dou E, Guo Xiaozhuang 郭小莊, dimly lit, spends over three minutes spinning silk before delivering the first line of lyrics. The audience was perplexed, trying to find an appropriate moment to applaud but in vain, since striking a powerful pose is an unspoken rule at first encounter between a performer and the audience. During this pause, lasting a few seconds, the audience expresses an enthusiastic welcome to renowned actors with vigorous applause. This departure from jingju conventions was considered a significant and daring violation of established norms at the time, as reported in the media. See Wang An-chi 2008c: 129-135. 64 Theater comments from general audiences were collected from the “ChineseOpera” board of the BBS website “PTT” (https://term.ptt.cc/). For technical reasons the URL cannot be included here. 65 Ibid. 80 receptions of the two productions: jingju’s distinctive schools, and the actors’ training system.66 Although the development of jingju schools in Taiwan has declined because of waning popularity, the three palace maids each trained in a different jingju school, which contributed to their performance differences and ease of identification. Notably, Wang Yaoxing, who plays Shuangyue, belongs to the Cheng 程 (Yanqiu 硯秋) school,67 which has a high level of vocal distinctiveness. In contrast, kunqu’s music and arias are based on the qupai ti 曲牌體 (“tune patterns”) system,68 with fixed notation and tonality, restricting the development of singing styles within the same role type and leading to a relatively homogeneous sound. Apart from the inherent differences in musicality, the training for these two theatrical genres varies significantly between Taiwan and China. SKC, among other prestigious jingju and kunqu theater troupes in China, is renowned for its emphasis on consistency throughout the training process. This focus reveals the homogeneity of SKC’s performers, particularly among the younger generation. Such homogeneity results from performers emphasizing a standardized, inflexible, and rigid performance in a highly competitive industry and pursuing the sole goal of imitating the master as closely as possible to be a proper inheritor.69 This training process, 66 Liupai 流派 (performing schools) refers to distinct styles of performance that are typically associated with a specific actor or group of actors. These schools evolve as actors develop unique interpretations of roles, establishing particular techniques, vocal styles, gestures, and character portrayals passed down through generations. Details about the dan 旦 (female role type) can be found in Repetto 2015. 67Wang Yaoxing was a disciple of Cheng-style master Zhang Eyun 章遏雲. The Cheng Pai 程派 (Cheng School), established by Cheng Yanqiu程硯秋, is recognized for its deep emotional expressiveness and bold vocal techniques. The Cheng’s style is often more somber and poignant, known for conveying sorrow and complex emotions in portraying female characters especially. 68 Kunqu belongs to the qupai ti musical system, which is structured differently from the banqiang ti板腔體 system used in jingju. The banqiang ti system allows for greater singing freedom, while qupai stipulates the number of lines, the base number of characters per line, and which lines should rhyme. For more detailed information, See Rolston 2021: 5-12. 69 This can be regarded as the outcome of the training process in the development of xiqu performers, where the emphasis is placed on shenduan 身段 (stage movement) before delving into character interpretation. Kunqu, as a genre, imposes the highest requirements on stage movement among the existing forms of xiqu. As highlighted by David Rolston in Inscribing Jingju, various shenduan pu 身段譜 (rosters of stage movement) illustrate how actors 81 especially after the establishment of so-called standards and classics, based mostly on imitation, copying, cloning, and resembling, has stifled the actors’ creative abilities. By contrast, Taiwanese jingju performers have been forced to practice creating characters since the shutdown of the Taiwan Strait in 1949. The absence of jingju masters and limited access to the traditional repertoire forced Taiwanese jingju practitioners to turn to underground radio, pirated tapes, VHS recordings, and other illegal sources, which were often incomplete due to technological underdevelopment (Wang An-chi 2006: 359-406). As a result, while dedicated to the inheritance of traditional jingju, these performers were asked to supplement and create new material to render these fragments into complete works. Moreover, conditions in Taiwan did not allow for such uniformity, which resulted in significant individual differences among performers.70 Combined with a more flexible creative environment and the lack of a singular paradigm, this has led to a more individualized and distinctive performance style among the actors. In the case of Three Persons, the playwrights knew in advance which actors would portray the roles, and the script was tailored for them, allowing each actor to maintain his or her unique performance style and temperament. In short, the willingness of Taiwanese jingju performers to practice creating characters and a script tailor-made for them contributes to a more diverse and differentiated performance style compared to the homogeneity found in the Shanghai kunqu industry. undergo a training process that systematically dissects movements into components such as shanbang 山膀 (mountain arms) and yunshou 雲手(cloud-hands). Rolston 2021: 192-194. 70 Despite being protected by the KMT government, jingju was not a pervasive art form. In the early days, jingju schools in Taiwan did not find it challenging to recruit students; scholarships, free living space and meals, and other incentives attracted many children from poor families. However, as Taiwan gradually became more prosperous and the number of children in each family decreased, fewer parents were willing to send their children to jingju drama schools, particularly given the rigorous nature of the jingju training. In these circumstances, Taiwanese jingju schools could not be as selective as was the case in Beijing and Shanghai, where entire classes of female performers were required to have similar height and weight. 82 The last aspect to consider is the different performance environments. Taiwan’s environment, especially since the 1990s and resulting from the growth of democracy, encouraged a search for ambiguity and diversity, which is mainly exemplified in the experimental ideas and language of Three Persons. After experiencing authoritarian control and censorship during martial law, contemporary Taiwanese jingju practitioners and other artists have rejected the imposition of rigid moral values and instead aim to explore unexpressed contradictions and ideas.71 Taking Three Peoples as an example, although the relationship between Shuangyue and Guangzhi may be simplified as a story about a lesbian couple, the play was never promoted as merely using jingju as a vehicle to tell a lesbian couple’s story. Instead, it emphasized the shifting perspective of finding the delicate emotions of hundreds of thousands of nameless palace maids in the imperial harem to consider that there may have been feelings towards love and marriage other than passively waiting for the emperor’s favor and being promoted to be a consort. The intention of the play is not simply to plead for these nameless maids or attempt to inject modern gender concepts into the jingju world. As a matter of fact, as a state-owned art organization, GGOC chose to remain relatively conservative because of the limited acceptance of the LGBTQ community in Taiwanese society at that moment. In their promotional materials, including posters, flyers, program booklets, and online promotions, there is not a single mention of lesbian-related content. Instead, the slogan repeatedly used in the promotional materials is “Three young women trapped in a smoke-locked palace narrate subtle feelings of loneliness and 71 As Wang An-chi mentioned, “[Our] proposal of ‘experimental jingju’ is actually a strategy for jumping out of the box of traditional jingju. […] The attempt of “experimental jingju” is to break away from tradition and try multiple approaches, thereby proposing another possibility of ‘viewing the classics’ for modern people. This attitude need not be disrespectful but highlights the relationship between creation and the needs of the new era. 提出「小劇場」，其實是一種策略、規避京劇傳統的策略 [⋯⋯]。「京劇小劇場」的嘗試，則可掙脫傳統嘗試多元手法，進 而提出現代人「觀看經典」的另一種態度。這態度未必是不敬，因為他凸顯的是創作和時代的關係。 (Wang An-chi, 2008b: 25). 83 deep affection” 煙鎖重樓的三個青春女子 訴說孤寂與深情的幽微心事. As Ji Hui-ling puts it in her review, “The emotions are natural and conform to human nature, without any stiffness. Such a rhythm not only reflects the youthful mentality of the playwright but also releases the heavy inertia of drama” 情感發乎自然，合乎人性，毫無阻澀，這樣的節奏讓人讀出了劇作家的年輕心性 (Ji Hui-ling 2005: 89). It is precisely this dramatic perspective that does not attempt to overturn historical events. Instead, it allows the story to flow naturally and freely with those emotions that cannot be clearly expressed from a nation-centric historical narrative perspective and to rediscover the agency of these unnamed historical figures—they, too, possessed the full spectrum of human emotions, experiencing love, hatred, passion, and conflicts.72 The exploration of complexity and ambiguity in Taiwanese jingju has opened up possibilities for a “différance” jingju, which has led to a re-evaluation of jingju’s potential beyond its traditional role as a vehicle for ethical and moral education. More importantly, it reflects the readiness of Taiwan’s collective consciousness to embrace openness towards differences, including uniqueness, unorthodoxy, and rebellion, and to approach deviation from orthodoxy in Taiwanese jingju with confidence. Borrowed from Derrida’s deconstructive approach to text interpretation, the idea of différance challenges the tradition of Western philosophy, which considers “différance” as 72 In fact, examining the creative trajectory of Taiwanese jingju in recent years, the search for and excavation of emotions and thoughts not seen or clearly expressed is an important aspect of the creative content. Profound emotional exploration is often achieved through a re-examination of the ambiguous space between black and white and good and evil. Examples are the portrayal of Cao Qiqiao 曹七巧 in The Golden Cangue as despicable yet pitiful, and the exploration of whether Cai Wenji 蔡文姬 and Wang Zhaojun 王昭君 regret abandoning their children in order to carry for the nation the burden of the conflict between the Han and Xiongnu in Qingzhong qian de duihua 青塚前的對話 (Dialogue before Green Mound). The aforementioned characters are all atypical jingju protagonists. They are difficult to categorize within a single role type and cannot be easily summarized as good or evil. By delving deeper into the complexity of these characters, these works invite audiences to contemplate the danger of absolute and singular values. 84 secondary and degraded, lacking a foundational existence. Derrida then proposes to understand “différance” in two ways: as both a difference in meaning and a deferral of meaning (Derrida 1982: 4-7). In these respects, “différance” takes a further step forward to emphasize the simultaneously existing concepts of rupture, differing, and extension. Différance provides a framework for dialogue regarding the development of xiqu in Taiwan and China. Spatially, geopolitical circumstances have obstructed legal exchanges between the two sides of the Taiwan Strait for over three decades, resulting in the divergence and differentiation of Taiwanese jingju from China’s jingju. However, temporally, this rupture paradoxically has fostered an agency of derivation whereby Taiwanese jingju transcends its status as a mere extension of China’s jingju, its derivative and alienated other. By comparing Three Persons and The Palace, I demonstrate that Taiwanese jingju, which had long been viewed as a derivative replica or even a forgery, has developed something special that cannot be contained within the original category of China’s jingju. The subjectivity and creativity developed from this “derivative” Taiwanese jingju have surpassed what the traditional framework of jingju can accommodate. Viewed through a nature-versus-nurture discourse, while Taiwanese jingju lacks a pure lineage, which is regarded as the crucial factor in inheriting the authentic tradition, its development has been shaped by Taiwan’s nurturing environment, mainly including Western theatrical and cinematic influences coupled with the freedom that ensued owing to the absence of authoritative figures in jingju. Despite appearing to deviate from the orthodox development path, jingju in Taiwan has fostered the potential for complexity and pluralism, thereby challenging the notion of a singular, unified, and orthodox form of jingju. In short, by comparing Three Persons and The Palace, I demonstrate that Taiwanese jingju, once viewed as a derivative and degraded replica or cheap forgery, has evolved into 85 something unique that transcends the original framework of authentic xiqu. The subjectivity and creativity cultivated in this derivative form have surpassed the boundaries of traditional jingju. The exploration of complexity and ambiguity in Taiwanese jingju has opened the door to the development of a “différance” jingju, which leads to a re-evaluation of its potential beyond merely serving as a vehicle for inheriting tradition or fulfilling the purposes of ethical and moral education Framed by The Painting of 18 Lohans, the evolution of Taiwanese jingju emerges as a complex tapestry of restoration and reinvention. In the play, the act of repairing the painting is not merely about returning it to its original state; it involves emotional investment, subtle negotiation with inherited forms, and imaginative interpretation. This process parallels the trajectory of Taiwanese jingju in recent decades, as practitioners have grappled with the absence of a coherent canon, navigated shifting political and cultural demands, and dared to introduce new creative impulses. Moving beyond their roles as mere custodians of orthodox traditions, these artists embraced nuance and contradiction—portraying characters like Cao Qiqiao曹七巧 in The Golden Cangue who are at once pitiable and despicable, or exploring the regrets of Cai Wenji 蔡文姬 and Wang Zhaojun 王昭君 beneath grand historical narratives in Qingzhong qian de duihua 青塚前的對話 (Dialogue before the Green Mound).73 The influence of Western aesthetics, the challenge to moral simplicity, openness to difference, and most importantly, the emotional tracks encrypted in the creative process all contributed to a reimagined form of Taiwanese jingju. Like the painting restored in The Eighteen Arhats, contemporary Taiwanese jingju is no longer a static relic; it is an evolving art form, adapting old materials for new 73 The aforementioned characters are all atypical jingju protagonists. They are difficult to categorize within a single role type and cannot be easily summarized as good or evil. By delving deeper into the complexity of these characters, these works invite audiences to contemplate the pitfalls of absolute and singular values. 86 contexts and creating performances deeply rooted in tradition and resonant with contemporary audiences. In deviating from strict orthodoxy, Taiwanese jingju has not lost its value; on the contrary, its adaptive, exploratory spirit asserts its irreplaceable significance in the cultural landscape of Taiwan today. 2.6 The Painting of 18 Lohans as a Manifesto: The Creation of a New Taiwanese Jingju Taken as a whole, the narrative presented in The Painting of 18 Lohans demonstrates how restoration and innovation have long been interwoven in Taiwan’s jingju milieu, challenging a strict adherence to canonical orthodoxy. While the painting’s restoration in the play reflects the delicate balance between faithfully preserving an inherited artifact and injecting new emotional and intellectual investments, real-life cases further underscore how this tension has played out in practice. In 1979, Guo Xiaozhuang 郭小莊 founded Yayin Xiaoji 雅音小集 (Little Troupe of Elegant Voices). Its first work, Baishe yu Xu Xian 白蛇與許仙 (The White Snake and Xu Xian, 1979), challenged many supporters of the traditional school during the publicity period. Professor Zhang Daxia 張大夏, representing a group of loyal fans of traditional jingju, stated that “all classical arts should not be modified” 凡古典藝術皆不宜更動 and “the principle of not changing jingju should be upheld” 堅持國劇不動的原則. Critic Shen Kechang申克常 pointed out that over ninety-five percent of the script for The White Snake and Xu Xian was plagiarized from the China’s Xin Baishe zhuan 新白蛇傳 (The New Legend of the White Snake) which was originally created by Tian Han 田漢 (1898-1968), whose name was listed on the ROC’s watch list of “fufei lingren” 附匪伶人 (Communist bandit artists) and whose works were strictly 87 forbidden from being performed. On the surface, The White Snake and Xu Xian was banned because it plagiarized a bandit play, but in reality, Guo’s attempt to innovate angered the conservatives who saw traditional jingju as immutable (Guo 1986: 60-70). A similar situation happened again after Guo obtained a permit to perform her second play, Gantian dongdi Dou E yuan 感天動地竇娥冤 (The Injustice to Dou E, 1980). One week before the performance, the permit was revoked. The official reason given was that the plot element in the play where Dou E seeks justice was an insinuation of a sensitive political event, the “Meilidao Shijian” 美麗島事件 (Kaohsiung Incident),74 at that time in Taiwan. However, Guo herself said, “I know very well in my heart that this was not related to the White Terror or any politics at all. When the script was written, the Kaohsiung Incident had not yet occurred, and the rumors outside were all false. In fact, the conservatives in the jingju community wanted to prevent me from performing because they were afraid that my innovation would break the rules” 我心裡很明白，這不是什麼白色恐怖，和政治根本沒關係，劇本編好的時候美麗島事件還沒發生呢，外面傳的都是謠言，其實就是京劇界維護傳統的保守人士怕我創新把規矩搞壞了，才想盡辦法不讓我演出 (Wang 2008b: 131). Another example of an attempt to see whether tradition could be altered is Wang An-chi’s adaptation of Lu Wenlong陸文龍 (1985). The story of Lu Wenlong is set in the Northern Song Dynasty (960-1127). Lu Deng, a loyal military governor, and his wife both commit suicide after the city he governs is lost to the northern Jin invaders. Their action catches the attention of 74 The Kaohsiung Incident, also known as the Formosa Incident, took place on December 10, 1979, during Taiwan’s martial law period. It was a crackdown on pro-democracy demonstrations led by Formosa Magazine, commemorating Human Rights Day and advocating for democracy in Taiwan. The demonstration triggered the arrest of key opposition figures in the one-party state under the KMT. Widely considered a pivotal moment in Taiwan’s post-war history, the Kaohsiung Incident played a crucial role in catalyzing the Taiwanese community into political action and is recognized as a significant step toward the eventual democratization of Taiwan. 88 Jin Commander Wuzhu, who adopts their son, Lu Wenlong. Raised in the north, Lu Wenlong, unaware of his true parentage, leads troops in a battle against the Northern Song. During this conflict, Lu Wenlong discovers the truth about his origin. In the adaptation, Wang An-chi aimed to enhance the inner conflicts and thus reconstructed all the characters in the play, and this ended up clashing with Zhou Zhengrong 周正榮 (1927-2000), one of the four leading laosheng actors in Taiwan at the time. The role Zhou played was Wang Zuo 王佐, famous for a classic singing passage handed down from the Yu (Shuyan) School 余（叔岩）派 which Zhou insisted could not be changed. However, Wang, standing from the perspective of the overall plot and character, insisted on rewriting it. This point caused considerable conflict between the two, which even alarmed the troupe president, who came forward for mediation, to no avail. In the end, the role of Wang Zuo was played by two actors; Zhou Zhengrong only played a scene with fewer changes, while the newly created part was played by Wu Hsing-kuo吳興國, who was not yet well-known at that time (Wang 2003: 108-112). Wang, in her 30s at the time, on the one hand, treasured jingju’s profound performance traditions and passionately wished to promote the art of jingju to her young peers, but she repeatedly received disdainful comments. On the other hand, she knew that the literary quality of jingju could be strengthened and conscientiously pondered the feasibility of adapting/restoring traditional classics that she deeply loves. This debate has inadvertently played out in the script of The Painting of 18 Lohans, in that she has been not only the restorer of this “ancient painting” of jingju, but also the creator/innovator who could not insist that jingju have one appearance and added her own creation to it. At the end of The Painting of 18 Lohans, Jing-he is invited to descend from the mountain to determine which of the two paintings is genuine and which is a forgery. Her judgment, articulated in the closing lines of the play, is both profound and paradoxical: 89 Jing-he: They are both authentic, and they are both fake. (Points to the fake one held by Chun-hua) This one seems fake but is real. (Points to the authentic one restored by them and held by Qju-yue) And this one looks real but is fake. Esquire Qian: Master, do not give us such Buddhist riddles. This is something truly important. Jing-he: (Points to the fake one held by Chun-hua) This one reveals the artist’s true feeling through Can-bi, so it is authentic, though it is a fake. Everyone: This means that the other painting is real. (Points to the authentic one held by Qju-yue) Jing-he: This painting became all tattered while it was hidden in Zi-ling. My disciple and I restored it because we didn’t want to see the treasure left in ruins. And that’s the painting of “Eighteen Arhats” in front of you. So it’s the real one, but what does it mean by “real”? Where can we find authentic artworks in this world now? Amitabha Buddha. 淨禾：都是真跡，也都不是真跡。這一幅，似假還真。（指春花所捧畫，即赫所獻 的宇青仿作）這一幅，是真還假。（指向秋月那幅。秋月正從廂房中捧著畫走出來，這是師徒二人在紫靈共同修復的畫） 錢員外： 師父，您別打禪語啊，這可是事關重大。 淨禾：（指春花所捧畫，即赫老闆所獻，宇青出獄後的仿作）這一幅，藉殘筆、寫 真情，似假還真。 眾人：如此說來，另一幅是真跡囉？（指秋月所捧師徒兩人修復的畫） 淨禾：真跡在紫靈，斑駁殘破，我與徒兒，不忍珍品毀損，將它修復，才有今日十 八羅漢圖。即便是真，又何為真？這世上哪裡還有真跡？阿彌陀佛。(Wang and Liu 2015: 107) The play concludes with Jing-he’s above confession that the original work no longer exists due to later interference, such as restoration. However, the true message of this confession is that even if the original creative work seems out of reach, its spirit can continue to exist through methods such as continuation, restoration, imitation, adaptation, or even forgery. Regardless of which method is employed, they are all ways of transmitting culture without formal differences; the difference lies in how each brings the spirit of the original work to new artistic heights in artistic aesthetics. The Painting of 18 Lohans engages in a dialogue with the history of Taiwanese jingju, narrating the dialectical relationship between practitioners of Beijing opera and the heavy burden of the traditional Beijing opera they inherit. 90 Looking back at the cases such as Wang’s adaptation of Lu Wenlong, Guo’s The Injustice to Dou E being banned from performance, and the Contemporary Legend Theater’s The Kingdom of Desire having once been accused of “inciting a rebellion” (juqi zaofan 舉旗造反), it is clear that modernized jingju productions once faced censorship and controversy. There are numerous other unrecorded cases that repeatedly expose the experience of questioning, whether it was self-questioning, from loyal but conservative jingju audiences, from new-generation literary youths who had never seen jingju, or from the Taiwanese-centric supporters who biasedly insist that jingju should not be promoted in Taiwan. All of the above-mentioned challenges for jingju practitioners are commonly shared experiences in developing Taiwanese jingju. However, beyond the jingju context, the relationship between Taiwan and jingju can also be viewed as a metaphor for how Taiwan, situated at the edge/frontier of the Chinese cultural community, perceives its relationship with its Chinese roots. Whether Taiwan is completely enveloped by China or the two entities partially overlap at a center of shared cultural and historical ties, significant differences have over time led to separate national identities. The interaction between Taiwan and jingju is not a simple case of passive acceptance or imitation, exclusion or tolerance, but rather a creative application and development of Chinese traditional culture. The presence of Taiwanese jingju challenges the hegemonic nature of tradition and Chinese identity while also expanding the definition and limitations of jingju. 2.7 Conclusion: Beijing School, Shanghai School, Taiwan School? The journey of Taiwanese jingju is one marked by tensions between preservation and innovation, between questions of authenticity and the pressures of modernity. Much like the protagonists in The Painting of 18 Lohans, who grapple with the impossibility of fully recovering an original 91 artwork, Taiwan’s jingju practitioners confront the challenge of inheriting and transforming a tradition deeply rooted in another context. The act of restoration in the play becomes a powerful metaphor for jingju practitioners’ efforts—not simply to replicate Beijing’s jingju, but to redefine it in ways that reflect Taiwan’s unique cultural and political realities. The creative evolution of Taiwanese jingju, particularly since the late twentieth century, reveals a shift away from rigid preservation toward a search for authenticity that embraces both the past and the future. While Taiwan’s jingju remains anchored in the aesthetics and cultural framework of traditional Chinese jingju, it has also forged new paths, blending innovation with preservation. This dual process, as highlighted in The Painting of 18 Lohans, demonstrates how the art form has become a site of continuity and transformation. Taiwan’s jingju practitioners, in their struggle to honor tradition, cannot help but inject their own voices, shaped by Taiwan’s distinct social, political, and historical interactions, into their performances. This ongoing dialectic is evident in how Taiwan’s jingju balances tradition and modernity and transcends the rigid definition of jingju. This is seen in GGOC’s celebrated 2013 tour of Shanghai, where the term Tai-pai 台派 (Taiwan-school) jingju was coined by reviewers, journalists, and scholars from China. Taiwanese jingju is increasingly recognized as a unique entity—one that parallels, yet diverges from, the Beijing and Shanghai schools of jingju.75 However, this acknowledgment comes with its complications. The term “Tai-pai” suggests inclusion within a Chinese-centric framework, positioning Taiwanese jingju as a subordinate branch of a larger, unified Chinese cultural identity. This raises questions about whether 75 The concepts of Jingpai 京派 (Beijing School) and Haipai 海派 (Shanghai School) originated in the early twentieth century to describe two distinct cultural and artistic approaches. Jingpai emerged as the traditionalist guardian of jingju, rooted in Beijing’s Qing Dynasty court culture and emphasizing purity, lineage, and classical aesthetics. In contrast, Haipai was born in Shanghai, a cosmopolitan hub that embraced innovation, blending traditional xiqu with modern themes and techniques to appeal to urban audiences. These terms encapsulate regional differences and the broader tension between preserving tradition and embracing modernization in jingju. 92 Taiwanese jingju can fully transcend its categorization as a derivative of mainland traditions and claim an identity of its own. Moreover, debates around “whether or not Taiwanese jingju’s family name is jing” 台灣京劇到底姓不姓京 expose the underlying anxieties over purity, lineage, and tradition in jingju discourse. These concerns reflect broader cultural and national identity issues in Taiwan, particularly as jingju has historically been used as a tool of Sinicization under KMT rule. For decades, promoting jingju in Taiwan marginalized local theatrical traditions such as gezaixi 歌仔戲 (Taiwanese opera) and budaixi 布袋戲 (Taiwanese puppet theater), delivered in the Minnan dialect that was the mother tongue of the majority of pre-1949 Taiwanese residents.76 This cultural policy reinforced Chinese cultural dominance, aligning with the KMT’s goal of fostering a collective Chinese identity while undermining Taiwan’s indigenous cultural forms. The discourse surrounding jingju in Taiwan is thus deeply intertwined with the island’s complex colonial and political history, shaped by processes of de-Japanization and re-Sinicization (Huang Yingzhe 2017). Yet, the success of Taiwanese jingju lies in its ability to transcend these debates. While questions of authenticity and cultural identity continue to surface, the diversity and innovation of Taiwanese jingju offer a powerful counter-narrative. By moving beyond rigid definitions of tradition, Taiwanese jingju has expanded its artistic and cultural possibilities. Like the restored painting in The Painting of 18 Lohas, Taiwanese jingju redefines authenticity not as a return to 76 During this period, the prevailing local culture in Taiwan pertained to a Han-Chinese-centric culture originating from southeastern China, particularly centered on the Minnan dialect community. This cultural perspective tended to disregard the marginalized Austronesian indigenous culture of Taiwan, which has been present on the island for over 15,000 years. 93 an unaltered original but as the creation of something new—something that bridges the past and present while opening avenues for the future. In this light, Taiwanese jingju represents more than a reinterpretation of Chinese jingju. It is an evolving art form that challenges the hegemony of traditional Chinese identity and expands the boundaries of what jingju can be. By engaging in this ongoing process of cultural negotiation, Taiwanese jingju carves out a space that is uniquely its own—one that honors its shared history with Chinese jingju but confidently asserts its divergence and independence in defining its future. 94 Chapter 3: The Elusive Kunqu Masters: On the Road 3.1 The Peony Pavilion has been revived after three dreams Wang An-chi 王安祈, a renowned jingju and kunqu scholar and playwright, once stated, “Mudan sanmeng cai huanhun” 牡丹三夢才還魂” (The Peony Pavilion has been revived after three dreams),77 suggesting that the three contemporary performances of The Peony Pavilion have contributed to the revival and recognition of kunqu 崑曲 (Kun opera) in the twenty-first century. These three performances refer, first, to the inaugural professional kunqu performance in Taiwan in 1992 by Hua Wenyi 華文漪 (1941–2022); second, to the zuben 足本 (lit., full) version of The Peony Pavilion directed by Chen Shi-zheng 陳士爭 (b. 1963) at Lincoln Center in New York, USA, in 1999; and third, to the qingchunban 青春版 (youthful version) of The Peony Pavilion produced by Kenneth Hsien-yung Pai 白先勇 (b. 1937) in 2004. Following Wang’s insightful observation, I employ The Peony Pavilion, kunqu’s crown jewel, to explore the contemporary revival journey of kunqu. It is worth emphasizing that The Peony Pavilion is also known as Huanhun ji 還魂記 (The Return of the Soul), a title that evokes resurrection after a period of decline and death. Wang’s use of “huanhun” (soul returning/return 77 The Peony Pavilion, also known as Huanhun ji 還魂記 (The Return of the Soul), literally means the revival of the soul, referring to the play’s happy ending where the female protagonist Du Liniang 杜麗娘 returns from death to unite with the male protagonist Liu Mengmei 柳夢梅. Wang has mentioned this concept twice in different podcasts and later wrote it down in her recommendation for Wen Yuhang’s 溫宇航 autobiography, Mudanting wangjin qinghua 牡丹亭往今情話 (The Peony Pavilion: Stories in the Past and Present). The two podcast programs can be found for reference as follows: https://www.ic975.com/aod/%E6%89%93%E9%96%8B%E6%88%B2%E7%AE%B1%E8%AA%AA%E6%95%85%E4%BA%8B/20230120/ and https://player.soundon.fm/p/d50629c2-31e2-4a75-9dee-3f5cd0e9737b/episodes/3c4f6e4c-72b6-4d21-b162-76e6295f5d7b. (Accessed May 11th, 2023) 95 of soul) here is evidently figurative, suggesting that kunqu had once died,78 thereby necessitating its restoration and renaissance. This chapter utilizes the metaphor of resurrection to examine Taiwan’s contributions to this revival process, while noting that Taiwan is not the original homeland of kunqu. Similar to jingju (Beijing opera), kunqu arrived in Taiwan around 1949 after the retreat of the Kuomintang (KMT) to the island. However, unlike jingju, kunqu was not elevated by the KMT government as a national theater, nor was it supported by military troupes through significant protection or inheritance encouragement measures. Compared to jingju, which at one time was a popular entertainment icon pervasive in the streets and alleys, kunqu has consistently occupied a niche, that of a refined and elegant art form. It has been practiced by a small group of dedicated literati and aesthetes who engaged in it as a hobby in their daily lives. In this chapter, I will begin with two instances of Chinese kunqu masters’ departures: one is Hua Wenyi’s 1989 tiaoji 跳機 (lit., “jump the plane”) defection, and the other is Wen Yuhang’s 溫宇航 1998 participation in The Peony Pavilion, directed by Chen Shi-zheng 陳士爭, which was banned by the Shanghai Cultural Bureau. These two captivating departure stories will unveil the process of kunqu’s encounter with and establishment in Taiwan. It is worth mentioning that the agency behind these two departures initially had no connection with Taiwan, which once again echoes the title of this dissertation, “accidental encounter,” or as the Chinese proverb says, wuxin cha liu liu cheng yin 無心插柳柳成蔭 (lit., unintentionally planting 78 The “death” of kunqu is generally considered to have occurred when professional troupes were no longer able to sustain themselves through commercial means and were compelled to disband. In other words, the dissolution of the last documented kunqu troupe is viewed as evidence that kunqu has died once. Currently, most researchers agree that in the autumn of 1923, the Quanfuban 全福班 (Quanfu Troupe) held its final performance in Changchun Lane, Suzhou, and subsequently disbanded, marking the death of kunqu. For more on the establishment and dissolution of the Quanfu Troupe, refer to Dai Lijuan 2011: 4-5 and Wu Xinlei 2000: 67-75. 96 willows, yet they grow to provide shade). As a foreign theatrical form and visitor, kunqu has had the potential to take root in Taiwan due to historical coincidences and various political events. 3.2 Encounters Initiated by Defection In July 1989, Hua Wenyi, then director of the Shanghai Kunju Tuan 上海崑劇團 (Shanghai Kunju Company, SKC), along with the other members of the troupe, was in the United States as a national representative of the PRC visiting for performances. They arrived in the United States on June 5, a day after the Tiananmen Square Incident,79 and performed in multiple locations over six weeks. On July 26th, the last day of their activities, they participated in a farewell event organized by the host after their performances had concluded. However, following the farewell, a defection attempt was initiated—“On July 26, when Hua Wenyi and others attended the farewell banquet, they claimed they were going out to purchase gifts and would return to the restaurant by 9 p.m., but they did not return and were subsequently unaccounted for” 華文漪等人七月廿六日參加送行晚宴時，自稱要出門購買禮物，晚上九時會回餐廳，但他們沒有回去，其後即下落不明.80 Such defections were not unusual in the 1980s. With Deng Xiaoping’s 鄧小平 rise to power and the implementation of the Reform and Opening-up policies, PRC actors, engineers, 79 The Tiananmen Square Incident in 1989 was a pro-democracy student-led movement that sought political reforms and greater personal freedoms. The violent suppression of the protests significantly undermined the CCP’s global standing, reversing the gradual improvement in international relations achieved through the Reform and Opening-up policies implemented in the 1980s. This incident resulted in severe human rights persecution, prompting various countries to undertake asylum actions to protect Chinese individuals overseas who supported freedom and democracy, including the U.S. While there is no direct evidence linking the defections of these actors to the human rights abuses, the then-concealed traumas of the Cultural Revolution (1966-1976) suggest as a possible motive a desire to distance themselves from authoritarian control and ideological persecution. The Tiananmen Square Incident led to widespread international condemnation, economic sanctions, and a lasting negative perception of the CCP in the global community. 80 “Yijiu wuling niandai yilai” in United Daily News, August 2, 1989, p. A1. 97 and personnel in the entertainment field took advantage of opportunities for study, exchange, and performance abroad. Such defections involved individuals taking the opportunity while overseas to disappear in foreign countries and apply for political asylum. Examples include prominent xiqu performers such as Qi Shufang 齊淑芳 (b. 1943), the leading martial female role actress from the Shanghai Jingju Yuan 上海京劇院 (Shanghai Jingju Theater), Hua Wenyi from the SKC, and Pei Yanling 裴豔玲 (b. 1947), the best-known Hebei bangzi opera actor, all of whom performed disappearing acts between 1987 and 1989.81 These cases of defection were always reported overdramatically in Taiwan, where the term tiaoji was coined to characterize such behavior. For Taiwan’s ROC government, the more famous the defectors, the more politically exploitable they were. News reports often sensationalized the defectors’ aspirations for a life in “Free China” (referring to ROC Taiwan at the time) and highlighted Taiwan’s warm reception of them. Moreover, KMT-controlled journal publishers particularly relished—perhaps to an exaggerated extent, akin to detective novels—reporting these defections. For the KMT government, this was an unquestionable demonstration of what they had consistently conveyed to the Taiwanese people over the past forty years: that under the control of the CCP, the people in mainland China were suffering immensely, living in poverty and compelled to seize every opportunity to escape from that dreadful, oppressive, and dangerous country.82 This type of propaganda also aimed to portray KMT-controlled Taiwan 81 A report published in the United Daily News on September 27, 1989 was titled “Xiqu King Pei Yanling Vanishes! CCP Issues Urgent Decree: Art Groups or Individuals Are Strictly Forbidden to Leave the Country for Two Years” 戲曲天王裴艷玲失蹤了! 中共緊急通令：藝術團體或個人，二年內嚴禁出國. It mentioned that “In light of the continuous defections of xiqu elites, CCP authorities have informed all national art groups and individuals of a travel ban on international performances and visits lasting at least two years, intensified political indoctrination courses, and strict controlling of all activities.” 大陸方面鑑於接連不斷的戲曲精英逃亡事件，已通知全國藝術團體、個人禁止出國演出訪問，禁令為期至少兩年，全力加強政治思想課程，嚴格管制各項活動. 82 The slogan “Tiantang wang Tai[wan], Diyu wang Zhong[guo]” 天堂往台，地獄往中 (Heaven to Taiwan, Hell to China) was the central theme of the Chiang Family’s forty-year rule in Taiwan, continuously indoctrinating 98 across the Taiwan Strait as enlightened and free, with its people living in peace and prosperity—which, of course, was also a deceptive and misleading narrative. The defection of Hua Wenyi, the “Empress of Kunqu” (kunqu huanghou 崑曲皇后) and “Little Mei Lanfang” (xiao Mei Lanfang 小梅蘭芳), naturally provided the ROC-controlled Lianhe bao 聯合報 (United Daily News) with substantial leeway in their coverage. Starting the day after the incident, there were almost daily reports about the event—on front pages rather than the arts and culture sections—indicating that the newspapers treated this as an important political event. Below are some of the more prominent headlines that appeared for several days after the event: “Shanghai Kunqu Company Members Defect?” 上海崑劇團員叛逃？ (1989/7/28) “Junior Mei Lanfang Goes Missing, Shocking the Xiqu Community” 小梅蘭芳失蹤 戲曲界大震撼 (1989/7/31) “The Largest Scale since the 1950s—Eight PRC’s Artists Flee to Freedom in America” 1950年代以來規模最大的一次 八名大陸藝人在美投奔自由 (1989/8/2) “Personnel Files on the Kunqu Actors Fleeing to Freedom” 投奔自由崑曲演員檔案 (1989/8/2) “TTV Plans to Seize the Momentum, Fast-Tracking Approval for Broadcast [of Kunqu Performance]” 台視擬趁熱推出 火速送審 (1989/8/3) “Split into Four Groups to Escape, Extraordinary Twists and Turns” 四批分頭逃脫，曲折離奇 (1989/8/3) “Xinxiang [New Aspect] Decides to Invite Hua Wenyi to Visit ROC” 新象決邀華文漪等訪華 (1989/8/3) “The Leading Kunqu Dan Actress in China” 大陸劇壇 崑曲第一名旦 (1989/8/13) “Hua Wenyi’s Daring Pursuit” 華文漪的冒險追求 (1989/8/13) “Gu Tiehua Says: If We Extend Our Hands, Hua Wenyi Would Come to Taiwan” 顧鐵華說：只要我們伸出雙手，華文漪應該會來台 (1989/8/28) “Still Illegal, Hiding in the US, Daring Not to Show Faces” 身份迄今仍是非法 滯美隱匿不敢露面 (1989/9/1) “Hua Wenyi and Others in a Precarious Situation” 華文漪等人處境堪憂 (1989/9/5) Taiwanese compatriots (mainly primary and middle school students). In the annual ROC National Day speech on October 10th, the national leaders consistently reiterated the mission of “Saving millions of compatriots on the mainland from deep waters and burning fires” 拯救千千萬萬大陸同胞於水深火熱之中. Additionally, at the time, in all elementary school textbooks, there was a lesson titled Tiantang yu Diyu 天堂與地獄 (Heaven and Hell), which drilled home the KMT’s nationalistic discourse. 99 “Kunqu Artist Hua Wenyi Starts from Scratch in the US” 崑曲藝人華文漪匿居美國白手起家 (1989/12/29) “Rescuing Traditional Culture Lost Overseas” 搶救流失海外傳統文化 (1990/1/13) These headlines not only reflect Hua Wenyi’s defection and the swift framing of her escape as “fleeing to freedom,” but more importantly, they underscore what “Free China” could do for her. Consequently, the Xinxiang 新象 (New Aspect Creatives) Foundation—one of Taiwan’s most significant cultural and educational foundations—immediately issued a statement: “We will invite them to perform in Taiwan as soon as they officially receive asylum [from the U.S.]” 在他們獲致（美國的）正式庇護後，將立刻邀他們來台演出.83 At the same time, Taishi 台視 (Taiwan Television Enterprise, TTV), one of only three TV channels at the time, announced it would broadcast a VHS tape of the SKC’s performance of Changshengdian 長生殿 (The Palace of Eternal Life), led by Hua Wenyi and recorded in Tokyo, which was acquired from the Japan Broadcasting Company NHK. This was an unprecedented move—prior to this, no television program had ever aired a recording of kunqu. These politically charged and sensational news reports have further mythologized Hua Wenyi’s decision to leave China. To her last day, April 13th, 2022, Hua Wenyi never publicly discussed the reasons for her defection—and due to her death, we may never have the chance to know the answer—but these plot-driven and dramatic narratives have gradually built up her legendary status.84 83 United Daily News, August 3, 1989, page 28. 84 Perhaps one of the closest answers we have today comes from Zhou Shaolin 周少麟, the son of Peking opera master Zhou Xinfang 周信芳, who had sheltered Hua Wenyi in the United States. In a contemporaneous interview with the United Daily News, he revealed that Hua Wenyi had almost believed she would not be able to escape, mainly since, prior to her departure, four male troupe members had deserted first. While the troupe was urgently assembling to visit the CCP’s “illegitimate” embassy, Hua Wenyi took the opportunity to escape spontaneously a 100 Almost three years later, in October 1992, with Taiwanese audiences eagerly awaiting, Hua Wenyi finally arrived in Taiwan and performed selected scenes from The Peony Pavilion. Contrary to earlier announcements by the private Xinxiang Foundation, the invitation and performance were initiated by the artistic director of the National Theater and Concert Hall Hu Yaoheng 胡耀恆 and were organized and hosted by the highest representative of the state-owned theater organization, Guoli Zhongzheng Wenhua Zhongxin 國立中正文化中心 (The National Chiang Kai-shek Cultural Centre) from October 3rd to 7th.85 The performance adopted the seven-act version by the Shanghai Kunqu Company (SKC), adapted by Lu Jianzhi陸兼之 and Liu Mingjin 劉明今 in 1982,86 including: Guidian xunnü 閨墊訓女 (The Schoolroom and Admonishing the Daughter), Youyuan jingmeng 遊園驚夢 (Wandering in the Garden, Startled by a Dream), Xunmeng qingshang 尋夢情殤 (Pursuing the Dream and Keening),87 Qinghun yupan 情魂遇判 (Infernal Judgement), Fang yuan shi hua 訪園拾畫 (Visiting the Garden and day earlier than the planned departure time. Zhou Shaolin expressed deep sentiments regarding Hua Wenyi’s defection, noting that the CCP is currently overwhelmed in political and economic spheres and that traditional arts and culture are not only severely impacted but also face the threat of decline and extinction due to rapid societal changes. Setting aside political factors, both Zhou and Hua Wenyi share a common sorrow regarding their artistic endeavors, particularly considering the mainland's current situation—where there is no hope in life and no prospects for artistic careers. Hua Wenyi preferred to travel abroad, pursuing a life of freedom, dignity, and self-respect, even if it meant relying on basic labor. 華文漪告訴周少麟夫婦，當時幾乎以為走不成了，尤其是在她行動之前，忽然有四名男團員先行脫隊，她是在團員緊急集合赴中共偽使館途中，臨時趁空脫逃，比預訂脫隊的時間提早了一天。周少麟對華文漪事件相當感慨，他指出，中共目前在政治經濟上自顧不暇，傳統藝術文化不但受到強烈的衝擊，同時因時代的快速轉變，已面臨了衰亡沒落的危機。撇開政治上因素不談，華文漪與他對於自己從事的藝術，都有相同的悲哀，尤其大陸的現況，生活上沒有希望，藝術事業沒有遠景，華文漪寧可遠赴異鄉，憑藉著最基本的勞力，追求自由、尊嚴、有自我的生活。(United Daily News, 1989/12/29) 85 The National Chiang Kai-shek Cultural Center was initially established in 1975 following the death of President Chiang Kai-shek (1887-1975). It was created to commemorate him through the construction of three significant buildings: the Chiang Kai-shek Memorial Hall 中正紀念堂, the National Theater (formerly the “Guoju Theater” 國劇院), and the National Concert Hall 音樂廳. After multiple organizational restructurings, the center transitioned into a foundation in 2004, formally severing its financial dependence on the state. In 2014, it was renamed the National Theater and Concert Hall 國家兩廳院, as part of Taiwan’s broader efforts to promote transitional justice. 86 Cao Yi曹怡, “Claiming to Be the Complete Peony Pavilion Yet Only Performing Seven Acts號稱全本非全本牡丹亭 其實只演七齣折子戲,” United Daily News. March 26, 1992. 87 The excerpt condensed Xunmeng 尋夢 (Pursuing the Dream), Xiezhen 寫真 (The Portrait), and Lihun 離魂 (The Departed Soul) into a single act, which is a less common way of performance. 101 Recovering the Painting), Jiaohua youyu 叫畫幽遇 (Calling to the Portrait and Union in the Shades), and Huisheng mengyuan 回生夢圓 (Resurrection and Reunion).88 The final excerpt of this production is particularly worth mentioning. This scene features a less common zhezixi (excerpted performance) style and reflects an early conceptualization of the xiao quanben 小全本 (small full-length) approach. Although the term xiao quanben had not yet emerged at the time, the act demonstrates a deliberate focus on narrative coherence and structural completeness, which was not prioritized in the traditional practice of the acting-centric kunqu. Rather than abruptly ending the story at Huisheng 回生 (Resurrection), the production ingeniously incorporated elements from Yingkao 硬拷 (Interrogation Under the Rod) and other scenes, rewriting it as “Resurrection and Reunion.” Instead of bringing Du Bao 杜寶, the father of Du Liniang, back on stage, the revised scene featured Liu Mengmei digging up Du Liniang’s grave with a hoe to rescue her. Upon reviving Du Liniang, the tutor Chen Zuiliang and others, alerted by the commotion, arrived to stop him and attempted to send Liu Mengmei to the authorities. However, Liu Mengmei remained resolute and pressed forward. At that moment, the fragrance of flowers filled the air, the tomb burst open, and Du Liniang returned to life, allowing the two to fulfill their beautiful union. This adaptation not only amplified Tang Xianzu’s original thematic intent but also proved highly effective in handling dramatic conflict. This approach, designed to provide the audience with a clear and cohesive resolution, was also a staging choice that first appeared in the 1992 version of the performance. 88 The translations of the excerpts’ titles heavily references Catherine Swatek’s Peony Pavilion Onstage (2002: 261–284. 102 This clear narrative development and cohesive storytelling, with its emphasis on continuity and resolution, might be referred to as a xiao quanben (small full-length version), which I argue is a crucial element in the contemporary revival of kunqu. This is largely because the traditional length of kunqu performances, which are adapted from lengthy southern dramas (chuanqi 傳奇, literally “transmission of marvels”) written in the Ming and Qing Dynasties, is relatively unsuitable for modern theatrical productions. For instance, The Peony Pavilion comprises fifty-five scenes and 436 arias, which would require several days to perform. Even during the Ming Dynasty, when kunqu was at the height of its popularity, most chuanqi scripts were not performed in their entirety. While chuanqi functioned primarily as a written literary genre intended for reading and circulation, kunqu emerged as one of its primary theatrical forms, shaping its performance conventions. More often, due to factors such as the performer-centered development of the art form and the circulation of specific stories, only certain zhezixi 折子 (excerpted scenes) were regularly performed as stand-alone acts. However, appreciating these fragmented performances without a clear beginning or end required significant cultural literacy. First, the audience needed to be so familiar with the characters that beginning in medias res would not hinder their understanding of the plot. Additionally, the primary focus of such performances was on the actors’ skills—centering on singing and physical movements—rather than the story or narrative structure, which modern audiences are more accustomed to. Although this was the first time professional kunqu actors officially performed kunqu on stage in Taiwan, Taiwan was not merely a platform providing the venue for the performance. Among the cast, only two actors could be considered professional kunqu performers: Hua 103 Wenyi, who played the female lead Du Liniang 杜麗娘, and Shi Jiehua 史絜華, another former member of the SKC who had also defected and been living in New York for many years, who played the role of Chunxiang 春香, Liniang’s maid. The other roles were supported by Taiwanese jingju actors, including Gao Huilan 高蕙蘭, a jingju actress playing the male lead Liu Mengmei 柳夢梅; Ye Furun 葉復潤, a laosheng actor playing Chen Zuiliang 陳最良; and Zhu Minling 朱民玲, a huadan actress playing Shi Daogu 石道姑.89 What is significant, however, is the creative collaboration that emerged in Taiwan, from script adaptation to stage design, which marked a unique encounter between Taiwan and kunqu. This so-called traditional kunqu performance also enlisted Nie Guangyan 聶光炎,90 a modern theater stage and lighting designer, to create the lighting and set design. Additionally, it introduced an unprecedented element in kunqu: a dance choreographer Lin Xiuwei 林秀偉. This choreography was primarily showcased in the scene Youyuan 遊園 (Wandering in the Garden), featuring a dance sequence where the Flower God extols the tender love between Du Liniang and Liu Mengmei. While its surface appearance was traditional, the production’s conceptual framework was rooted in the aesthetics of modern theater to present this rendition of The Peony Pavilion. The successful staging of The Peony Pavilion with only two kunqu actresses in the cast relied heavily on the involvement of many jingju actors from Taiwan. Jingju actors performing kunqu is not uncommon, a practice that dates back to the Qing Dynasty. Theater critics often use 89 See Wu Xinlei 2004: 59-68. 90 Nie Guangyan 聶光炎 (b. 1933) is a prominent figure in Taiwanese theater, known for his innovative lighting and stage design that integrates modern theatrical aesthetics with traditional performance forms. After graduating from Carnegie Mellon University in the United States, Nie returned to Taiwan in 1976 and began his career in theater. He introduced advanced concepts in stagecraft and lighting to Taiwan’s theater scene, significantly influencing its modernization. His work bridges the gap between traditional and contemporary performance practices, making him a key contributor to the evolution of Taiwanese theater production. 104 the phrase wenwu kunluan budang 文武昆亂不擋 (proficient in civil, martial, kunqu, and other xiqu forms without limitation) to describe actors adept at performing a wide variety of genres, styles, and roles. However, while jingju actors occasionally perform kunqu excerpts within jingju programming, this practice is often rooted in a jingju-centric perspective. Such performances aim to showcase the actor’s versatility and abilities as a jingju performer, rather than treating jingju and kunqu as two equally significant genres in which they are proficient. For instance, the renowned jingju artist Mei Lanfang performed numerous kunqu excerpts, including the well-known Cihu 刺虎 (Assassinating the Tiger General) and Youyuan jingmeng 遊園驚夢 (Wandering in the Garden, Startled by a Dream) following the victory in the Anti-Japanese War in 1945. These performances, suggested by Yu Zhenfei 俞振飛 (1902-1993), marked his return to the stage after growing a mustache in protest and refusing to perform for the Japanese during their occupation. Nevertheless, despite his remarkable skill in kunqu excerpts, no one would ever call Mei Lanfang a kunqu master. 91 However, the practice of Taiwanese jingju actors learning kunqu does not entirely fit within the aforementioned framework. To understand this phenomenon, one must begin with the story of the Kunqu Chuanxi Ban 崑曲傳習班 (Kunqu Classes for Transmission and Training, hereafter KCB). KCB is a name with a rich history. This phrase closely resembles Kunju 91 As evidenced by the fact that the jingju master Mei Lanfang also performed kunqu, the jingju stage occasionally featured kunqu performances to showcase the versatile skills of the actors. This comes from my previous job as an assistant editor at the GuoGuang Opera Company. I interviewed thirty-one actors and wrote brief introductions for them, which were used in the performance programs. During these interviews, they discussed their initiation into acting, their training processes, their mentors, and the plays they excel in performing. In our conversation, these jingju performers revealed that the kunqu repertoire often served as kaimeng xi 開蒙戲 (introductory plays) for actors’ training, such as Xiashan 下山 (Escaping from the Mountain) and Sifan思凡 (Longing for Worldly Pleasures). Yet, when jingju actors performed kunqu, their renditions should not be conflated with those of specialized kunqu professionals. Critical reviews, including the most professional and strict critics in Guoju yuekan 國劇月刊 (National Theater Monthly), tended to encourage the diversity of the actors’ repertoire rather than subjecting their kunqu performances to the scrutiny reserved for professional kunqu showcases. 105 Chuanxi Suo 崑劇傳習所 (Kunqu Academy for Transmission and Training, hereafter KCS),92 inevitably recalling the history associated with kunqu initial decline in the 1920s. In the early years of the Republic of China, the development of kunqu in the Suzhou area, the most popular area of kunqu, was in steep decline, with only the Quanfu Ban 全福班 (Quanfu Troupe) remaining of the four major kunqu troupes. In the autumn of 1923, the Quanfu Troupe performed its last show in Changchun Alley in Suzhou before disbanding shortly after. Cheng Xiting 程西亭, a renowned male role actor, committed suicide by hanging at the Suzhou Laolang Temple, while the famed female role performer Xu Jinhu徐金虎 died beside a trash can in a Shanghai alleyway.93 The disbandment of the Quanfu Troupe was seen as the “death” of kunqu. However, a group of literati businessmen refused to accept the demise of kunqu, and from 1921 to 1927 in Suzhou, they organized an educational institution to revive kunqu, known as the “Kunju Chuanxi Suo.” The students cultivated by this institute, due to the incorporation of the character “Chuan”傳 (transmitting) into their stage names during their apprenticeship, were later referred to as the Chuanzi bei 傳字輩 (Chuan Generation, chuan literally means inheriting and/or legendary). This included individuals such as Gu Chuanjie 顧傳玠 (1910–1965), Shen Chuanzhi 沈傳芷 (1906–1994), Zhu Chuanming 朱傳茗 (1909–1974), and Zhou Chuanying 周傳瑛 (1912–1988), who later became legendary kunqu artists. KCS, as the name implies, has become the most crucial institution for the revival and heritage of kunqu. In 1991, inspired by the earlier KCS, the Kunqu Chuanxi Ban was established in Taiwan. Operating through six sessions until 2000, this program became a pivotal initiative for promoting 92 For more about the history of the Academy for Transmission and Training, see Lam, 2022: 55-62. 93 Yunhe Zhang (1986). “Argosies of wonder on the rivers and lakes: Memories of the Quanfu Troupe,” translated and annotated by Lindy Li Mark, CHINOPERL Papers 14 (1986): 77-95. https://doi.org/10.1179/chi.1986.14.1.77 106 professional kunqu performance in Taiwan. Scholars led by Zeng Yong-yi 曾永義 (1941–2022) and Hong Weizhu 洪惟助 (b. 1943) worked diligently to research kunqu, and among their many endeavors, the establishment of KCB stands out as the most influential, its significance enduring into the present day. KCB invited a substantial number of professional kunqu performers from China to teach both Taiwanese kunqu enthusiasts with prior training experience and professional jingju actors.94 Many of these instructors were distinguished Plum Blossom Award winners,95 widely recognized as the finest kunqu performers of their generation. This elite group included, though was not limited to, masters such as Hua Wenyi, Liang Guyin梁谷音, Yue Meiti岳美緹, Ji Zhenhua計震華, Wang Fengmei 王鳳梅, Zhou Zhigang 周志剛, Zhang Xunpeng 張洵彭, Shi Xiaomei石小梅, and Cheng Zhixiong成志雄.96 These performers, affectionately nicknamed “pandas” because of their rarity and unique value, had been largely overlooked in mainland China at the time. Yet when they came to Taiwan, they met a community eager to learn from them. For Taiwanese jingju performers, the opportunity to study kunqu—an art form then considered more refined than jingju—offered a means to transcend the limitations they had faced while training in jingju, which often involved learning from recordings rather than from eminent masters in person. Studying kunqu thus represented an elevated path to improving their craft. 94 The first three sessions primarily catered to the general public, offering singing classes and flute classes, with division into beginner and advanced levels according to proficiency. Beginning with the fourth session in 1996, the Kunqu Yeyu Jutuan Yu Shizi Peiyang Xiaozu 崑曲業餘劇團與師資培養小組 (Kunqu Amateur Troupe and Teacher Training Group, also known as Yisheng Ban 藝生班 [Artist Class, mostly jingju artists]) was established. 95 The Plum Blossom Award 梅花獎 (Meihua Jiang) is among the most prestigious honors in Chinese traditional theater, established in 1983 by the China Theater Association. It recognizes outstanding performers of xiqu for their artistic excellence and contributions to preserving and promoting this cultural heritage. The award encourages innovation within traditional art forms while maintaining their historical integrity. More infomation can be found at https://www.chinatheater.org.cn/pjbj/zgxjmhj/jj_6539/201802/t20180211_396418.html 96 See National Centre for Traditional Arts’ digital archives webpages, https://collections.ncfta.gov.tw/pages/list/proj_items.aspx?id=12199603# 107 Moreover, due to grants obtained by the scholars who organized KCB, selected students not only studied free of charge but also received a monthly stipend from the government as an incentive to continue their training. This sense of mutual reinforcement was palpable. Although the Taiwanese students were still novices in terms of kunqu technique, they offered these China’s “panda-like” kunqu masters—cherished experts who had long felt overlooked—a profound sense of security and respect. From partial performance records and monthly logs in the Zhongguo xiqu nianjian 中國戲劇年鑑 (Theater Yearbook of China), one can glimpse the frustration and sense of unfulfillment that kunqu performers experienced at the time. For instance, in 1989, the Beifang Kunqu Juyuan 北方昆曲劇院 (Northern Kunqu Opera Theater) staged only three performances for the entire year, while The China National Beijing Opera Theater presented 230 performances in the same period (Du Gao 1991: 271-330). Furthermore, after the initial encounters between Taiwanese students and kunqu masters, many avid learners willingly paid high hourly rates for one-on-one lessons. Considering the significant economic disparity between Taiwan and China at the time, the teaching stipends—both official and private—were far higher than what these kunqu masters could have earned at home. One striking example lies with the Zhejiang Kunqu Company’s performer Wang Fengmei 王鳳梅. Prior to 1991, despite her remarkable skill, she had never accepted any apprentices. Unexpectedly, her very first pupil turned out to be a Taiwanese kunqu enthusiast, Vivian Lee 李薇, who, despite having only a limited foundation in kunqu, possessed an unwavering passion for the art form. Such individual cases exemplify how the KCB and related exchanges not only raised the profile of kunqu in Taiwan but also offered unprecedented professional and economic opportunities for kunqu performers from China. 108 Though still in a nascent stage at the time, these developments helped lay the groundwork for later performances of The Peony Pavilion and other productions in Taiwan, where local jingju performers could share the stage with kunqu masters. In this manner, the KCB played a crucial role in forging a deeper connection between Taiwanese performers and the venerable tradition of kunqu. The reason that the KCB was able to secure such a prestigious lineup of instructors dates back to the 1990’s kunqu zhilü 崑曲之旅 (Kunqu Journey). In July of that year, with martial law lifted and cross-strait travel restrictions loosened, kunqu enthusiast Jia Xinyuan 賈馨園organized the Kunqu Journey, gathering enthusiasts to watch kunqu performances in Shanghai. Accompanying him were members of the Zhonghua Wenhua Jijin Hui 中華文化基金會 (Chinese Culture Foundation), including directors Zeng Yong-yi and Hong Weizhu. Over the course of five nights, the group watched nearly twenty plays featuring masterpieces from various role types. Zeng later wrote in the preface of Kunqu Anthology about their experience during the journey: It was my first encounter with such an exquisitely ancient form of stage art. Overwhelmed with admiration, we discussed with members of the Shanghai Kunqu Company during meals. Several top-notch actors, winners of the Plum Blossom Award, mentioned they were nearly fifty years old, their artistry at a personal peak, with only decline ahead as no breakthroughs or improvements seemed possible. Their artistic capabilities, unlike exhibits in a museum, could only be preserved through videotaping—a sad fact given the lack of plans and funding, leaving us in helpless regret. 我第一次看到如此古雅優美的舞台藝術。在激賞感佩之餘﹐我們在筵席間與上崑的成員座談。其中好幾位得過「梅花獎」的一級演員﹐都說已年近半百﹐藝術已到個人頂點﹐往後只有「每況愈下」﹐不可能再有突破和提升。而他們的藝能無法像博物館中的展品﹐不得已只能錄影保存﹐可惜計畫未擬、經費無著﹐徒喚無奈。97 97 This passage is from the preface to an interview in Kunqu Anthology, quoted from the website of the Chinese Folk Art Foundation, http://www.fork.org.tw/20 (accessed March 28, 2024). 109 Upon returning to Taiwan, Zeng and Hong promptly embarked on four initiatives: establishing KCB, a kunqu transmission and training program, kunqu video recording project,98 the establishment of the Xiqu Yanjiu Shi 戲曲研究室 (Xiqu Research Lab) led by Hong Weizhu in 1992 at National Central University,99 and the publishing of Kunqu cidian 崑曲辭典 (Kunqu Dictionary). 98 The video recording project was hosted by Zeng and Hong in Taiwan. The first phase was completed in June 1992. This included forty performances by the Shanghai Kunqu Company, fifteen by the Zhejiang Kunqu Company, and eight demonstration performances by Mr. Shen Chuanzhi 沈傳芷, the only remaining Chuan generation kunqu master from the Suzhou KCS, totaling sixty-three performances across twenty-nine plays. The second phase of the project began in 1995, recording representative plays from the Jiangsu Provincial Kunqu Company, Shanghai Kunqu Company, Zhejiang Kunqu Company, Hunan Kunqu Company, and Northern Kunqu Theater—a total of seventy-two performances across forty-five plays. The project utilized three cameras and included editing, accompanied by subtitles and plot explanations, making the videos suitable for viewing, teaching, and research. This was exceedingly difficult to pull off. Zeng mentioned the recording process in the preface to the second volume of Kunqu Anthology, “Both recording sessions were challenging, but compared to the beginning difficulties of the first project, this second time involved more traveling challenges […] The six major Kunqu Companies are scattered far across China; the journeys were long and in cold winter. To save expenses, we spent nights in cars or trains. At each location, we recorded from the afternoon until deep into the night. After twelve days, all staff members returned sick. Despite the exhaustion, our spirits were high because we had done meaningful and valuable work for the artistic culture of our country.” The first phase of the video recording project began at the early stages of the “Zhongguo jingju yinpeixiang jingcui 中國京劇音配像精粹” (Selected Classics of Chinese Beijing Opera Video Matching Audio, 1985-2007) project, the very first systematic recording project for restoring xiqu arts in China. It was at a time when this kind of recording project was not common, let alone performances staged exclusively for recording in a closed-door setting. In my interview with Vivian Wei, Wang Fenmei’s first pupil and the executive secretary of the event, she mentioned the technological gap between the two sides at the time. For instance, as she captured the precious interactions between actors and audience members using a handheld V8 camera, the Chinese students hosting them were fascinated by the V8 device as that was the first time they saw it, rather than the contents the actors shared. The second phase of the recording project, following the completion of the KCB sessional training, included another kunqu journey as a treat for the students who also served as audience members in these staged-specifically-for-recording performances. These two phases of recording efforts captured one hundred thirty-five exquisite kunqu performances, constituting the most comprehensive video collection of kunqu to date, mostly featuring the best-known plays of China’s six major Kunqu Companies. This achievement was made possible through the combined efforts of Taiwan’s civil society, government subsidies, and the passion of kunqu enthusiasts. 99 It serves as the research center conducting the collection, organization, and research investigation of xiqu artifacts and archives with the primary focus on kunqu. For years, it has hosted numerous kunqu conferences, compiled the Kunqu Dictionary, and published interviews with kunqu artists and scholars. To provide more opportunities for promoting its precious collections and historical archives, a Kunqu Museum was established in 2017 under the Xiqu Research Lab. Although its scale is not large compared to professional museums, its collection is extremely unique, including kunqu masters’ calligraphy and paintings, hand-copied scores, and costumes donated by kunqu masters (Sun 2002: 78-80). The museum features permanent exhibitions on “The History of Kunqu” and “Kunqu in Taiwan,” as well as on “The Beauty of Kunqu.” The special exhibition area hosts two new exhibitions each year, and the stage area is used for small performances and educational outreach by the Kunqu Museum. Together with the Xiqu Research Lab, the Kunqu Museum has become a major repository for Taiwan’s kunqu archives. To sum up, before 1949, Taiwan had almost no kunqu performances, no kunqu artists, and no tradition of kunqu. Yet, within fifty years—along with the kunqu video recording project—it has become the place with the most comprehensive preservation of kunqu materials. 110 Building on the momentum generated by the 1992 performance of The Peony Pavilion, contemporary interpretations of traditional kunqu continued to flourish within the Taiwanese theatrical sphere. Five years later, in May 1997, Hua Wenyi—then based in the United States—was invited back to Taiwan. Together with her former co-star, the Taiwanese jingju female actor Gao Huilan, who had portrayed Liu Mengmei in the 1992 production, she presented Chaitou Feng: Lu You yu Tang Wan 釵頭鳳：陸游與唐婉 (The Phoenix Hairpin: The Story of Lu You and Tang Wan) at the National Theater in Taipei. Over three consecutive days, from May 9 to 11, the performances—hosted by the National Chiang Kai-shek Cultural Center and co-produced with the National GuoGuang Opera Company—were met with tremendous acclaim. The creative team included Artistic Director Gong Min貢敏, Directors Shen Bin 沈斌 and Zhu Jinrong朱錦榮, Playwright Zheng Shifeng鄭拾風, Composer Xin Qinghua辛清華, Stage and Lighting Designer Nie Guangyan, and Music Director Sun Liyan孫立言. This moment also marked the first time the GuoGuang Opera Company, a jingju troupe, produced a modernized kunqu production. It is also worth mentioning that extensive use of backstage singing was employed in both The Peony Pavilion and The Phoenix Hairpin: The Story of Lu You and Tang Wan, perhaps due to the need for further improvement in the kunqu vocal skills of Taiwanese actors. Various techniques were creatively used to adapt originally non-choral qupai 曲牌 (melodic patterns) into backstage choral arrangements. Occasionally, the audience could hear backstage choral Kunqu cidian 崑曲辭典 (Kunqu Dictionary, first edition 2002, revised edition 2006) is one of the most significant research achievements of Xiqu Research Lab. While compiling the dictionary, Hong Weizhu led the lab’s students in organizing research materials related to kunqu. They also invited scholars from Beijing, Shanghai, the United States, Japan, and other places to contribute, resulting in the creation of the Kunqu yanjiu ziliao suoyin 崑曲研究資料索引 (Index of Kunqu Research Materials, 2002). Additionally, after interviewing over one hundred kunqu artists, scholars, and enthusiasts, they compiled the Kunqu yanyijia, qujia ji xuezhe fangwenlu 崑曲演藝家、曲家及學者訪問錄 (Record of Interviews with Kunqu Artists, Musicians and Scholars). 111 voices interwoven with dan vocal pieces—such as through alternating lines of the dan’s lyrics, extracting complete phrases to match new melodies, or even directly transforming dan solo qupai into backstage choruses. Overall, the performance incorporated not only the commonly seen onstage singing but also a significant amount of backstage choral arrangements. Notably, it also featured backstage soprano solos performed in the style of Western operatic singing, further diversifying the vocal presentation. 3.3 The Best Actors are in China, and the Best Audience is in Taiwan The success of Hua Wenyi’s 1992 performance was not limited to its achievements on stage. More importantly, and more influentially, its success stemmed from offstage factors: a full house of spectators, overwhelmingly positive reviews, and highly effective publicity. However, kunqu is not an easily appreciated form of xiqu by any measure. It is known as yangchun baixue 陽春白雪 (caviar to the general, highbrow art). Even during its most prosperous period in the Ming Dynasty, kunqu was not universally accessible to audiences. Its elegant diction, delicate emotions, long vocal segments, and slow rhythms represent barriers to appreciation that require study to overcome. Why, then, when jingju lost its status as the leading form of popular entertainment in Taiwan, could kunqu experience a counter-rise and still attract packed theaters? Firstly, the rarity of kunqu made it a precious commodity; since kunqu performances were nearly nonexistent in Taiwan, they became a novelty.100 Secondly, the serialized defection stories of Hua Wenyi, 100 In fact, kunqiang昆腔 (the singing style of kunqu) had appeared in Taiwan’s folk theatrical events even before 1949. The singing style of kunqu’s tunes was incorporated into common theatrical performances or ceremonial events in performances of jingju and beiguan 北管 (a xiqu genre accompanied mainly by northern wind instruments). But it rarely existed as an independent genre and there was never a professional kunqu troupe that performed in Taiwan until 1992. More information about kunqiang in Taiwan’s history can be gleaned from Tsai 112 published in newspapers frequently during the first seven months of 1992 and lasting three years, sparked curiosity about this daring high-profile figure who escaped CCP control, even among those unfamiliar with kunqu. Lastly, and most importantly, the passionate promotion of kunqu by amateur artists who had followed the KMT to Taiwan played a crucial role in reviving and sustaining this art form. As Lin Chia-yi 林佳儀 has pointed out, “The establishment of kunqu in Taiwan owes much to scholars and predecessors from China [at around 1949] who either taught kunqu at universities or organized kunqu gatherings due to their interest” 崑曲在臺灣的扎根，實有賴大陸來臺的學者及曲友前輩，或在大學講授曲學，或因興趣籌辦曲會” (2014: 99). To some degree, the development of kunqu in Taiwan can be viewed as inheriting the tradition of kunqu since the Ming Dynasty, emphasizing the active involvement of literati kunqu aficionados in its advancement (Lin 2018).101 However, what sets it apart significantly is the complete absence of participation by professional kunqu performers during this developmental phase in Taiwan.102 Especially from the 1940s to the early 1990s, these literati kunqu aficionados could be considered the sole players in Taiwan’s kunqu world until 1992. The four most significant contributors to regular gatherings for practicing kunqu and the promotion of kunqu in secondary schools were Hsu Yen-chih 徐炎之 (1898-1989) and Chang Shan-hsiang 張善薌 (1908-1980) from Taipei Shi Kunqu Tongqi 台北市崑曲同期 (Taipei Hsin-Hsin, who observed that prior to 1949, kunqu performances in Taiwan were primarily viewed as part of the soundscape (聲音景觀) rather than as an independent xiqu genre. They were “incorporated into Beiguan and Shisanqiang styles” 涵融於北管與十三腔中的崑腔 and “performed by both Taiwanese amateur troupes and mainland professional troupes”.” See Tsai Hsin-Hsin 2011: 38-43. 101 In the tradition of kunqu practices that began during the Ming Dynasty, literati have always played a very important role, including as playwrights and commentators. Additionally, many upper-middle-class literati and officials maintained private troupes in their homes. For more details, see Lam 2022: 10-14. 102 The Ministry of Education conducted a comprehensive survey and assessment of traditional Chinese regional forms in Taiwan, Penghu, Kinmen, and Matsu from 1980 to 1983. The survey covered 265 practitioners and documented their cases. A total of seventeen forms were identified, with thirteen types having established troupes at that time, including yueju 粵劇 (Cantonese opera), teochewxi潮州戲 (Teochew opera), minju 閩劇 (Min opera), and yueju 越劇 (Yue opera), but does not include kunqu. For more details, see the Ministry of Education 1984: 119-122. 113 Kunqu Society, also known as Da Tongqi 大同期, hereafter Da Tongqi), and Xia Huanxin夏煥新 (1905-1988) and Jiao Chengyun焦承允 (1902-1996) from Pengying Quji蓬瀛曲集 (Pengying Kunqu Society, also known as Xiao Tongqi 小同期, hereafter Xiao Tongxi) (Lin 2018: 39-41). Starting from the amateur kunqu practicing in Taiwan, on the practical level of literati-led initiatives, this includes regular gatherings and practices, such as quhui 曲會 (kunqu music gatherings) and qushe 曲社 (kunqu societies), as well as kunqu practicing within campus clubs in high schools and universities. Both of these activities predominantly focus on weekly or bi-weekly qingchang清唱 (recitative singing) practices, with occasional instances of caichang 彩唱 (costumed singing performances) and yearly presentation of formal performances facing the public with free admission. According to Lin’s Kuntan qingyin: Hsu Yen-chih and Chang Shan-hsiang de kunqu shengya 崑壇清音：徐炎之、張善薌的崑曲生涯 (Melodies from the Kunqu Stage: The Kunqu Careers of Hsu Yen-chih and Chang Shan-hsiang), the couple Hsu Yen-chih and Chang Shan-hsiang retreated to Taiwan with the KMT as civil servants in 1949. Along with Chen Ting-rui 陳霆銳, Chou Chichen 周雞晨, and others, they held their first kunqu gathering as an amateur pastime on September 4, 1949, in Taiwan, at Chen’s residence. Subsequently, they met regularly every one to two weeks, primarily focusing on recitative singing, with occasional performances in the Da Tongqi kunqu society (Lin Chia-yi 2018: 39). Later, another kunqu society, Xiao Tongqi, was initiated in 1953 by Xia Huanxin and Jiao Chengyun. These two organizations were the most important amateur organizations led by literati in Taiwan before the emergence of professional kunqu performers. Even today, there are over twenty amateur kunqu 114 societies in Taiwan, all of which can trace their roots back to core members of the aforementioned two organizations where their founders and leaders learned kunqu. The most noteworthy aspect of these activities was a primary concern with sharing personal entertainment interests rather than aiming for profit-oriented performances for audiences. They were not professional kunqu performers; they did not make a living from kunqu and had no commercial compromises. Unlike jingju practitioners, they were not controlled by military troupes or directed by the government; their free-admission annual performances were not subject to government script reviews, nor did they have to fulfill the duty of propagating so-called traditional Chinese virtues, such as loyalty and filial piety, through their performances. They were simply a group of kunqu amateur aficionados, entertaining themselves and others within their small circle. However, it is important to note that the term amateur here does not necessarily refer to the level of skill but rather whether they earned their living from it. In many cases, because of their superior literary education and focus on vocal training, their kunqu singing prowess did not necessarily fall short of the standard of professional kunqu actors. For example, Hsu Yen-chih had already recorded albums in Nanjing in the 1930s, and four famous songs are attributed to him as a young male lead. Chang Shan-hsiang retreated to Chongqing during the period of China’s War of Resistance against Japan (1937-45) and frequently performed on stage for charity with Zhang Chonghe 張充和 and Xiang Xinwu 項馨吾 to raise funds for the war effort (Lin Chia-yi 2014: 101, 115). Regardless of skill level, since they did not face the challenges of the market, did not have intense survival competition, and also harbored a great longing for the kunqu of their memories, they were more likely to preserve the traditional aspects of kunqu. Wang An-chi has discussed in a recent article how the Chuanzibei 傳字輩 (Chuan Generation) kunqu actors 115 learned extensively from then-mainstream jingju due to market considerations (Wang An-chi 2012a: 112-134). Yet, the practice and transmission of kunqu by Hsu Yen-chih in singing and flute accompanying and Chang Shan-hsiang in acting in Taiwan—a place lacking in professional kunqu troupes—have managed to retain a calm and spare performance style, reminiscent of the 1930s, that these actors cherish, like a moment frozen in time.103 Aside from the regular kunqu singing practices among these amateur aficionados, another integral aspect of kunqu’s dissemination in Taiwan is intimately tied to the aforementioned organizations and their founders, which contributed to the emergence and growth of kunqu clubs and student associations in high schools and universities. While these amateur organizations predominantly attracted older members of society, the cultivation of the new generation’s kunqu aficionados greatly hinged upon the mentorship provided by Hsu Yen-chih and his fellow kunqu aficionados, who assumed guiding roles within high school and university clubs.104 Kunqu has long been considered a relatively niche and refined theatrical form. Its transmission in Taiwan thus hinges on collective efforts from multiple sectors—both private enthusiasts and campus-based societies. After Hua Wenyi arrived in Taiwan, she was able to promote kunqu swiftly, thanks to the longstanding networks of amateur kunqu practitioners and learning communities; it was, in essence, a case of finding kindred spirits in a foreign land. Over successive generations, these avid kunqu supporters have been steadily nurtured and trained, and 103 For more information on how the singing and performance styles of Hsu and Chang encapsulate the 1930s, refer to Lin Chia-yi 2014: 99-144. 104 The earliest university kunqu clubs/student associations were established by National Taiwan Normal University (NTNU) and the National Taiwan University (NTU) in 1957. Professor Xia Huanxin brought together students from his “Selected Songs and Poems in the Yuan Dynasty” courses to establish the NTNU’s kunqu club. Similarly, NTU’s kunqu club was established with the support of Professors Zheng Qian鄭騫 and Zhang Jing 張敬 and the backing of Chancellor Cha Liang-chao查良釗. Subsequently, kunqu clubs were established at other institutions such as Taipei First Girls’ High School, Westlake Vocational High School, Tamkang University, Chung Hsing University, National Chengchi University, Ming Chuan University, Central University and Soochow University, among others. While the NTNU Kunqu club was guided by Jiao Chengyun and Xia Huanxin, the other kunqu clubs at these schools were instructed by Hsu Yen-chih and Chang Shan-hsiang. (Lin 2018: 96-102) 116 they became Hua Wenyi’s most suitable collaborators after her arrival on August 17, 1992—two months prior to her performance. Hua Wenyi herself made significant contributions to promotional efforts by actively participating in events such as the “Beauty of Kunqu,” organized by the National Theater and Concert Hall, KCB activities, and gatherings of amateur kunqu practitioners and university kunqu clubs. These events included not only demonstrations of singing and acting but also in-depth explanations of the significance of stylized performance. On occasion, Hua Wenyi even performed jointly with amateur kunqu enthusiasts, further underscoring the collaborative nature of kunqu’s revival in Taiwan.105 To sum up, from March to October 1992, there were over thirty reports in the United Daily News about the upcoming performance. These reports covered everything from the invitation process, discussions about the play selection, and details of rehearsals to interactions between Hua Wenyi and Taiwanese kunqu enthusiasts. Hua Wenyi was treated almost like a movie star. What is particularly notable is that Hua personally wrote a two-part article, titled “My Artistic Career” (Wode yishu shengya 我的藝術生涯), for the newspaper (Hua Wenyi 1992). Published on August 18th and 19th, each part spanned thousands of words. However, the most anticipated topic, the defection event, was intentionally skipped over. Hua’s performances took place from October 3-6 at the National Theater, with four shows running simultaneously with a kunqu arts conference. Taking advantage of this opportunity, the previously mentioned kunqu training program KCB invited Hua Wenyi to stay in Taiwan after the performance to participate in the second phase of teaching. During this extended stay in Taiwan to teach kunqu, she bumped into old friends and colleagues from the 105 These details are pieced together from various reports in the United Daily News, including: Cao Yi 1992a, 1992b, 1992c, 1992d; United Daily News 1992; and Li Hanchang 1992. 117 Shanghai Kunqu Company—over fifty members of the SKC were invited to perform in Taiwan two weeks after Hua Wenyi’s Peony Pavilion. Taiwan became the meeting place between Hua Wenyi, who was blacklisted from entering China, and her friends, classmates, and colleagues from SKC. Taiwanese newspapers did not miss the chance to report on this event with a dramatic tone, with headlines like “Old Friends from SKC Visiting KCB, Hua Wenyi Insists on Staying Away to Avoid Embarrassment” and “When Cai Zhengren Meets Hua Wenyi.”106 These reports not only fueled the kunqu fever in Taipei but also added a touch of the legendary to the entire event. Hua Wenyi and the SKC’s performances ignited Taiwan’s passion for kunqu in 1992. The Wenhua yishu zongping 文化藝術總評 (Cultural Arts Review), jointly organized by the United Daily News cultural group that year, concluded: For many years, Taiwan has relied on kunqu enthusiasts to support kunqu. This year, with the performances in Taiwan by the famed Hua Wenyi, the former SKC member who later stayed in the US, and the invited visit of the SKC, a kunqu craze was ignited. Recently, there have been exchanges between various kunqu troupes from China and Taiwanese kunqu enthusiasts and audience members. The Council for Cultural Affairs has hosted KCB, and the National Central University has established a kunqu research lab. The art of kunqu is gradually being promoted. Moreover, the performances in Taiwan by famous members of the SKC have invisibly stimulated a revival of vitality in kunqu. 台灣多年來一直都靠著曲會曲友支持的崑劇，在今年因旅美上海崑劇團名角華文漪的訪台演出，及大陸上海崑劇團應邀造訪，掀起一股崑劇狂熱。近年來，台灣與大陸各崑劇團陸續有交流，文建會並舉辦崑劇傳習班，中央大學且成立崑劇資料室，崑劇藝術漸獲提倡，加上「上崑」名角來台獻藝，無形刺激了崑劇又重燃生機。(Wenhuazu 1992) 106 The original title of the two articles from United Daily News are “Shangkun jiuyou zoufang Chuanxi Ban, Hua Wenyi jianchi quexi bi ganga” 上崑舊友走訪傳習班，華文漪堅持缺席避尷尬 (Old Friends from SKC Visit KCB, Hua Wenyi Insists on Staying Away to Avoid Embarrassment, Cao Yi 1992e) and “Dang Cai Zhengren pengshang Hua Wenyi” 當蔡正仁碰上華文漪 (When Cai Zhengren Meets Hua Wenyi, Cao Yi 1992f) 118 Interestingly, kunqu’s noticeable attention and visibility in Taiwan also garnered attention from China’s xiqu community. An article in the Chinese Drama Yearbook 1995-1996 titled “Raising the Flag for the Revival of Kunqu” pointed out that kunqu’s performances in Taiwan had gained a good reputation, serving as a target for saving, protecting, and inheriting kunqu to find like-minded individuals (Wu Furong 1997: 8-12). 3.4 When Kunqu Met America: From Lincoln Center to the Smithsonian Kunqu quyou 曲友 (enthusiasts or aficionados) have played an extremely important role in the dissemination of kunqu in Taiwan. What is even more intriguing, however, is that they have also been significant driving forces behind the spread of kunqu in North America. Before the 1970s, in the context of the Cold War, there was a popular saying in Taiwan: “Come! Come! Come! Come to NTU. Go, Go, Go, Go to America. 來來來, 來台大; 去去去, 去美國.” Despite being considered the top university in Taiwan, National Taiwan University (NTU) was not viewed as the ultimate destination for Taiwan’s elite at the time; instead, it was seen as a transit station. At its peak, the number of outbound students exceeded 40,000 per year. The majority chose to stay in the United States after graduation (Sheng-Ju Chan 2021: 107).107 These elite students who studied in the United States, as well as social elites who could directly find jobs that allowed their immigration, followed the example of their predecessors who had established kunqu organizations in Taiwan by founding kunqu societies in North America. 107 It is worth noting that owing to the prevailing policies at the time, which favored Mandarin Chinese and disadvantaged native speakers of Taiwanese Hokkien and Japanese among the local population, and coupled with a transient mindset toward Taiwan for those who arrived in Taiwan with the KMT regime in 1949, most immigrants who studied or worked in the United States were waisheng ren 外省人(mainlanders, referring to those arriving in Taiwan between 1945 and 1949). Their identification with Chinese culture (rather than Taiwanese culture) was also much higher than that of the rest of the people who were born and raised in Taiwan for generations. 119 This time, the Taiwanese kunqu quyou who had initially taken root in North America purely out of personal interest would, by yet another serendipitous twist, encounter what Wang An-chi called “The Second Dream” of kunqu’s revival: Chen Shizheng’s full-length 1999 production of The Peony Pavilion in New York. In this section, the central figure is the kunqu performing artist Wen Yuhang 溫宇航 (b. 1971), whom I characterize as a “second-generation kunqu master on the run.” Although Wen’s trajectory and relationship with Taiwan differ markedly from those of his predecessor Hua Wenyi, Taiwan once again plays the role of both refuge and connoisseur, extending a warm welcome to kunqu artists who, for various reasons, found themselves unable to return home in China. Wen Yuhang was a distinguished graduate of the Beijing Xiqu Xuexiao Kunju Ban 北京戲曲學校崑劇班 (Beijing Xiqu School’s Kunqu Class) in 1988. After graduation, he was employed at the Beijing Beifang Kunqu Juyuan北京北方崑曲劇院 (Beijing Northern Kunqu Theater, hereafter BNKT) since 1988, where he held the prestigious position of leading xiaosheng 小生 (male role-type).108 During the 1990s, China experienced a “spring breeze of cultural system reform” 刮著文化體制改革的春風 (Wen Yuhang 2021: 35), characterized by rapid organizational reforms within the cultural sector. This period saw significant restructuring, such as the merger of the Zhejiang Kunqu Troupe 浙江崑劇團 with the Zhejiang Peking Opera Theater 浙江京劇院 and the transformation of the Jiangsu Provincial Kunqu Company 江蘇省崑劇團 from a state entity into a corporate one. These reforms resulted in widespread 108 In kunqu, xiaosheng, or sheng 生, is a broad category that includes a wide array of male characters who possess considerable status or learning, most often both. With the exception of the daguansheng 大官生 (high officials or the emperor), they are also young. For more information about the role types, please refer Yip and Stenberg 2022: 27. 120 apprehension within the kunqu community. Despite Wen’s prominent status within his troupe, the palpable decline of kunqu during this era was undeniable. However, the overseas interest in kunqu did not decrease as much as it did domestically; rather, it increased. In 1997, Hua Wenyi’s devoted cultivation of kunqu in the United States culminated in her being awarded the Heritage Fellowship by the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA), and her subsequent participation in the award ceremony at the White House significantly enhanced kunqu’s visibility in the mainstream Western media. Another salient example is Peter Sellars’ 1998 experimental opera production of The Peony Pavilion with Tan Dun’s new music.109 This production originated when Sellars, serving as the artistic director for the Los Angeles Festival in 1990, met and invited Hua Wenyi, who had disappeared from the SKC’s tour in the U.S. a year earlier, to participate (Swatek 2002: 203). Additionally, in Hua Wenyi’s later artistic career, she devoted more efforts to promoting and teaching kunqu through the California-based Hua Wenyi Kunqu Yanjiu Xuehui 華文漪崑曲研究學會 (Hua Wenyi Kunqu Research Association, also known as Huakun Yanjiushe 華崑研究社 (Hua’s Kunqu Research Society), within the Chinese migrant communities and universities in the United States. Beyond the gradually increasing visibility mentioned above, kunqu truly became a notable term within the American arts community primarily due to the fallout from the collaboration between the Lincoln Center and the Shanghai Kunqu Company in 1998—a striking example of political interference in the arts. This interference seemed to challenge the American ethos of freedom, making kunqu a hot topic in news reports from the latter half of 1998 through 1999. Originally, the Lincoln Center, New York-based Chinese American director Chen Shi-zheng, and the Shanghai Kunqu Company announced cooperation in staging a “complete” 109 For more information about this production, please refer to Swatek 1997: 313-25 and 2002: 203-30. 121 version of The Peony Pavilion at “Festival 98.” The promise of a complete and traditional version generated considerable buzz, with major American newspapers like The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal frequently describing the show as ancient, original, and complete. However, this cultural event was abruptly canceled because SKC was denied permission to leave China, which, coinciding with a visit by President Bill Clinton to China, triggered extensive media scrutiny.110 The order was given by Ma Bomin, the director of the Shanghai Municipal Bureau of Culture, who denounced Chen’s version as “feudal, pornographic, and superstitious” (Faison 1999). Overnight, kunqu shifted from an obscure term to a topic of widespread public fascination, with this process being protracted and continuing for over a year. The New York Times meticulously reported on each stage of the negotiations. Political intervention leading to performance cancellation is a rare occurrence in contemporary America. At the same time, another significant development was in Maryland, US, where in 1997 Chang Tong-ching 張冬青 founded Wintergreen Kunqu Society冬青崑曲社 (hereafter WKS). Her experience is representative of the trajectory of Taiwanese youth who were exposed to and fell in love with kunqu in Taiwan during that era. She joined the Chinese orchestra club and specialized in flute in high school. Later, she joined Xiao Tongqi, the amateur kunqu society, where she learned from Jiao Chengyun. Her kunqu journey stopped a few years earlier when she studied in the U.S. She then reconnected with other kunqu aficionados from Taiwan after settling down in Maryland in 1993 (Chang 2022: 9-10). In our interview, Chang shared a comprehensive list of the performances WKS had organized over the past quarter-century—an archive that 110 According to reports from sources including The New York Times, there were hopes at the Lincoln Center that President Clinton, during his visit to China at the time, might use the opportunity to speak favorably to the upper echelons of the PRC government, potentially facilitating the scheduled performance of The Peony Pavilion. Unfortunately, it was ultimately confirmed that these efforts were unsuccessful. For a detailed report, see Faison 1998. 122 underscores the group’s distinctive mission. Rather than embracing the typical literati approach to kunqu as a pastime for personal refinement, WKS sees itself as a platform to introduce this art form to mainstream American audiences. Unlike many other kunqu societies in North America—which generally consist of Chinese-descended participants from Taiwan, most of whom already have some kunqu background—Chang’s WKS explicitly aspired to situate kunqu within mainstream American cultural and performing arts venues.111 The following table (Table 3.1) offers a summary of select performances organized by the WKS in the 1990s. These events reflect the Society’s ambition to present kunqu as a refined art form within mainstream U.S. performing arts spaces. The information included here has been reconstructed from available promotional materials, performance programs, and ticketing records. While some titles and descriptions follow the wording of the original sources, others have been lightly paraphrased for clarity and consistency. Chinese characters for performer names are provided where available; missing names or incomplete cast information reflect the limitations of the archival materials consulted. 111 Among the available archives, the major kunqu societies in the U.S. include: The Kunqu Society 海外崑曲研習社 founded in 1988 and registered in 1989 in New York, Chinese Kwun Opera Society美西崑曲研習社 in Los Angelas in 1990, The Society of Kunqu 崑曲藝術研習社 and Society of Kunqu Arts 崑曲藝術研習社 founded in Maryland in 1995. WKS was originally part of The Society of Kunqu, but due to ideological differences, it branched off in 1997. (Tong-ching Chang was interviewed by Yuning Liu at her home in Maryland, U.S., 2022/07/07.) These kunqu societies mostly serve as amateur pastimes and promote kunqu within their communities but also provide crucial platforms for kunqu artists who either travel to or reside in the United States for development purposes—whether for long-term residency or short-term visits. 123 112 The titles and kunqu-related terminology used in this table are based on information found in program booklets published in various years. As a result, some translations are less commonly used nowadays, and there may be discrepancies in the translations of the play titles. Date Location Repertoire112 Ticket 1995 /6/16 Baird Auditorium, Natural History Museum, The Smithsonian Association, Washington D. C. Titled “Chinese Kunqu Opera Theater” (Including Performance and Lecture) “Descending the Mountain” 下山, performed by Cai Qinglin 蔡青霖 and Shi Jiehua史潔華,113 accompaniment by the percussionist Zhensheng Wang 王振聲, lecture by Ben Wang General Admission (GA) $17114 1997/2/8 National Gallery of Art, Washington D. C. Titled “The Beauty of Kunqu” Includes Ben Wang’s lecture and demonstrations of scenes from The Peony Pavilion (performers unknown) 1997/3/1 Baird Auditorium, Natural History Museum, The Smithsonian Association Titled “Chinese Kunqu Opera Full Performance with Lecture” 1. Lady Hu, the Woman Warrior by Yongqing Shang 2. The Devil in a Flowering Nun by Liang Guyin梁谷音 3. “Broken Bridge” from the Legend of White Snake, performed by Cai Zhengren蔡正仁, Grace Wang, and Yongqing Shang GA $17 1998 St Mary’s College of Maryland Included Kunqu video screening, Chinese Opera Workshop: Music, Chinese Opera Workshop: Acting, a lecture titled “The Aesthetic Dimensions of Chinese Thought” and two Beijing Opera Performances: “An Emperor’s Legendary Romance” and “Farewell, My Concubine” (performers unknown) 1999/5/22 Baird Auditorium, Natural History Museum, The Smithsonian Association The Peony Pavillion: “Interrupted Dream” 驚夢 and “Pursuing the Dream” 尋夢, performed by Liang Guyin and Wu De-hang 吳德璋 GA $19 124 113 Cai Qinglin, a leading kunqu performer of clown roles, and Shi Jiehua. a leading kunqu performer of vivacious young female roles, are both graduates of the Shanghai Academy of Performing Arts and former members of the Shanghai Kunqu Company. They immigrated to the U.S. and have been invited to appear in many performing art festivals in Taiwan, Spain, and the United States. Both have been resident artists of the Kunqu Society in New York since its inception. 114 The practice of charging admission fees is nearly non-existent in overseas performances of any kinds of xiqu. In my interview with Chang, she mentioned that this is a deliberate choice. She hopes that by promoting kunqu in this manner, the art form will be valued and respected, similar to the way traditional cultures from other countries are presented in North America. 2000/9/29 McNeir Hall, Georgetown University, Washington DC Titled “Chinese Kunqu Theater Performance/Workshop” 1. Introduction: What is kunqu theater? 2. Performance: “Pursuing the Dream” by Zhang Jiqing 張繼青 3. Demonstration: Kunqu performance technique by Yao Jikun姚繼昆 2000/9/30 Baird Auditorium, Natural History Museum, The Smithsonian Association “Divorce Under Duress,” “The Mad Dream,” and “Spilling the Water” from The Rotten Halve Mountain 爛柯山, performed by Zhang Jiqing and Yao Jikun GA $23 2001/7/21-22 Meyer Auditorium, Natural History Museum, The Smithsonian Association 1. “An Invocation” 題曲 from Curing the Pain of Jealousy療妒羹, performed by Liang Guyin 2. Demonstration of Flute by Chen Tao陳濤 3. “Painting the Portrait” 描容 from The Lute Song 琵琶記, performed by Liang Guyin 2001/10/20 Jefferson Auditorium, Natural History Museum, The Smithsonian Association The New York Kunqu Troupe in Selected Scenes from The Peony Pavillion, performed by Wang Taiqi 王泰祺, and Pan Jinlian, performed by Shi Jiehua, Chen Zhiping, and Cai Qinglin GA $21 125 2002/10/5 Baird Auditorium, Natural History Museum, The Smithsonian Association The Legend of the Jade Hairpin, performed by Qian Yi錢熠 and Wen Yuhang溫宇航 GA $24 2003/9/13 New York Chinese Scholar’s Garden Titled “Kunqu Theater in a Chinese Scholar’s Garden” 1. “Stealing a Poem” from The Jade Hairpin, performed by Qian Yi and Wen Yuhang 2. “Ghost Lover” from Water Margin by Qian Yi and Guo Yi 2004/5/14-16 Sackler Gallery, Level 1 and Meyer Auditorium, The Smithsonian Association Titled “Kunqu Theater: Drama in the Temple” and program included: 1. “Longing for Worldly Pleasure” 思凡 2. “A Lawsuit to Heaven” 陽告 3. “Joy of the Fisherman” 漁家樂 and “A Lawsuit to Heaven” GA $21 2006/5/5 Lydia Mendelssohn Theatre , University of Michigan (Part of Musiking Late Ming China Conference) “Arranging a Match” 說親 and “Making a Response” 回話 from The Butterfly Dream 蝴蝶夢, performed by Liang Guyin and Liu Yilong 劉異龍 2006/5/7 Chicago, Claudia Cassidy Theater (Sponsored by University of Chicago and Chicago Cultural Center) 1. “Borrowing Tea” 借茶 and “Snatched by a Ghost” 活捉 2. “Escape by Boat” 藏舟 Co-Presented by Liang Guyin, Liu Yilong, and Wen Yuhang 126 2006/8/4 Sackler Gallery, Level 1, The Smithsonian Association Titled “Emperors and Consorts in Motion: Chinese Kunqu Theater” and provided lecture-demonstrations. 2006/8/5 Meyer Auditorium, Natural History Museum, The Smithsonian Association Titled “Chinese Kunqu Theater,” including The Palace of Eternal Youth, performed by Qian Yi 2008/4/2 St Mary’s College of Maryland “Longing for Worldly Pleasures” A Scene from Records of an Evil Sea, performed by Yang Ling楊玲 2008/5/19 Miller Operations Center (Sponsored by Headquarters, US Army Materiel Command, G-3/5) Titled “Asian Pacific American Heritage” “The Interrupted Dream” from The Peony Pavilion, performed by Wen Yuhang 2008/6/13-14 Titled “Chinse Kunqu Theater” Introduced by Professor David Rolston Day 1: 1. “The Fortune Teller” 測字 from Fifteen Strings of Cash十五貫, performed by Ji Zhenhua計鎮華 and Liu Yilong 2. “Kneeling by the Pond” 跪池 from The Roar of the Lioness 獅吼記, performed by Liang Guyin and Wen Yuhang 3. “Sweeping under the Pine” 掃松 from The Lute 琵琶記, performed by Ji Zhenhua and Liu Yilong Day 2: 127 1. “Arranging a Match” 說親 and “Making a Response” 回話 from The Butterfly Dream, performed by Liang Guyin and Liu Yilong 2. “The Lotus Song” 蓮花 from The Embroidered Silk Robe繡襦記 by Wang Taichi and Yang Ling 3. “The Sorrowful Witness” 慘賭 from The Massacre of Thousands of Loyalists 千忠戮 , performed by Wen Yuhang and Ji Zhenhua 2011/6/18-22 Freer & Sackler Galleries, Level one, The Smithsonian Association Titled “UNESCO Proclamation of Kunqu 10-year anniversary” Day 1 The Palace of Eternal Youth, performed by Li An黎安, Shen Yili沈昳麗, Qing Yi, and Yu Bin余彬 Day 2 “Longing for Worldly Pleasures” from Records of an Evil Sea, and “Borrowing the Magic Fan” from Journey to the West Days 3 & 4 Makeup and acting workshop 2014/3/17 Hunter College, Music Department Titled “A Recital of Qingyi (female role-type) Arias from Selected Kunqu” by Yang Ling 2014/4/26 Carleton College (MN) (Co-sponsored by Melody of Dragan 神州中樂團) “A Poem on a Script” 題曲 from Curing the Pain of Jealousy, performed by Shen Yili 2016/11/11 Hoff Theater, University of Maryland (Co-sponsored by Confucius Institute at the UOM) 1. “Interrupted Dream” and “Pursuing the Dream” from The Peony Pavillion, performed by Shen Yili, Ni Hong倪泓, and Hu Weilu 胡維露 2. “Fleeing Down the Mountain” from Records of an Evil Sea, performed by Hou Zhe 侯哲 and Ni Hong 128 Table 3.1 The complete list of WKS events between 1995-2009. Such a venture was no small feat. With logistical considerations in mind, she set her sights on the Smithsonian Institution—one of the world’s largest museum, research, and education complexes. To this end, Chang invited leading kunqu masters, also known as the “pandas,” to perform in the DC–Maryland region, including Cai Zhengren蔡正仁, Liang Guyin梁谷音 and Yue Meiti 岳美緹 from the Shanghai Kunqu Company and Zhang Jiqing 張繼青from the Suzhou Kunqu Company. To effectively engage potential new fans, Chang personally hosted each event, offering pre-performance talks and ensuring the presence of English surtitles throughout. Such features, common today, were rare in the 1990s, when English-language resources and translations related to kunqu were difficult to find, as preparing complete surtitles was extremely time-consuming and challenging. Apart from the unwavering support of her husband—an economics professor with a deep love for classical music, ballet, and photography but having no kunqu background—Chang struggled with limited manpower and a high turnover rate among her staff. Consequently, she took on multiple roles: producer, on-site coordinator, emcee, translator, interpreter, and liaison to the performers. In short, her passion for kunqu propelled her to handle almost every aspect of WKS productions.115 115 As Chang entered into her senior years and the distribution of audiovisual materials became more available, coupled with the challenges to personnel mobility during the COVID-19 pandemic, there has been a notable 2019/6/8-9 Meyer Auditorium, Natural History Museum, The Smithsonian Association Day 1: “Courting through the Zither,” “Visiting at the Sick Bed,” “Stealing a Poem,” “Forced Departure,” and “Autumn River” from Legend of the Jade Hairpin, performed by Shen Yili and Hu Weilu Day 2: “Arranging a Match” from The Butterfly Dream, performed by Shen Yili, and “Fleeing Down the Mountain,” performed by Hou Zhe and Ni Hong 129 However, one crucial piece of the puzzle, often overlooked, is the Smithsonian Institution’s own interest in kunqu. In an interview, Michael Wilpers, the curator of Chinese programs at the Smithsonian from 1995 to 2022, repeatedly highlighted how he and his colleagues avidly followed every development in the Shanghai Kunqu Company’s Peony Pavilion production at Lincoln Center between 1997 and 1999—likening it to awaiting the next installment of a serialized television drama. Their intrigue deepened when media reports emerged revealing that Peony Pavilion had failed to pass China’s censorship on grounds of being “excessively erotic” and “feudal.” This news, in particular, kindled the curiosity of museum staff regarding the previously unfamiliar term kunqu. What had initially seemed like mere “gossip” turned into a major topic of informal conversation among museum personnel.116 Then, with Chang’s unwavering persistence in reaching out, the doors to collaboration between WKS and the Smithsonian swung open.117 Initially, the collaboration was not paired with special exhibitions but usually with occasional Asian art nights or special festivals like Lunar New Year, where the WKS was invited to provide the performance of traditional Chinese art. 2004 was the first time that the two parties collaborated on a curatorial basis and marked the first time that kunqu and the exhibition’s reduction in the frequency of kunqu performances hosted by the WKS in recent years. However, this should not be construed as a diminution of the WKS contributions. In 2023, Kunqu Masters on Chinese Theatrical Performance won the American Society for Theatre Research (ASTR) Annual Translation Award’s honorable mention, which serves as the best evidence of WKS contribution. Sponsored by WKS, this is the first performance-focused kunqu anthology published in English, with the purpose of documenting kunqu in the non-Mandarin speaking world. The project Kunqu baizhong dashi shuoxi 崑曲百種 大師說戲 (Masters’ Lectures on One Hundred Kunqu Scenes), first published in Mandarin in 2015, is a comprehensive and systematic exposition of performances of 109 scenes in the traditional kunqu repertoire, presented by twenty-nine contemporary kunqu masters. Twelve out of 109 representative lectures were authorized by Yip Siu Hing葉肇鑫 and edited by Josh Stenberg at the University of Sydney in Australia; work on the anthology was funded and supervised by WKS and took six years to complete. The translations set out to document the exquisite performance art and unique oral transmission process of kunqu, faithfully presenting it to the Western theater world, where these contents previously were only accessible to those familiar with Chinese and passionate about xiqu. Now, with translated versions available, kunqu will be more accessible to the general public and mainstream society outside of the Mandarin-speaking world. 116 Michael Wilpers, interviewed by Yu-ning Liu, at Teaism restaurant in DC, 2022/07/08. 117 Tong-ching Chang was interviewed by Yu-ning Liu at her home in Maryland, U.S., 2022/07/07. 130 collection came into direct contact. Wilpers mentioned that he invited Chang Tong-ching to propose several plays set in Buddhist temples to echo the special exhibition titled “Return of the Buddha.”118 After several rounds of discussion, Chang proposed three kunqu performances titled “Drama in the Temple,” including three scenes, Sifan 思凡 (Longing for Worldly Pleasures), Yangguo 陽告 (A Lawsuit to Heaven), and Cangzhou 藏舟 (“Hidden Boat” from Joy of the Fisherman). All feature a temple setting, require very few actors to perform. and can be performed in a relatively small space. Why did the Shanghai Municipal Bureau of Culture ultimately bar the production from touring overseas right before its premiere? The principal reason can be distilled to a single point: it failed to live up to the widely held view of kunqu as refined and elegant. Despite being promoted as “reviving a fully complete version of a Ming-dynasty masterpiece” in the posters and websites, the resulting production resembled a “hodgepodge” of various traditional theatrical elements (Swatek 2002: 231). This likely stemmed from the fact that the production’s director, Chen Shi-zheng, was not a kunqu specialist; his expertise lay in Huaguxi (花鼓戲, or “flower drum opera”), a more folk-oriented and less refined form of traditional Chinese theater. Not only did Chen lack the means to present a fully authentic kunqu interpretation of The Peony Pavilion in the United States, but he also had no intention of doing so. In an interview with The New York Times, he openly remarked, “This time, we’re not going to call it kunqu. […] It uses kunqu music, but we’re just going to call it my interpretation of Tang Xianzu’s work and not refer to any particular tradition” (Oestreich 1999). 118 This exhibition, as its name suggests, is a very rare exhibition of Buddha stone sculptures outside of China. The statues were discovered in 1996 in Qingzhou, Shandong Province, China, where a group of workers were preparing the ground for another construction project and accidentally unearthed a shallow pit containing hundreds of Buddha sculptures dating back to the sixth century and estimated to have been interred there in the 12th century. See Nickel 2002: 5-6. 131 This divergence in expectations—namely, what truly constitutes the kunqu Peony Pavilion—was undoubtedly a key factor behind the decision to halt the show’s travel to New York after the dress rehearsals. Since this so-called “complete kunqu rendition” was declared to be “the first appearance” of China’s most refined culture in the United States, it was deemed unacceptable for it to be untraditional, unorthodox, and lacking in elegance. According to Nigel Redden, the then-president of Lincoln Center who flew to China to negotiate after learning the conflict, “[t]he Shanghai Culture Bureau considers itself the guardian of kunqu,” while Chen’s production had allegedly “misrepresented kunqu style” (Oestreich 1999). Indeed, from the perspective of the PRC government, Chen’s artistic approach amounted to self-orientalization, an affront to Chinese culture that could not be tolerated. The performance scheduled for 1998 was ultimately canceled despite extensive negotiations. Nevertheless, Director Chen Shi-zheng refused to surrender to the setback. Given it was no longer possible for the entire troupe to travel, he approached potential participants individually. The original lead actress from the SKC, Qian Yi錢熠, affirmed her participation in this new ensemble, and Wen Yuhang from the BNKT seized the opportunity when the original lead actor withdrew. In 1999, at the same Lincoln Center Festival, The Peony Pavilion was finally staged after a one-year delay, with only the director, lead actress Qian Yi, and flutist and orchestra leader Zhou Ming 周鳴 from the original cast. The rest of the cast, musicians, and crew, hailing from diverse backgrounds—some long-term immigrants in the United States from different xiqu genres and some coming more recently from China with different excuses—formed a patchwork ensemble. However, Director Chen’s aspiration to present an authentic and original Chinese culture through a kunqu performance remained unchanged. He steadfastly planned to stage all 55 scenes of The Peony Pavilion—a 19-hour performance spread over three 132 consecutive days. His commitment to showcasing his interpretation of the national character of Chinese culture, lowbrow and highbrow, involved representing a wide array of xiqu, folklore, and musical art forms on stage, essentially embodying an extreme representation of self-orientalization.119 The completed version of The Peony Pavilion in New York created a sensation, and the narrative of its being banned by the Chinese authorities for alleged feudal, superstitious, and erotic content added greatly to its allure. The Lincoln Center featured it as the opening performance for “Festival 99,” which, in addition to achieving prolonged box office success, drew curators and chairpersons from over a dozen other international arts festivals who came to view and subsequently invite the production to tour. After the performances concluded in New York, this version toured Caen, Paris, and Milan in Europe. The presence of the French Prime Minister at the performance in Paris, accompanied by cultural staff from the PRC’s Embassy, signified a shift in political sentiment. While the discourse within China shifted from portraying the play as a “humiliation of Chinese culture” to a national treasure worthy of being showcased to foreign dignitaries, the actors who had participated in the banned performances, such as Qian Yi and Wen Yuhang, remained on China’s no-fly list, unable to visit home until late 2021. From 1999 to 2005, the complete version of The Peony Pavilion toured globally, with the exception of 2002, when all scheduled tours were canceled in the aftermath of the September 11 attacks. Overall, this tour of The Peony Pavilion significantly elevated the global profile of kunqu, a notable benchmark being its designation as a UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage on 119 For example, after the character Du Liniang dies, a mourning hall is erected on stage, followed by a procession of mourners and the plaintive singing of dirges. Funeral papers were burned on stage and distributed to the audience. Such folkloric displays, mediated through the performance of The Peony Pavilion, were presented to the American audience one by one. While these appeared oriental, exotic, and spectacular, the rendition, if judged by the standards of pure kunqu, could only be described as a significantly diluted version. 133 May 18th, 2001. Another significant influence caused by this version was the inception of the youth version of The Peony Pavilion produced by Kenneth Hsien-yung Pai.120 In an interview with me, kunqu enthusiast Wang Xiyi 王希一 noted that without the Chen version preceding it, Pai might not have been inspired to create his own rendition of The Peony Pavilion.121 Part of his rationale was that if Chen’s version had not claimed to be an authentic and complete representation of The Peony Pavilion, only to turn out to be a highly sensationalized mishmash, there would not have been a perceived need for Pai to create a more refined and culturally accurate version in response. Indeed, the youth edition of The Peony Pavilion produced by Kenneth Hsien-yung Pai in 2004 has been performed worldwide over five hundred times in the two decades,122 serving as a true revival of both The Peony Pavilion and kunqu in the contemporary era. 3.5 Wen Yuhang Rooted in Taiwan For Wen Yuhang, choosing to leave China at the height of his stage career to participate in a banned play was a decision made with full awareness of the potential consequences, including 120 Kenneth Hsien-yung Pai believes that while cultivating young actors to pass on the craft of kunqu is essential, developing a youthful generation audience is equally important. The so-called qingchun ban 青春版 (Youth Edition) aims to draw young spectators to kunqu by featuring young actors. Pai’s influence facilitated collaboration across various fields, involving experts like Hua Wei 華瑋, Zhang Shuxiang 張淑香, and Xin Yiyun辛意雲 in scriptwriting, film director Wang Tong 王童 in costume design, calligrapher Dong Yangzi 董陽孜, and painter Xi Song 奚淞, each showcasing their expertise. Notable Hong Kong writer Gu Zhaoshen 古兆申 and cultural scholar Zheng Peikai 鄭培凱 served as consultants. From its premiere in March 2004 to May 2024, the original cast performed nearly 500 shows over twenty years, attracting 800,000 viewers and visiting over forty universities. The troupe has toured the United States, the United Kingdom, and Greece. It is not an exaggeration to regard this production as the pinnacle of the contemporary revival of both The Peony Pavilion and kunqu. 121 Wang Xiyi, interviewed by Yu-ning Liu. Wang Xiyi’s place in Maryland, US. July 8th, 2022. 122 Pai Hsien-yung (also known as Kenneth Pai, 1937-) is a prominent Taiwanese writer and cultural figure. He is also the author of the short story Youyuan jingmeng 遊園驚夢 (Wandering in the Garden, Waking from a Dream), which centers on a kunqu actress in exile in Taiwan. The story draws heavily on The Peony Pavilion and has been interpreted as a reflection on nostalgia, cultural memory, and diasporic identity. 134 being placed on China’s no-fly list and the likelihood of being barred from performing on Chinese stages for an extended period. However, this choice led him down a profoundly different path. During his subsequent years in the United States, Wen Yuhang experienced significant personal and professional growth. He learned English and expanded his repertoire, enhancing his skills beyond his previous acting achievements. During her visits to the U.S. to see her daughter in Maryland, Yue Meiti, a renowned actor from the Shanghai Kunqu Company, taught Wen Yuhang five plays, including Yuzan ji 玉簪記 (The Jade Hairpin) and Cangzhou 藏舟 (“Hidden Boat” from Joy of the Fisherman).123 It is counterintuitive to think that one might have better opportunities to learn traditional kunqu abroad. Yet, in fact, the relatively leisurely pace of life overseas often provides the chance to seize on the presence of visiting masters. Additionally, in the context of North America, where there is a scarcity of skilled practitioners, the traditional hierarchies and rigid structures of the xiqu circle, such as the strict hierarchies between lead and supporting actors, are less stringently observed. For instance, stars might be more willing to play minor roles due to a shortage of performers.124 Consequently, for Wen Yuhang in North America, learning from masters outside the Northern kunqu tradition was perfectly acceptable. Moreover, he engaged extensively with the North American kunqu community. It was through his close connections with the Taiwan kunqu enthusiasts Wang Xiyi and Zhang Huixin in 123 In our interview, Wen Yuhang mentioned that he originally knew only one scene, “Qintiao” 琴挑 (Courting through the Zither), from The Jade Hairpin, which he learned from Master Shen Shihua 沈世華 during his school years. During a break in the Peony Pavilion tour in the winter of 2001, he studied additional scenes such as “Wenbing” 問病 (Inquiring about the Illness), “Toushi” 偷詩 (Stealing the Poem), and "Qiujiang” 秋江 (Autumn River) with Yue Meiti, which later facilitated his performance in the smaller complete version of The Jade Hairpin in Taiwan. In 2023, Wen Yuhang passed on this version, inherited from Yue Meiti and Shen Shihua, to two young Taiwanese students, Wang Peixuan 王佩宣 and Xie Le 謝樂 (See Wen Yuhang 2023). 124 For instance, in the full-length production of The Peony Pavilion, the only performer who portrayed a single role was the female lead, Qian Yi. Even Wen Yuhang, the male lead, played a minor role as a fanjian 番將 (barbarian general) in the fifteenth scene, “Lu Die” 虜諜 (Captive Spy) (Wen 2022: 81). In another instance, during a performance at the Smithsonian Museum, Wen Yuhang’s senior, Ji Zhenhua, surprisingly played a role where he simply stood on stage without any lines throughout the performance (Tong-ching Chang interview). 135 Maryland that Zhu Huiliang 朱惠良, a former legislator who also ran for Vice President of Taiwan, had the opportunity to invite Wen to participate in the annual grand performance of Shihou ji 獅吼記 (The Roar of the Lion) by the Lanting Kunju Tuan 蘭庭崑劇團 (Lanting Kun Opera Troupe) in Taiwan,125 thereby initiating his enduring engagement with Taiwan. This period marked the beginning of the most creatively fruitful era in Wen Yuhang’s career. Wen Yuhang’s collaboration with the Lanting Kun Opera Troupe marked the beginning of frequent travels between the United States and Taiwan in subsequent years.126 In 2010, Wen joined Taiwan’s national jingju troupe, GuoGuang Opera Company(GGOC), as a full-time, in-house actor, and later, in 2022, he relinquished his American citizenship to become a Taiwanese national.127 His choices and depth of engagement with Taiwan differ significantly from those of his senior, Hua Wenyi. Since his encounter with Taiwan, Wen has studied the Jiangpai 姜派 (Jiang School) of jingju,128 performed both jingju and kunqu, taught and transmitted various scenes in the kunqu repertoire to kunqu aficionados, served as a shenduan zhidao 身段指導 (director of movement, poses and gestures) in gezaixi 歌仔戲 (Taiwanese opera), and directed in Hakka theater troupes. Wen’s influence is more significant than just kunqu, as his encounters and 125 The Lanting Kun Opera Troupe was established in May 2005 by Zhu Huiliang, Xiao Benyao 蕭本耀, and Wang Zhiping 王志萍. The troupe’s name “Lanting” is in homage to the late jingju and kunqu luminary Gao Huilan 高蕙蘭(1946-2001), who founded the original troupe “Lanting Yiyuan” 蘭庭藝苑 in 1994. This initiative seeks to perpetuate her profound dedication to kunqu. See https://peony-pavilion-in-motion.weebly.com/about-us.html 126 Wen Yuhang’s collaborative projects with the Lanting Kun Opera Troupe include a variety of productions that showcase his versatility and commitment to kunqu. These collaborations encompass several notable performances: xiaoquanben 小全本 (A smaller complete version) of The Roar of the Lion (2006), the modernized kunqu, Xunzhao youyuan jingmeng 尋找遊園驚夢 (Searching for Visiting the Garden, A Dream Disturbed, 2007 and 2010), Baibian kunsheng jingdian zhezixi xuancui 百變崑生經典折子戲選粹 (An Anthology of Classic Kunqu Male Role Highlights, 2008), and Changsheng dian 長生殿 (The Palace of Eternal Life, 2009). 127 Wen Yu-hang interviewed by Yuning Liu. GGOC, Taipei, Taiwan. Oct 25th, 2022. 128 The founder of the Jiang School was Jiang Miaoxiang 姜妙香(1890-1972), a renowned jingju xiaosheng artist who collaborated with Mei Lanfang for forty-six years. In 2012, Wen Yuhang became a disciple of Lin Maorong林懋榮, a successor in the Jiang School tradition. 136 mutual development were with the two primary theatrical forms in Taiwan, jingju and kunqu, and with other forms as well. Despite having been formally trained in kunqu from a young age, Wen likens his transition to jingju to “being reborn,” emphasizing that each theatrical genre has its own distinct codes, making it necessary to “start again from scratch” 猶如重新投胎一般，畢竟隔行如隔山，一切要從零開始 (Wen Yuhang 2014: 20). While it is not unheard of for performers in jingju troupes to occasionally stage kunqu excerpts, the opposite shift—from kunqu to jingju—is rare. When Wen first arrived at GGOC, in addition to performing kunqu pieces on a regular basis, he was also required to tackle jingju roles. During his initial two years, he assumed characters such as Hai Jun 海俊 in Baihua gongzhu 百花公主 (Princess Hundred Flowers) and the relatively minor role of Xue Liang 薛良 in Saolinnang 鎖麟囊 (The Jewelry Purse). These early performances drew criticism that his vocal enunciation was “jingju colored by kunqu intonation” 帶有崑腔的京腔. 129 Wen acknowledges the considerable challenges of delivering the high-pitched, forceful passages typical of jingju, echoing the stark observation of his mentor Lin Maorong 林懋榮: the singing style in jingju—particularly among younger, more robust performers—leans toward a strident, resonant approach, as if one is “shouting through a megaphone” 那是少壯派聲勢力竭的，扯著大喇叭嗓子可通的灌 (Wen Yuhang 2012: 10). This comment foregrounds the rigorously demarcated techniques unique to each xiqu form, underscoring why it can feel like “being reborn” when kunqu actors cross over into the realm of 129 Such evaluations were very common in Wen Yuhang’s early jingju performances, for example, Wang Dewei (David) mentioned in a critique, “The actor playing Kangxi, Wen Yuhang, originates from a kunqu background and has crossed into the realm of jingju. While his singing and speech still carry hints of kunqu, his overall performance is commendable” 康熙飾演者溫宇航出身昆曲科班，跨界京劇小生，唱念仍有昆味，但總體表現可圈可點 (Wang David Der-wei 2015: 3) Also see Wen Yuhang 2014: 20. 137 jingju. Yet Wen Yuhang was determined not to be pigeonholed as a jingju performer with merely a trace of kunqu flavor. He sought out training in the Jiangpai 姜派 (Jiang School), a lineage less famous among contemporary xiaosheng (young male lead) actors than the Ye School (founded by Ye Shenglan 葉盛蘭), but one that emphasizes “gentleness and elegance, as well as a profound and ethereal quality” 柔緩文雅，甚至清空、幽邃, an aesthetic in close accord with kunqu (Wen Yuhang 2017: 8-9). In 2012, Wen held a grand ceremony in Taiwan to formally become a disciple of the Jiang School. Because the Jiang School’s place in modern times had diminished, especially in the aftermath of the Cultural Revolution when many of its plays were lost or had no successors, several productions had effectively disappeared. Wen’s apprenticeship, however, was not merely a symbolic gesture or an attempt to solidify his standing in a jingju troupe. Over the years, he worked assiduously to master the Jiang School’s “Eight Great Plays” (Jiangbachu 姜八齣). He even revived Wenliangzhan 溫涼盞 (The Warm and Cool Cup),130 a play his own teacher, Lin Maorong 林懋榮 (1941-2024), had learned but was barred from performing during the Cultural Revolution. Similarly, other rare works—such as Pinxue bianzong 評雪辨蹤 (Tracing in the Snow)—have been resurrected for contemporary audiences on both sides of the Taiwan Strait primarily through Wen’s efforts, gradually reaching performance stages throughout Taiwan. In 130 The story of The Warm and Cool Cup centers on the character Zhang Yuanxiu 張元秀, a poor scholar played by Wen Yuhang, who goes into the mountains to gather firewood and seeks shelter from a snowstorm in a mountain temple. There, he discovers a porcelain bowl, which he regards as a treasure—the warm and cool cup. Upon returning home, he tells his wife of his plans to travel to the capital to present the treasure to the emperor, hoping for a high position and wealth. At this moment, a neighboring beggar, Wang Er 王二, visits and recognizes the bowl as his own begging bowl, accusing Zhang of theft. Disheartened and disillusioned, Zhang faints and accidentally shatters the porcelain bowl. Left with no other choice, he compensates Wang Er with the only three coins he has in his home. For more information on the long absence of The Warm and Cool Cup from the xiqu stage and its eventual revival in Taiwan, refer to the detailed accounts by Wang An-chi 2017: 8-9 and Wen Yuhang 2017: 10-11. 138 this manner, a kunqu actor-turned-jingju xiaosheng has painstakingly pieced together these lost works, returning them to the spotlight of modern theater. While Wen Yuhang’s individual accomplishments are remarkable in their own right, his role as a professional kunqu performer, and the potential “nourishment” he brings to a jingju troupe, may be even more compelling. This dynamic highlights the ongoing process by which Wen and the GGOC strive to harmonize their respective theatrical heritages. Prior to Wen’s involvement, GGOC’s xinbian jingju新編京劇 (newly written jingju or modernized jingju) may have occasionally employed non-traditional jingju melodies and elements, yet rarely incorporated kunqu arias. For example, GGOC’s most famous xinbian xi, Jinsuo ji 金鎖記 (The Golden Cangue), predominantly employed pihuang 皮黃 melodies,131 both original and adapted xipi 西皮 and erhuang 二黃 tunes, and integrated elements of Beijing folk tunes,132 but did not feature any tunes from the kunqu repertoire. After Wen Yuhang joined the GGOC, where new scripts were often crafted with specific performers in mind, almost every production featuring Wen included some element of kunqu singing. Yet integrating kunqu into these shows without jarring the audience demanded a coherent storyline rationale and a cohesive musical design. A representative case in point is Shuixiu yu yanzhi 水袖與胭脂 (Water Sleeves and Rouge). Set in a fictional xiqu “kingdom” or utopia where everyone is connected to the theater—be they actors, devoted xiqu fans, or 131 Pihuang is the collective term for Xipi and Erhuang, which are the two most important melodic systems in jingju. Each has its own distinct musical style and characteristics. They serve as the primary musical forms used in jingju to express various emotions and situations. Generally speaking, Xipi is lively and brisk, with a relatively fast tempo and a high-pitched tone. It is often used to convey emotions such as enthusiasm, excitement, joy, or tension. In contrast, Erhuang is steady and deep, with a slower tempo and a low-pitched tone. It is typically used to express emotions like sadness, melancholy, solemnity, or contemplation. 132 In The Golden Cangue, traditional folk tunes and street vendor calls from Beijing are employed. According to music designer Li Chao李超, the melodies were inspired by the calls of vendors selling their wares in the alleys of Beijing. Cao Qiqiao曹七巧, the main character, was born in a bustling environment and would naturally hum these colloquial and straightforward tunes. For more information, see Guo Jun-Yan 2019: 131-133 139 characters who can no longer return to their real-world identities—the production embraces multiple xiqu forms. By design, it melds jingju and kunqu into its performance structure: on the surface, this integration appears to be a narrative device, while on stage, the interplay between jingju and kunqu not only shines on its own merits but also merges into a harmonious whole. Apart from modernized jingju, since Wen formally joined the GGOC in 2010, there has been at least one traditional kunqu performance per year (often in the form of zhezixi excerpts). In these performances, Wen is not the only one assuming a leading role in kunqu; other cast members also need to master additional zhezixi from the kunqu repertoire in order to perform onstage alongside him; most of them are former students of the KCB project mentioned in the previous section. In 2012, GGOC’s annual production, Liang Shanbo yu Zhu Yingtai 梁山伯與祝英台 (The Butterfly Lovers), was a newly composed kunqu—an unprecedented endeavor for a jingju troupe. Prior to this, GGOC had produced only one kunqu piece, The Phoenix Hairpin, in 1997, during a period when Hua Wenyi was actively teaching and performing in Taiwan. Unlike The Butterfly Lovers, which was a new artistic venture in kunqu composition, The Phoenix Hairpin was essentially a restaging of an existing work rather than an original Taiwanese production. First premiered by the Shanghai Kunqu Theater in 1981, the play dramatizes the tragic love story of the poet Lu You 陸游 and his lover Tang Wan 唐琬. When GGOC revived it in May 1997 at the National Theater in Taipei, the production was directed by Shen Bin 沈斌 of the Shanghai Kunqu Theater, with Gao Huilan 高蕙蘭 as Lu You and Hua Wenyi as Tang Wan. The revival closely followed the original Shanghai Kunqu Theater staging, emphasizing continuity with its established interpretation rather than innovation. Hence, the significance of the two kunqu productions differs markedly: while The Phoenix Hairpin was essentially a 140 recreation of an existing production, The Butterfly Lovers marked GGOC’s first foray into an original kunqu creation.133 The newly composed The Butterfly Lovers, authored by Zeng Yong-yi and revised by Wang An-chi, is not only of deep personal significance to Wen Yuhang but also stands as a landmark creative endeavor by the GGOC in the development of original kunqu productions. After premiering in Taiwan, the production was staged in 2015 at Beijing Guojia Dajuyuan北京國家大劇院 (National Centre for the Performing Arts in Beijing), one of China’s most prominent contemporary arts venues. This marked Wen’s official return to China’s stage after having been effectively “erased” from the domestic performing arts scene, fulfilling his long-held yearning to return home and once again shine on Beijing’s stage. For GGOC, The Butterfly Lovers showcased Taiwan’s capacity to mount an accomplished kunqu production despite lacking a roster of professional kunqu actors, thanks to its strengths in scriptwriting, directing, and stage and costume design. Two elements especially capture the literary and modern outlook of GGOC’s productions. First is the meta-theatrical framing at the beginning and end of the play, featuring a newly created character, a village elder portrayed by Tang Wenhua. Though not part of the original Butterfly Lovers tale, the elder has grown up hearing this elegant love story passed down by villagers. Now standing before the legendary grave of Liang and Zhu, he retells the tale that shaped his imagination. His voice 133 In 1954, the Zhejiang Kunqu Company adapted Shiwu guan 十五貫 (Fifteen Strings of Cash), a production credited with reviving an entire genre of kunqu. During the 1950s and 1960s, a trend of composing and adapting new works became prevalent among various troupes in China. However, given the isolation between China and Taiwan, these new kunqu did not influence Taiwan. In 1992, following the opening of cross-strait exchanges, the Shanghai Kunqu Company was the first professional xiqu company to perform in Taiwan. The efforts of Professors Zeng Yong-yi and Hong Weizhu further spurred a kunqu resurgence in Taiwan. In 1997, the newly established Guoguang Opera Company invited Hua Wenyi, to perform alongside GGOC’s leading performer, Gao Huilan 高蕙蘭. They staged The Phoenix Hairpin, marking the first major kunqu production by GGOC and the debut of the newly written kunqu on Taiwan’s stage. 141 sometimes trembles with personal emotion as he speaks, inserting reflections and sorrow into a narrative he heard repeatedly from the village elders and deeply cherishes. Through his telling, the ancient story comes alive once more, gradually giving way to the unfolding of the original plot. Second is the addition of a scene titled Chimeng zhaxing 癡夢乍醒 (Awakening from an Infatuated Dream), which does not appear in other versions of The Butterfly Lovers. This scene depicts Zhu Yingtai, on the verge of entering into a forced marriage, dreaming of wedding Liang Shanbo; within that fleeting dream, they consummate their union and luxuriate in a moment of unfettered romance, tenderly gazing at one another. By granting a brief, “complete” realization of love—absent from most tellings of this tragic love story—GGOC offers the audience a momentary vision of happiness.134 Both the meta-theatrical technique and the richly rendered emotional arc reflect GGOC’s characteristically literary and contemporary approach to staging. As Wen Yuhang frequently remarks, “Although I left BNKT, I have not left the kunqu community” 我雖然離開北崑，但我沒有離開崑曲界. In truth, he not only remained deeply involved in the kunqu community but also carried it to ever more places—physically, through performances that left footprints across numerous locales, and artistically, by merging kunqu with other art forms, including jingju, gezaixi and huaju. Perhaps most significant is the way Wen Yuhang has helped kunqu take root in Taiwan: not only nurturing a new generation of kunqu performers but also reviving plays from the classical repertoire, thereby ensuring their preservation. 134 As noted by the playwright He Jiping 何冀平 in her drama review, “The couple consummates their love in a dream, but at that very moment, news of Liang Shanbo’s death arrives. This interplay of appearance and disappearance, life and death, joy and sorrow, and the contrasting colors of red and white drive the drama to its climax.” 兩人完成愛情於夢境，燕爾之時傳來梁山伯死訊，這一現一滅，一生一死，一歡一悲，一紅一白把劇情推至高潮. See He Jiping 2015. 142 3.6 Conclusion: Inter-Genre Interactions on and beyond the Island Reflecting on the intersection of kunqu and Taiwan over the past few decades, one observes not only performances rooted in the traditional repertoire that maintain master-disciple lineages but also an increasing number of cross-genre collaborations. The year 2004, with the premiere of the Qinchunban 青春版 (youthful version) The Peony Pavilion in particular, marked a clear turning point, as evidenced by the founding of the “Half Q Troupe (1/2 Q 劇團),135 and the production of Qiuyu honglou 秋雨紅樓 (Autumn Rain on the Red Chamber) by the Shang Le Fang 賞樂坊 (Solefer Taiwanese Opera).136 The latter draws on the subplot of the “Eryou 二尤 (You Sisters)” from Dream of the Red Chamber, performed mostly as a gezaixi. However, it also features a “play within a play” that stages a kunqu scene, “Qintiao” 琴挑 (Courting Through the Zither), thereby weaving together parallel storylines both inside and outside the drama. Under the artistic direction of Zhou Zhigang 周志剛 from the Shanghai Kunqu Theater, this production’s lines and singing style exhibit heightened refinement—moving away from what is typically regarded as rustic and colloquial. In addition, the physical movements were designed by Zhu Xiaoyu朱曉瑜, also of the Shanghai Kunqu Theater, thus rendering the production even more polished. Its 135 Founded in 2004, 1/2 Q Theater Troupe is known for its innovative approach to blending traditional and contemporary theatrical elements. The name “1/2” symbolizes the troupe’s unique combination of backgrounds, being neither entirely traditional xiqu nor thoroughly modern theater. The letter “Q” derives from the phonetic similarity to kunqu and represents “half kunqu, half unknown.” Emphasizing cross-disciplinary collaboration, the troupe explores diverse forms of storytelling, bridging the gap between classical and modern audiences while redefining the boundaries of performance art. 136 Although Shang Le Fang is primarily a gezaixi 歌仔戲 (Taiwanese opera) troupe, its name is derived from a line in the kunqu The Peony Pavilion, specifically from the “Garden Strolling” scene: “Whose courtyard hosts such delightful affairs” 賞心樂事誰家院. The troupe’s introduction explicitly states its openness to cross-genre influences. The troupe is dedicated to developing local theater—gezaixi—while embracing diversity. By incorporating refined theatrical forms such as jingju and kunqu, it enriches the essence of gezaixi, creating a distinctive genre of “Neo-Classical” gezaixi. 143 principal creator is Chen Yanfen 陳嬿棻, a former student of Taiwan’s KCB (Kunqu Transmission and Training Program) and currently the head of Solefer Taiwanese Opera. This innovative confluence of two theatrical genres achieves a deft interplay and fusion by positioning kunqu as the “play within a play” in a gezaixi production. Beyond reflecting kunqu’s influence on gezaixi forms after its introduction to Taiwan, what is perhaps more noteworthy is that Taiwan does not have a traditional kunqu model that requires safeguarding. This circumstance provides greater flexibility and latitude for innovation, dissemination, and experimentation. This evolutionary diversification of kunqu, and the corresponding movement toward refinement in other Taiwanese theatrical forms, finds perhaps its best illustration in Xiuru meng繡襦夢 (The Dream of Embroidered Robe), a new experimental kunqu piece jointly produced over three years by the GuoGuang Opera Company and the Yokohama Noh Theater. It comprises three distinct segments. The first is a zhezixi from the traditional kunqu repertoire, “Beating the Son” from The Embroidered Robe (Xiurou ji: “Dazi” 打子), which featured Tang Wenhua 唐文華 and Wen Yuhang 溫宇航 in the lead roles. Set in the Tang dynasty, it tells the story of the scholar Zheng Yuanhe鄭元和, who travels to the capital for the imperial examinations. There, he falls in love with the famed courtesan Li Yaxian 李亞先. Yet after a lavish sojourn in the pleasure quarters and the squandering of significant sums of money, he becomes impoverished, ultimately forced to sing for a living. After knowing this, Zheng’s father beats him severely and leaves him unconscious in a desolate wilderness. The second segment is the Japanese dance Shio-kumi 汐汲, based on the classical Noh play Matsukaze. It recounts the story of Matsukaze, a fisherwoman who falls in love with Yukihira, a banished member of the imperial family. When Yukihira eventually returns to the capital without a word, Matsukaze is consumed by longing. As she goes to the seashore to fetch 144 water, the scene triggers memories of their once-intimate past, now reduced to a wistful recollection. The third and most crucial segment reworks the original kunqu The Story of an Embroidered Robe but reverses its happy ending in a tragic turn as Xiuru meng繍襦夢 (The Dream of an Embroidered Robe). By this point, Zheng Yuanhe, the young adult beaten by his father, has grown old and frail, haunted by the past. Confronted with the embroidered robe woven by his lover, Li Yaxian—a garment that now appears as a spiritual manifestation—he and Li’s spectral presence revisit their shared history, bearing witness to a love that transcended mortal confines yet was inevitably destined to end. Ultimately, their journey ends in a dream, all returning to emptiness. Rather than viewing The Dream of an Embroidered Robe simply as a cross-cultural creation combining Noh and kunqu, it is more fitting to regard it as a process of reimagining how kunqu might be adapted for the Noh stage. This aligns with Shen Huiru’s 沈惠如 observation that “the conventions and form of the Noh stage dictate this play’s narrative structure” 能劇舞台的形制決定敘事結構 (Shen Huiru 2020: 76). In the “phantasmic Noh” tradition, a traveler—portrayed by a secondary actor—arrives at a renowned locale and serves primarily to introduce the setting while engaging in minimal stage action. Subsequently, a local figure appears, played by the principal actor in two iterations: the “pre-main” role and the “post-main” role. The local figure first recites a legend, then reveals, “I am in fact the spirit of so-and-so from this story,” and disappears. Another intermediary role takes the stage briefly, offering more details of the legend while giving the principal actor time to change costume. Eventually, as day breaks, the spirit reemerges in its former mortal guise to recount its memories in dance, only to vanish once more, leaving the traveler’s experience as nothing but a dream. Drawing on Noh’s narrative 145 structure and pacing, the GuoGuang Opera Company retitled Xiurou ji as Xiurou meng, transforming the original plot into “one long dream” and thereby crafting a highly experimental, cross-cultural production. In doing so, the production exemplifies how cross-cultural experimental theater, instead of compromising, can synthesize, contrast, and perform elements distilled from a nuanced understanding of multiple artistic traditions. Although both Noh’s gestures and kunqu’s refined physicality embody rigorous precision, each projects its own distinctive cultural atmosphere. Through the motif of “the robe,” two six-hundred-year-old performance traditions forge a powerful link within the production, generating a striking creative spark on stage. As Japanese theater critic Jun Ōoka notes and as translated by Zhang Zhenzhou, “This production attempts to blend traditional Japanese music with Taiwanese xiqu music, thereby achieving a fusion of kunqu and a dreamlike Noh aesthetic.” 這齣戲嘗試了日本傳統音樂與台灣戲曲音樂的融合，實現了崑曲與夢幻能的交融 (Zhang Zhenzhou 2018). Returning to the broader encounter between Taiwan and kunqu, because Taiwan does not bear the burden of preserving a “pure,” time-honored model of kunqu, there is more latitude for innovation and experimentation, even as some traditional kunqu excerpts are preserved and passed on. This unencumbered environment has, in turn, offered contemporary kunqu fertile ground for further exploration, cross-genre collaboration, and continual expansion of its creative possibilities on the modern stage. 146 Chapter 4: Ersatz Folk: The Ideal Non-local Bentu Yuju Theatrical Genre in Taiwan I arranged to meet Ms. Chu Hai-shan朱海珊,137 the leading xiaosheng 小生 (young, dignified male) actor of the Taiwan Yuju Tuan 台灣豫劇團, at the entrance of the company. While waiting for her to arrive from the rehearsal hall, I noticed that the English name on the company’s signboard was “Taiwan Bangzi Opera Company.” This translation is particularly intriguing because several alternatives could have been chosen: Taiwan Henan Opera Company, Taiwan Yuju Company or Taiwan Yu Opera Company.138 The choice of bangzi 梆子 (“clapper”) refers to the primary percussion instrument used in yuju 豫劇 (Yu opera, also known as Henan opera), while “yu” is an abbreviation for Henan Province in China.139 This deliberate choice highlights “Taiwan” and “bangzi” and emphasizes yuju’s connection to Taiwan while downplaying its association with China. The act of emphasizing and de-emphasizing serves the same purpose: to assert the legitimacy of yuju—an art form with no genealogical ties to 137 Chu Hai-shan, whose given name is Chu Mei-li 朱美麗, is a Taiwanese yuju performer specializing in the xiaosheng role type. She was admitted to the first cohort of the Luguang Yuju Dui 陸光豫劇隊 (Luguang Yuju Troupe) in 1968. Beginning in 1984, she joined the Taiwan Bangzi Company, frequently performed alongside Wang Hai-ling 王海玲, known as the “Queen of Taiwanese Yuju,” and became the Company’s leading xiaosheng until her retirement in 2023. She continues to serve as a guest vocal coach, language consultant, and rehearsal director. 138 In fact, in the 1950s newspapers and magazines, headlines often featured phrases like “Feima Yuju Tuan Henanxi Gongyan” 飛馬豫劇團河南戲公演 (Feima Yuju Troupe Henan Opera Performance), indicating that the term “yuju troupe” alone was insufficient for audiences to identify the theatrical genre or generate enough attraction. It had to be explicitly associated with the specific region of “Henan” in China to provide clarity. For further reference, see historical photographs archived by the Kaohsiung Museum of History: https://nrch.culture.tw/view.aspx?keyword=%E6%B2%B3%E5%8D%97%E6%88%B2&advanced=&s=234801&id=0004506087&proj=MOC_IMD_001. 139 The bangzi percussion instrument is not exclusive to yuju. In fact, because this instrument is used in numerous regional theatrical forms, it has even come to be associated with a broader musical system—a large group of genres originating from Shaanxi Province. In short, while yuju uses the bangzi instrument, not all performances that use the bangzi are yuju. However, because Taiwan lacks other theatrical genres that use the clapper as their primary instrumental accompaniment, the terms bangzi and yuju have become uniquely interconnected and mutually referential within the Taiwanese context. 147 Taiwan—within the contemporary Taiwanese context. The translation almost reads as a manifesto, effectively foregrounding the main points I highlight in this chapter: Why is yuju performed in Taiwan, and how does yuju in Taiwan differ from yuju in China? To address these questions, an examination of yuju as a regional theatrical genre is necessary. 4.1 Inventing “Difang” The concept of the invention of difang 地方 (locality) is heavily influenced by The Invention of Tradition, edited by Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger, a collection of various historians’ essays. Hobsbawm argues that these invented traditions play a crucial role in forming modern national identities (Hobsbawm and Ranger 1984; Thiesse 2021). By creating and promoting such traditions, the state legitimizes its institutions and structures of authority, a collective historical narrative, and consolidates a shared set of values and beliefs. Building on this premise, I introduce the notion of “inventing locality.” This refers to creating and/or reimagining places that previously did not exist within a nation’s consciousness, thereby contributing to a broader national identity. In this process, the physical and cultural characteristics of a given location become integral to how that place is imagined and represented. I focus on how yuju was absent from Taiwan before the retreat of the Republic of China government and, most importantly, how it became an example of the invention of the locality. As a form of xiqu (traditional Chinese theater), yuju was incorporated into the state discourse of the Republic of China (Taiwan) as a symbolic representation of “locality.” Although the government governed only Taiwan and its surrounding islands, it reimagined its national territory as encompassing all of mainland China. Yuju thus became a tool to promote this expansive national 148 narrative. The effectiveness of yuju in fulfilling this role lies in its unique ability to integrate language (dialects), local customs, folklore, music, and storytelling traditions, which collectively imbue it with a strong sense of regional cultural identity. In the case of Taiwan, however, the invention of locality is not only significant but also uniquely intertwined with the process of imagining the nation through an imagined landscape. Thomas M. Lekan’s Imagining the Nation in Nature: Landscape Preservation and German Identity, 1885-1945 (2009), examines the intertwining of landscape preservation and German national identity. He argues that if the nation-state is an imagined community, the landscape serves as an essential medium through which the “nation” is imagined. He notes that movements for landscape preservation often emerge in response to industrialization and urbanization or when a country faces internal turmoil, external aggression, or the need to suppress internal dissent. Following Lekan’s argument, I contend that the process of imagining the nation through the landscape grows even more complex when yuju is invented as a “local” genre in Taiwan. This phenomenon entails envisioning both the locality and the landscape within the larger project of imagining the nation. An illustrative example is Liu Chia-chang’s 劉家昌 (1943–2024) patriotic anthem “Zhonghua mingguo song” 中華民國頌 (Ode to the Republic of China), composed after the ROC severed diplomatic ties with the United States. The lyrics vividly exemplify how an imagined landscape reinforces national identity: The grasslands of Qinghai, boundless to the eye, The Himalayas, peaks connected to the sky, Ancient sages and wise men built their homeland here, Standing firm for five thousand years through wind and rain. Republic of China, Republic of China, 149 It withstands all tests, as long as the waters of the Yellow and Yangtze Rivers flow; Republic of China, Republic of China, Eternal for a thousand autumns and ten thousand generations. 青海的草原，一眼看不完， 喜馬拉雅山，峯峯相連到天邊， 古聖和先賢，在這裡建家園， 風吹雨打中，聳立五千年， 中華民國，中華民國， 經得起考驗，只要黃河長江的水不斷； 中華民國，中華民國，千秋萬世直到永遠。 By explicitly invoking landscapes located outside Taiwan—iconic mountains, the Yellow River, and the Yangtze River—the anthem bolsters a nation-building imagination through geographical symbolism. Within the field of xiqu, difang plays a critical role in the formation of theatrical genres, as local particularities almost entirely determine each genre’s defining features. Here, difang contributes concrete elements of regional specificity—whether musical style, language, or other cultural elements—thus making the concept more directly “operational” than the more abstract conceiving of the nation atop an imagined landscape. When the concept of difang is applied to yuju in Taiwan, the situation may be likened to transplanting a plant species from a cold climate into a tropical environment. In this new setting, the plant is suddenly deprived of the nutrients its original habitat once provided. In other words, the transition of yuju from China’s local performing art into a representative cultural artifact of the ROC possessing regional attributes, and ultimately, its reinvention within the nation-state, unfolds through a complex trajectory. Historically, various xiqu genres developed in different regions of China as early as the Ming dynasty. Despite sharing the fundamental method of “he gewu yan gushi” 合歌舞演故事 150 (combining song and dance to narrate stories), these genres differ significantly in style resulting from their adaptation to local dialects, folk songs, musical systems, instrument availability, dance traditions, costuming, and other aspects of regional aesthetics. Such variations infuse each genre with a distinct folkloric character marked by strong regional and cultural identities. For instance, one nickname for yuju, kaoshanhou 靠山吼 (“Mountain Backed Roar”), points to the geographical contexts in which it was frequently performed, where actors had to project their voices forcefully from mountainside stages. This necessity in turn shaped yuju’s vocal style, emphasizing benseng 本嗓 (natural or chest voice, in contrast to falsetto) techniques characterized by robust, resonant, and dynamic vocal qualities—demonstrating how geographical conditions could directly influence a theatrical genre’s artistic attributes. Although the roots of these theatrical forms are deeply bound to particular regions, local festivals, and even staple crops,140 their conceptualization as difang xiqu 地方戲曲 (regional traditional Chinese theater or regional xiqu) and subsequent classification under that label emerged much later. Before this classification, such theatrical forms were typically named by pairing an abbreviation of a region’s name with a term for theater. For example, yueju 粵劇 (Cantonese opera) takes yue 粵 (an ancient name for Guangdong) and combines it with ju 劇 (drama/theater). The semantic shift toward using the word difang 地方 was closely intertwined with the rise of the modern nation-state. In this context, difang functions opposite the central government, denoting smaller administrative units that, taken collectively, comprise the nation. 140 For example, Huang Zhigang黃芝崗 examines the connections between folk theatrical traditions and activities such as herding cattle, tea picking, wood gathering, fishing, and agricultural work from planting rice seedlings to harvesting. (1951: 124-131) 151 In contrast to the central state’s emphasis on uniformity—such as standardized language systems or art forms such as kunqu and jingju that represent the nation—these “regions” are characterized by their diverse and heterogeneous nature. This includes dialects, hybrid expressions, folk traditions, colloquialisms, and slang. These elements carry a dual implication; on the one hand, they are intimately connected to the lives of ordinary people in specific geographical locations; on the other hand, they are often seen as lacking the sophistication associated with higher fine arts. At the same time, difang occupies a nuanced position. As May-Bo Ching argues in “Literary, Ethnic or Territorial?—Definitions of Guangdong Culture in the Late Qing and the Early Republic,” the formation of Guangdong culture exemplifies the tensions between local cultural identities and broader notions of Chinese national culture, as well as the ways in which the concept of Guangdong culture was continuously negotiated and redefined in response to shifting political and social contexts (Liu and Faure, 51-53). A region is simultaneously part of the nation and, by its distinctiveness, may exclude other regions within the nation. This tension is particularly evident in difang xiqu, which heavily showcases local dialects, colloquialisms, and folk songs. In short, the selection and reframing of regional culture within the central-state-defined framework of difang can be seen as an artificial construct, one that redefines organically developed local traditions in ways that align with the ideological needs of the nation-state. This dual nature of difang is evident in the transformation of regional theatrical forms like huangmeixi 黃梅戲 (Huangmei opera). In Rendering the Regional: Local Language in Contemporary Chinese Media, Edward W. Gunn uses huangmeixi films as an example to illustrate how this regional theatrical form, originating from rural areas in Hubei and Anhui provinces, underwent significant transformations when adapted for the screen. Gunn highlights 152 how these transformations erased regional features to construct a more generic and idealized image of China (97). Additionally, Wilt L. Idema’s study of the Huangmei opera film Tianxian pei 天仙配 (Married to a Heavenly Immortal) demonstrates how the use of Mandarin, rather than the original local dialects, enabled the film to transcend regional boundaries and expand its audience and market base. However, Idema also questions whether such a choice allows it to continue being considered a regional form, given its detachment from its origin’s specific linguistic and cultural markers (8-9; 23). A similar phenomenon can be observed in Siyuan Liu’s article “The Great Traditional/Modern Divide of Regional Chinese Theatrical Genres in the 1950s,” which traces how the concept of “regional” emerged in relation to small folk theatrical genres that were explicitly standardized or even dissolved during processes of modernization and urbanization. This analysis reveals the flexibility of the concept of region in difang xiqu—locality is not limited to geographical divisions but also encompasses the cross-regional development of performance styles, themes, music, and genres (Liu 2018: 157–158). Before difang xiqu became a concept defined by the central state, it originated as an artistic form developed in specific regions. To better understand the role of yuju in Taiwan, I trace its historical trajectory through three stages. The first stage, “rooted in the land,” refers to the development of yuju in the Zhongyuan 中原 (Central Plains) region of China, the meaning of the name closer to a concept of central China than a specific geographical location141 profoundly 141 Zhongyuan is an important concept in China’s history and culture, encompassing geographical, cultural, and political significance. Geographically, it refers to the central region of China located on the middle and lower reaches of the Yellow River, including present-day Henan, Shanxi, southern Hebei, northern Anhui, and western Shandong. This region is characterized by flat terrain, fertile soil, and abundant water resources, making it a historic hub for agriculture and civilization. Culturally, Zhongyuan is the cradle of ancient Chinese civilization and is regarded as the core of “Huaxia” 華夏 (Chinese) civilization, representing traditional Chinese culture. Politically, there has long been a saying, “De Zhongyuan zhe de tianxia” 得中原者得天下 (Whoever controls Zhongyuan controls the nation), highlighting its status as the political heart of China and vital foundation for national governance. Over time, Zhongyuan has also frequently come to symbolize “China” or Chinese cultures as a whole. 153 shaped by local dialects and customs. The second stage, “detached from its locality,” occurred because of the Chinese Civil War (1927-1949) and geopolitical shifts, during which yuju migrated from Henan to Vietnam and eventually arrived in Taiwan. The third stage, “becoming local,” saw yuju redefined as part of Taiwan’s regional culture, influenced by the KMT’s nostalgic vision of the Chinese homeland and its reaffirmation of its legitimacy in representing China. In this way, yuju became integrated into Taiwan’s regional theatrical forms. 4.2 The Homeland of Yuju To consider yuju in Taiwan as an example of displacement is based on an assumption that yuju has a proper homeland that nurtured the growth of the genre. It is crucial to understand how yuju functions as an artificially introduced “non-native species” in Taiwan, an environment lacking the original soil and ecological conditions that once nurtured it. I draw inspiration for this ecological metaphor from Anna Lowenhaupt Tsing’s 2015 work, The Mushroom at the End of the World. Tsing explores how certain species, such as matsutake mushrooms, flourish in unexpected and often challenging habitats—environments not native to them. By emphasizing the ways these organisms adapt to and reshape local ecosystems, Tsing reminds us that survival in foreign terrain demands negotiation with local conditions, cultural practices, and even global economic forces. Just as Tsing posits that matsutake mushrooms thrive in forests altered by human activity, yuju in Taiwan is in a theatrical landscape drastically different from its homeland. Here, it must contend with linguistic shifts, altered cultural reference points, and the need to locate—or generate—sufficient “nutrients” to sustain its growth. But before delving into these processes of relocation and adaptation, it is imperative to understand the environment in 154 which yuju originally developed. Only by examining the fertile ground that first nourished yuju can we fully grasp the implications of its transplantation to Taiwan. Among China’s various arts, xiqu has a strong tendency to be connected to a home base, which includes but is not limited to dialect, regional language habits, local slang, and regional tunes and ditties. Most of these local characteristics are related to language and music. The main factors that distinguish the more than three hundred xiqu genres from each other are the music model system 聲腔 (shengqiang) and dialect. According to Elizabeth Walczak Wichmann, whose work focuses on jingju (Beijing opera), a xiqu music system 聲腔系統 (shengqiang xitong) is conceptualized as the source of vocal music which consists of a series of hierarchical units, such as melodic-phrases 腔 (qiang), metrical types 板式 (banshi), and modes 調式 (diaoshi) (1991: 54). The type of the music model system used in each xiqu genre reflects the linguistic characteristics used in that form, which is mainly influenced by the linguistic variants used in the dialects, each having different sounds, intonations, vocabulary, and syntax. Highlighting the relationship between xiqu, music systems, and language thus foregrounds each genre’s local specificity. I interpret this localization as an aesthetic integration—and a form of communal agreement—among people inhabiting a particular area, especially prior to globalization’s widespread impact. Yuju, frequently lauded as one of the most prominent difang xiqu (regional xiqu genres) following the introduction of the collective umbrella term difang xiqu, exemplifies this perspective. As traced and researched by scholars in Zhongguo yuju 中國豫劇 (Chinese Yuju), there are four principal theories of yuju’s origins: The first theory suggests that yuju originated from the folk arts of Henan, developing organically from the region’s local traditions. The second links yuju’s emergence to bangzi tune styles, 155 commonly derived from Qinqiang 秦腔 (Qin opera) or Shan-Shaan Bangzi 山陝梆子 (Shanxi and Shaanxi Bangzi opera). The third theory ties yuju to xiansuo弦索 (strings),142 and this connection is interpreted in two ways: some believe that yuju developed by incorporating music to stringed instruments and other theatrical arts into Henan’s folk traditions, while others argue that yuju evolved directly from xiansuo. The fourth theory focuses on bangluojuan 梆鑼卷, a xiqu tradition that merged three distinct styles (Henan bangzi, luoxi, and juanzi) as described in Li Lüyuan’s 李綠園 mid-Qing novel Qilu deng 歧路燈 (Lamp at the Crossroads); this latter style is also frequently referenced in debates on yuju’s origins (Han Deying, Yang Yang, and Yang Jianmin 1999: 18–24). Despite variations among these four theories, all of them underscore the importance of regional contexts in shaping yuju. Here, “region” does not necessarily align with modern administrative boundaries such as provinces. Rather, proximate localities often cultivate related musical or vocal systems. For instance, the “bangzi family” denotes a group of theatrical forms that derive from folk melodies widespread in northern China. Such family resemblances manifest in genres such as Shan-Shaan bangzi, Shandong bangzi (today’s lüju), Hebei bangzi, and Henan bangzi (today more generally recognized as yuju). Primarily rooted in the northern regions, this bangzi musical system draws a sharp line between yuju’s native environment and Taiwan’s southern, subtropical setting. Linguistically and culturally aligned with the south, Taiwan thus provides an intriguing—and somewhat improbable—habitat for a genre born in northern soil. 142 According to Shi De-yu 施德玉, xiansuo is a vocal performance style accompanied by stringed instruments such as the sanxia 三弦, pipa 琵琶, and zheng箏 (Shi De-yu 2017: 10–11) 156 Additionally, the above-mentioned origins also emphasize yuju’s regional musicality. As noted, yuju primarily employs the clapper as its main percussion instrument and is often regarded as belonging to the banqiangti (板腔體 banqiang-form) musical structure. As the name suggest, banqiang form can be broken down into two words, ban, referring to metrical types, and qiang, referring to both melodic-passages (唱腔 changqiang, or aria music) and modal systems. Based on the rules of the banqiang form, the bangzi musical system has its own modal characteristic patterns and its own metrical types, which are combined with the intonation of the language in the sound composition (Wichmann 1991: 292). As one of the major xiqu forms in China, yuju has a highly distinctive regional tendency, with almost all of its troupes concentrated in the Yellow River Valley. Zeng Yong-yi 曾永義 and Shi De-yu 施德玉 identify several musical features characteristic of the bangzi melodic system: (1) a vocal style marked by strength, boldness, and ruggedness; (2) the use of both yinzi 引子 (preludes) and guomen 過門 (instrumental transitions), interspersed in varied ways; (3) diverse banshi 板式 (metrical patterns) that produce differing levels of musical intensity; and (4) a tendency in the overall musical structure to end on strong accents (2011: 702–703). When this genre moved into urban settings and began to address audiences beyond its original homeland, these very traits—especially under the influence of intellectuals in the 1920s and 1930s who contributed to innovations in yuju—were harnessed to meet social demands. As a result, yuju acquired a heightened sense of masculinity and resolve in its development of patriotic-themed productions. These intellectuals included Fan Cuiting 樊粹庭, a key figure in the Yusheng she 豫聲社 (Yu Sheng Society), who wrote many patriotic plays during the 1920s and 1930s. Chen Suzhen 陳素貞, a renowned performer of the time, frequently 157 starred in these productions. Although they were led by a female star, the plays nonetheless conveyed a pronounced sense of heroic and masculine energy—as evident from their titles, including Ling yunzhi 凌雲志 (Aspiration Soaring to the Clouds), Di chixue 滌恥血 (Blood that Washes Away Shame), and Tianrang hen 天壤恨 (Grief Spanning Heaven and Earth). Through these collaborative efforts, yuju absorbed more pronounced patriotic and heroic dimensions, further solidifying the genre’s masculine and resolute characteristics.143 These direct and robust qualities of yuju are often associated with northern elements of Chinese culture, and regions with yuju troupes are all situated north China, as already noted. Once these defining attributes of the genre are considered, the convergence of yuju and Taiwan appears even more surprisingly “accidental.” In this light, Lin Xinghui 林幸慧—former Artistic Director of the Taiwan Bangzi Troupe—has aptly likened Taiwan’s yuju to “flowers blossoming in arid land” 旱地開花 (Lin 2014: 58). 4.3 Yuju’s Tortuous Path to Taiwan Yuju reached Taiwan by way of a small island off the coast of Vietnam, where it remained “in transit” for over three years before finally arriving in Taiwan. The starting point of the encounter of yuju and Taiwan is Phu Quoc Island, Vietnam. This is not only related to the second phase of the Chinese Civil War (1945-1949),144 but also to the Cold War context. Civil wars could cause 143 For more information on the Yu Sheng Society and Fan Cuiting, see Wang Zhennan 1951. 144 The Chinese Civil War occurred in two major phases. The first phase (1927–1937) began when the KMT, led by Chiang Kai-shek, launched a purge against the CCP, sparking a nationwide conflict. However, the war was temporarily halted in 1937 due to the Second Sino-Japanese War (1937–1945), during which both sides formed a Second United Front to resist Japan. After Japan’s surrender in 1945, the civil war resumed, marking the second phase (1945–1949). The CCP, under Mao Zedong, ultimately defeated the KMT, leading to the establishment of the People’s Republic of China (PRC) in 1949, while the KMT retreated to Taiwan. 158 troops and people to flee, but it is unusual for them to be forced to remain in one place for long periods of time. In this case, the French government’s fear of communism, both the Communist Party of Vietnam based in the northern part of Vietnam and the CCP, caused them to place KMT soldiers fleeing Vietnam under a house arrest that lasted three years. In 1949 as the civil war was nearing its conclusion, the KMT was pushed out of China by the CCP. General Huang Jie 黃杰 of the KMT retreated with his troops from southwestern China to Vietnam. Huang Jie made the decision to “enter Vietnam by a borrowed route, and then return to Taiwan” 假道入越，轉回台灣.145 Before doing so, he asked the French government for permission in the form of a memorandum (Huang 2016: 45). On December 23, 1949, along with more than 30,000 soldiers and refugees, he arrived in Lang Son Province, one of the far northern provinces of Vietnam bordering Guangxi Province in China. He thought that they would soon be able to move on to Taiwan and reunite with the rest of the KMT army, but according to Huang’s memoirs: After our troops entered Vietnam, the enemy Premier Zhou Enlai 周恩來 broadcast to the French that the French troops in Vietnam should not allow our troops to enter the country. He also threatened the French to bear the consequences of the war. The French government in Paris was so fearful that they took the measure of placing our troops under house arrest. 我軍入越後，敵總理周恩來即向法軍廣播，責備越南的法軍，不應准許我軍入境。且大事恫嚇，要法方負起戰爭的後果。巴黎方面異常恐懼，因此才有軟禁我軍的舉措。(Huang Jie 2016: 54) 145 This sentence uses a classical Chinese rhetorical structure that emphasizes indirect strategy or a detour. The first part, “jiadao ru Yue,” literally means “borrowing the route through Vietnam to enter,” referencing a historical strategy of taking an indirect path to achieve one’s goal. The second part, “zhuanhui Taiwan,” means “then turning back to Taiwan.” Together, the phrase suggests a strategic maneuver that appears to move in one direction, but ultimately serves a different or original purpose—in this case, proceeding on to Taiwan. 159 Because of the threat posed by the CCP, the unstable situation in northern Vietnam, and the increasingly severe Cold War, Huang Jie, his army, and the refugees were forced to relocate to Phu Quoc Island from Lang Son Province, a small island off the coast of southwest Vietnam that was almost uninhabited. They were placed under house arrest there for more than three years before finally reaching an agreement with France to be reunited with the rest of the KMT army in Taiwan in the summer of 1953. The living conditions on Phu Quoc Island were primitive. Not only were there not enough houses, but there was also a lack of fresh water and almost no sanitation infrastructure. During the winter rainy season, the troops had almost no clothing to keep them warm. The pressure to feed more than 30,000 people under such conditions soon overwhelmed the French government; they were only able to provide 450 grams of rice and a few dried fish per person per day on a humanitarian basis (Huang 2016: 58). Despite this, the French army did not dare to release the KMT troops because France was losing the war in North Vietnam, particularly in the Red River Delta. If the KMT troupes were released back to Taiwan, this action would be seized upon by the CCP as a valid excuse to invade Vietnam. The expansion of communism in the world and the intensification of the Cold War made the return of KMT soldiers and civilians to Taiwan seem unlikely. In such an isolated, unpleasant environment, surrounded by illnesses and captivity, Huang Jie and his army’s Zhenggong Dui 政工隊 (Political Work Team, PWT) encouraged the military and civilians to organize theatrical amateur troupes to relieve their nostalgia.146 According to Chang Shiou Yun 張岫雲 (1923-2024), Taiwan yuju’s founding ancestress: 146 Military recreation activities centered on xiqu were quite common at the time, largely because vast numbers of soldiers and civilians had arrived in Taiwan from mainland China without local support networks or other forms of entertainment. In response, the government promoted the slogan “soldiers performing for soldiers, soldiers singing 160 The soldiers and civilians on Phu Quoc Island came from all over China, so there were more than a dozen theater troupes of various kinds of xiqu forms, including jingju (Beijing opera), yuju (Henan opera), yueju (Cantonese opera), xiangju (Hunan opera), chuanju (Sichuan opera), jinju (Shanxi opera), huaguxi (flower-drum opera), yueju (Yue opera), pingju (Ping opera), huaju (spoken drama), etc. 當時富國島上的軍民來自全[中]國各地方，因此，島上各式劇種的劇團即多達十幾個，其中包括京劇、豫劇、粵劇、湘劇、川劇、晉劇、花鼓戲、越劇、評劇、話劇等等。(Fu and Fang 2003: 38) 147 Many of these regional xiqu genres, including yuju, survived in Taiwan by relying on military patronage—a trajectory practically predetermined from the outset. Yet, among all of these transplanted forms, yuju stands alone in continuing to flourish after more than fifty years. One key reason for this sustained success lies in two notable figures: Chang Shiou Yun herself—a trained yuju performer—and, later, Wang Hai-ling 王海玲, the foremost star of Taiwan yuju. Because Chang was the only professional actor among these soldiers and refugees—famous in Henan under the stage name Wanli Yun 萬麗雲,148 the Political Warfare Troops invited her to establish a yuju troupe. for soldiers—entertaining themselves and others” 兵演兵、兵唱兵，娛己娛人. Consequently, a range of regional xiqu genres took root in Taiwan, including jingju, minju (Fujian opera), chuanju (Sichuan opera), pingju (Ping opera), yueju (Yue opera) and yuju. See Yang Guifa 2001. In 1950, Colonel Lü Xinxian呂心賢, commanding officer of the 617th Regiment of the 206th Youth Army Division, actively searched for performers experienced in yuju to entertain his troops. Under Lü Xinxian’s and Yang Guifa’s leadership, the Army’s Huanglong Yuju Troupe 陸軍黃龍豫劇隊 was eventually founded (Yang Guifa 2001: 5). Special thanks to Section Chief Cheng Yao-chang鄭曜昌 of the Taiwan Bangzi Opera Company for sharing Mr. Yang Guifa’s unpublished manuscript. 147 Jingju’s inclusion on this list is somewhat unusual, especially considering that it had already been nationalized at this time. On the class spectrum, it was considered more “elite” than other so-called local xiqu forms. However, before its nationalization, jingju was indeed part of the huabu 花部 (flower section) in the “Hua-Ya dispute,” meaning it belonged to the more popular and folk-oriented category. This reflects not only Chang’s perspective on jingju but also how these performers viewed the encounters between xiqu forms and their new locations, whether Phu Quoc Island or Taiwan, after leaving China. 148 The stage name Wanli Yun 萬麗雲 carries a deeply positive and evocative meaning. It can be roughly translated as “Beautiful Clouds Across the Miles,” where “Wan” 萬 (ten thousand) signifies “vastness” and suggests grandeur and far-reaching influence. “Li” 麗 means "beautiful," highlighting elegance and grace, while “Yun” 雲 refers to “clouds,” often a symbol of freedom, fluidity, and aspiration. Together, the name evokes a sense of boundless beauty and prominence, reflecting Chang’s artistic reputation and celebrated status in the world of yuju. 161 Although Chang was already a renowned performer in Henan, her role there primarily involved meeting audience expectations. Spectators would request specific plays, and she would perform them within her familiar role type (dan, female roles), catering to what the audience wanted to see. However, her three years of house arrest on the Phu Quoc Island were entirely different. First, there were no knowledgeable yuju audiences on the island. There were also no actors who could match her skill level, no capable wenwu chang 文武場 (musicians responsible for accompaniment), no zhupai 主排 (play arrangers akin to modern directors) to oversee productions or guide rehearsals, and most critically, no scenery or scripts. Every play she performed relied entirely on what she could recall from memory. These challenges, however, honed her ability to engage deeply in the creative process and made her distinct from yuju performers who remained in their hometowns, operating within the comfort zone of Henan’s yuju ecosystem. Chang’s circumstances forced her to take on a more central role full of agency in the creation and adaptation of performances, setting her apart as an innovator and an artist capable of thriving in adversity. With the help of her husband Li Jiutao 李久濤, Chang tested her theatrical viability on Phu Quoc Island by performing a scene titled “Guanwen” 觀文 (Reading the Document) from the play Qin Xuemei 秦雪梅. The play’s two characters are Qin Xuemei 秦雪梅, the young female protagonist performed by Chang, and Qin’s lover Shang Lin商林, the young male protagonist, performed by a xiqu enthusiast Du Qianyun 杜倩筠. The choice of performing this scene was definitely a strategic one. The scene’s compact cast and reliance on expressive singing made it manageable in the absence of elaborate sets, large ensembles, or skilled supporting performers. It also allowed Chang to highlight her artistry, particularly her mastery of the dan role type, capturing the audience’s attention and showcasing the enduring appeal of yuju even 162 under challenging circumstances. The applause from the audience gave Chang a lot of confidence, and she then established the small-scale Xinsheng Yuju Tuan 新生豫劇團 (Xinsheng Yuju Troupe, 1950-52). Following this, Chang staged her first full play, Nanyang Guan 南陽關 (Nanyang Pass), a traditional wuxi 武戲 (military drama) that focuses on martial arts and acrobatics and emphasizes martial themes, heroism, and action sequences. Although Chang specialized in the dan role, the leading character in Nanyang Pass was not a female protagonist but instead the loyal minister Wu Yunzhao 伍雲召, a male hero who learns of the tragic massacre of his entire family by the tyrannical Emperor Yang of the Sui Dynasty 隋煬帝. To play this role, Chang performed a role outside her specialty (fanchuan 反串, lit. “reverse acting in role type”), taking on the persona of a male general. This bold decision required her to embody the physicality and vocal power typically associated with male generals while maintaining the refined stylistic precision of yuju. The storyline of this play made it exactly the kind of morale-boosting production that the exiled soldiers needed in a foreign land. The success of Nanyang Guan contributed to yuju’s popularity among the soldiers and civilians in the camp. Its martial themes resonated strongly with the audience, boosting morale and reinforcing a sense of cultural connection amid the displacement. Moreover, the play’s dramatic narrative and visually striking scenes made it a memorable production, further cementing Chang’s reputation as a trailblazer who introduced yuju to the dispersed refugees. The success of these two performances made yuju a big hit in the camp, and more and more fellow compatriots from Henan and theater lovers approached Chang for the chance to learn and practice yuju. Chang began to teach yuju lessons daily, including singing skills, stylized movements, and conducting play rehearsals. In only a few months, she produced more 163 plays, such as Fanma ji 販馬記 (The House Trader), Taohua an 桃花庵 (The Peach Blossom Nunnery), Lianhua an 蓮花庵 (The Lotus Blossom Nunnery) and Xiangnang ji 香囊記 (The Perfume Bag). All of these plays were mainly wenxi 文戲 (civil play, or civil drama), with the focus on singing and recitation, as opposed to wuxi, making it easier for amateur performers to get started. In 1952, due to its excellent performances, the Xinsheng Yuju Troupe was promoted and reorganized under the auspices of the official Guanxun Zongchu 管訓總處 (General Administration of Training). It was renamed Zhongzhou Yuju Tuan 中州豫劇團 (Zhongzhou Yuju Troupe, lit. Central Plains Yuju Troupe, 1952-53). With the expansion of the organization, the number of performances also increased; it even began to perform some wuxi, such as Baima guan 白馬關 (White Horse Pass), Fan Lihua zhengxi 樊梨花征西 (Fan Lihua Conquering the West), and Laoyang shan 老陽山 (Laoyang Mountain), to inspire the morale of the military and the people. Ultimately, it became the most popular performance team on the Phu Quoc Island (Wang Hai-ling 2018: 14). Two features of the yuju performances during this period deserve mention: xiqu’s pedagogical approach called “kouchuan xinshou” 口傳心授 (oral-teaching method, lit. passing down heart to heart and mouth to mouth), and the improvised and highly creative use of local material. Both go back to Chang’s training experience in China. Chang began her xiqu training at the age of eight and lived the life of performing with the troupe and serving as a xibuding 戲補丁 (lit. play patch, a fill-in actor akin to a dressing filler). In 1943, she joined the Luoyang Tang Lanxiang Jutuan 洛陽湯蘭香劇團 (Luoyang Tang Lanxiang Theater Company) and began to participate in a number of major productions, including The Peach Blossom Nunnery, The Lotus Blossom Nunnery, and the series Fan Lihua Conquering the West. The troupe practiced liantai 164 benxi 連台本戲 (serial plays),149 and mubiaoxi 幕表戲 (outline plays or scenario plays)150 as its performing and creative process, which helped her to develop the ability of improvisation. With her experience as a xibuding and the guidance of famous teachers,151 she became familiar with more than twenty plays, making her well-equipped to start a new yuju troupe (Cheng 2003: 25-27). In the course of a hasty escape in the chaos of war, if the actors had not already memorized the entire play, it would have been almost impossible to imagine being able to escape with the outlines and scripts. The oral-teaching method offered the possibility to professionally survive in such a scenario. The most common way of teaching is for the teacher to demonstrate once, without any written materials, and the students to practice accordingly. In most cases, the teacher does not explain the contents until the student has completely memorized it. This teaching technique greatly emphasizes the student’s ability to duplicate the content; the more faithful the duplication, the more talented the student is generally considered to be. As a result, the actors trained by the oral-teaching method were well-versed in plays, mainly due to two factors. First is the emphasis on memorizing the whole play, where the actors are asked to remember not only their part but also other parts on the stage, including other performers’ singing and percussion patterns. The second factor is the highlighting of imitation in the learning process; students are expected to sing, speak, and perform as faithfully as possible according to the teachers’ example 149 Liantai benxi is a play that cannot be performed completely in one night. It was very famous in Shanghai in the early 20th century. Liantai benxi is famous for being performed for multiple nights in a row like a TV series, with a small climax at the end of each night to attract the audience to come back the next day. Because of the numerous performance days, it was very difficult to write out the entire fixed script, instead, liantai benxi usually are outline plays, often adapted from novels, without a complete written script and heavily relying on performers’ improvisation. In contrast, fully scripted stage plays often featured elaborate sets and highly dramatic performances. 150 As the name suggests, mubiaoxi, with only an outline and without any written lines, is a very common form of creation in local xiqu. Usually, before the show starts, a senior actor narrates the story structure, prompting the time for the actors to enter or leave the stage, and the actors improvise according to the story. After a long run, the plays will most likely produce a few fixed lines, but they may be adjusted as the actors in each performance vary. 151 In 1945, she was praised by Ma Lianliang馬連良, a famous jingju performer, at a fund-raising concert, and was taught by several teachers such as Yao Shufang 姚淑芳 and Xiao Huobian 筱火鞭 to play the huadan 花旦 (coquettish female) role type. (Cheng Yao-chang 2003: 25-27) 165 without understanding the meaning of the text. The “likeness” of imitation is a vital aesthetic principle in traditional xiqu technique. Thanks to Chang’s own training experience in the traditional xiqu industry, her thorough familiarity with yuju allowed her to teach almost all aspects of performing yuju as the sole teacher in Phu Quoc Island. Although yuju performances seem to have thrived on Phu Quoc Island, the circumstances remained those of exile and house arrest on a desolate island with scarce resources and little human habitation. Compared to the fully equipped stages of today’s xiqu productions, the conditions were extraordinarily rudimentary. Stages were makeshift setups on abandoned playgrounds or bare dirt ground. Makeup consisted of simple materials such as white powder from chalk, red iodine solution, and heiguohui 黑鍋灰 (soot from cooking pots). The basic costumes were hand-sewn from flour sacks, with patterns drawn onto the fabric. Traditional kao 靠 (armor) for characters such as military generals was crafted from canvas and burlap. Bamboo, a versatile material commonly seen on the islands, was extensively used for creating props such as horsewhips, spears, staffs, and flagpoles. It was also adapted into various headpieces covered with paper, painted, and styled for specific roles. These included officials’ shamao 紗帽 (gauze hats), crowns for royal family members, fengguan 鳳冠 (phoenix coronets) for empresses, and qixing’e 七星額, headdresses for female warriors. Other costumes included ingeniously repurposed clothing donated by military families. These materials were dismantled, sewn, and patched together to create skirts, robes, and shawls for dan or tunics and gowns for sheng (male roles) (Wang Hai-ling 13-14, Fu and Fang, 38, Cheng Yao-chang 27, Wei Ya-huei 2005: 10). Musical instruments were similarly improvised: dalou 大鑼 (large gong) and xiaolou 小鑼 (small gong) were made from metal basins, repurposed pots and pans while the xiaobiangu 小 166 邊鼓 (small side drum) was substituted with coconut shells or artillery shell casing. The lead string instrument in yuju, the banhu 板胡 (Chinese fiddle),152 was handmade, and performers taught themselves to play it (Chu Meili 2018: 27-28). But the most important factor is the audience’s understanding of these imperfections. In short, they improvised and created something out of nothing, finding substitutes wherever possible. For those who were under house arrest and did not know when they could return to their hometowns, however basic, it was the greatest comfort to hear their hometowns’ style of xiqu on the stage. Despite these humble resources, the remarkable achievements of the Xinsheng Yuju Troupe and its successor, the Zhongzhou Yuju Troupe, in Vietnam laid the foundation for their formal integration into the Ministry of National Defense (MND) after they arrived in Taiwan. In 1953, the KMT-led Republic of China government reached an agreement with France, allowing the more than 30,000 soldiers finally to relocate to Taiwan (Huang 2016, 188). Among the many amateur xiqu groups on the Phu Quoc Island, Zhang’s yuju troupe was the only one that entered the state system, and it has remained active since then. Upon arriving, the troupe was integrated into the Marine Corps, with the mission of preserving zhongyuan (中原Central Chinese) culture and providing recreational activities to the soldiers.153 In addition to the 152 The banhu is typically translated into English as “Chinese fiddle” or “flat-backed fiddle.” To be more specific, it is often referred to as the banhu fiddle to distinguish it from other similar Chinese string instruments like the erhu. It is a traditional two-stringed bowed instrument characterized by its unique flat wooden back and is widely used in northern xiqu, including yuju. 153 As it happened, the process of its establishment was also full of coincidences. In 1953, when all the people who had been under house arrest on Phu Quoc Island finally arrived in Taiwan, Wu Fengxiang吳鳳翔, a previous resident of Henan Province who was serving as a secretary in the Political Department of the Marine Corps Command at the time, had been a lover of yuju since he was a child and had a long-cherished desire to organize a yuju troupe. Based on his belief in enhancing the recreational activities of his troops and preserving the culture of Central China, Wu decided to organize a yuju troupe. As Wu’s ability was recognized by his superior Chen Maoquan陳茂銓, the director of the Political Department, his proposal was immediately approved and was suggested to General Zhou Yuhuan周雨寰, the commander of the Marine Corps. Zhou and his wife had stayed in Henan for a period of time and had seen yuju and heard about the outstanding performance of the Zhongzhou Yuju Troupe. Since there was no military-affiliated theater troupe in the Navy or Marine Corps at that time, he agreed to the proposal and Wu started to recruit talent (Wei Yahui and Fu and Fang). 167 members of the troupe in Vietnam, members were recruited from the other units of the MND, including jingju kunsheng 坤生 (female who impersonates a male role) Lee Shujun 李淑君, banhu performer Du Chenghsien 杜承憲, and yuju’s qiandan 亁旦 (male impersonating a female role) Yang Guifa 楊桂發, as well as members of the soon to be disbanded Xianfeng Pingju Dui 先鋒平劇隊 (Xianfeng Jingju Troupe). Although it may not seem intuitive at first glance, the fact is that without formal entry into the state’s system, being protected by government policy and being offered a modest but relatively stable economic basis, the survival of yuju in Taiwan would have been an impossible mission, just like other local xiqu forms from China that came to Taiwan at the same period of time and gradually withered away. In the years that followed, there were at one time three military-bound yuju troupes in Taiwan: the Kongjun Yeyu Yuju Tuan 空軍業餘豫劇團 (Air Force Amateur Yuju Company, also known as Dapeng Yuju Company, 1951-1965), which belonged to the Air Force Headquarters; the Feima Yuju Dui 飛馬豫劇隊 (lit. “Flying Horses Yuju Troupe,” aka Feima Yuju Troupe 1953-1995), which belonged to the Marine Corps; and the Luguang Yuju Troupe 陸光豫劇團 (Army Yuju Company, 1963-1970), which belonged to the Army Headquarters.154 154 One name that cannot be omitted is Mao Lanhua毛蘭花 (1924-1981), the founder of the Dapeng Yuju Company. She and Chang Shiou Yun were the only two professional yuju performers of their generation that early popular yuju plays in Taiwan relied heavily on, along with the repertoire of plays they brought with them. Mao, who grew up in Henan’s Ge County 葛縣, joined a troupe at a young age and was named the top of the famous Eighteen Orchids (Shiba lan 十八蘭). She had a distinctively husky, low voice that was famous for interpreting the yuxi diao 豫西調 (western Henan tune). The term Shiba lan refers to the eighteen outstanding yuju performers trained by the Chinese yuju educators and performers Zhou Haishui周海水 and Jia Suo賈鎖 during the late 1930s and early 1940s. Mao was the top ranking of the Eighteen Orchids in the 1940s. In 1948, she left China for Taiwan with her husband, Zhu Zhenjia 朱振家, a delegate to the National Assembly of the Republic of China 國大代表. There are as many as twenty types of shengxiang system in yuju, of which two major schools are dominant in the east and west of Henan Province. The yudong diao 豫東調 (eastern Henan tune) is centered around the Shangqiu商丘 area, and the singing voice is high, bold, clear and bright. The yuxi diao 豫西調 (western Henan tune) is centered around Luoyang洛陽, where the singing voice is muddy, elegant, delicate and lyrical. In the use of voice, yudong diao features a high-pitched tone with greater use of jiasang 假嗓 (falsetto) than the bensang 本嗓 (natural voice); the yuxi diao is famous for a thick tone, and the use of the natural voice is predominant. 168 Notably, while the Air Force and the Army’s yuju companies were disbanded one after another, the Feima Yuju Troupe, the only one that survived and is still active today, is the one that had started in Vietnam. Over the years, it evolved through the Xinsheng Yuju Troupe (1950-52), the Zhongzhou Yuju Troupe (1952-53), and the Feima Yuju Troupe (1953-1995). Later it was reassigned to the Ministry of Education (MOE) and changed the name again to Guoli GuoGuang Jutuan Yuju Dui (National GuoGuang Opera Company’s Yuju Troupe). In 2008, it was reassigned to the Council for Cultural Affairs, Minister of Culture (MOC) and renamed the Taiwan Yuju Tuan (Taiwan Bangzi Opera Company). 4.4 Yuju in Taiwan Regarding the peculiarities of yuju in Taiwan, the following discussion centers on the two points. First, the dilemmas and possibilities of a local xiqu form that is far away from its original local region and culture. Second, possible reasons for why yuju has not faded away like other local xiqu forms imported from China.155 Regional forms of xiqu have a very strong relationship with their locale. Imagine a local xiqu genre as a plant; what determines whether or not the plant can flourish are the maternal nutrients from the local community. Therefore, it is hard to believe that such a localized xiqu form can survive uprooted from its original locality. The case of yuju in Taiwan is special because it resulted from a combination of both domestic and international 155 In her master thesis, Wu Tzu-ying states, “However, with the gradual decline of the old audience and changes in the social environment, many traditional xiqu genres from China have almost disappeared, including yueju, chuanju, yueju etc., and today only jingju and yuju remain as the national theater companies to support the situation.” 在臺灣的戲曲團隊中，除本土的歌仔戲、清代就進入臺灣的京劇外，還有粵劇、川劇、越劇等，演出也很頻繁，但隨著老觀眾逐漸凋零、社會環境的轉變，來自大陸的諸多傳統劇種幾乎消失殆盡，今日僅存京劇和豫劇以國家劇團的身分獨撐大局. See Wu Tzu-ying 1995: 1. 169 political situations, policy-making processes, the cultural identity of the Taiwanese society, and the talented and determined performers. In discussing yuju history in Taiwan, most of the books and papers divide the development of yuju into four stages of its inception (1953-58), incubation (1959-68), foundation (1969-81), and flourishing (since 1980s). The classification of these periods is based on the source of funding, the short-term goals, and the development status of the troupe (Chen and Yen, Wei, Zheng, Wang, Zhu, Fu and Fang). I agree that this categorization of development is a meticulous and necessary way to sort out the form’s growth, especially in the case of early studies of yuju in Taiwan, which documented the important events and moments of its development as thoroughly as possible. However, I would like to propose a different perspective of the yuju’s development in Taiwan based on the role and position yuju represented in the Taiwanese society. I divide the development of yuju into three stages: first, yuju that belongs to the military and waishengren exclusively (1948-1969);156 second, yuju as a representation of Chinese culture (1965-1990); and third, the integration of yuju into Taiwan (1990-present). This new way of looking at history is important because it highlights how yuju in Taiwan can possibly become Taiwanized yuju and answers the question of why yuju, unlike other regional xiqu forms from China, still actively exists today and is an important part of Taiwanese culture. 156 The waishengren (people from outside of Taiwan province) community in Taiwan, also known as Taiwan’s post-war immigrants, refers to the non-Taiwanese immigrants and their descendants who migrated to Taiwan from mainland China. In particular, the largest wave of immigrants moved from mainland China to Taiwan around 1949, as a result of the retreat from China under Chinese Communist Party’s attack. The term waishengren is a relative concept that refers to the people from the provinces of the Republic of China other than Taiwan, and its counterpart is benshengren 本省人, people who had settled in Taiwan before the end of Japanese rule in 1945. 170 4.4.1 Military-Bound Yuju Period (1948–1969) The military played a crucial role in ensuring the survival of yuju during its early years in Taiwan. Despite minimal funding and the necessity for troupes to rely on commercial performances to cover living expenses, the institutionalization of yuju under the Ministry of National Defense (MND) laid a foundation for its development. This institutional support was driven by the military's need to boost morale and yuju’s distinct vocal power, which resonated strongly with soldiers. Its themes of loyalty and heroism aligned perfectly with the ROC government’s political agenda, particularly its emphasis on Chinese cultural identity and its vision of reclaiming the mainland. Consequently, yuju became an integral part of propaganda efforts and gained sustained governmental backing. While yuju’s traditional repertoire often included lighthearted, regionally flavored comedic sketches, the military environment demanded a shift. To ensure its survival, yuju adopted an overwhelmingly patriotic focus, with productions centering on loyalty to the nation, heroism, and morale-boosting narratives. Plays such as Ping Liaodong 平遼東 (Pacifying Liaodong), Guangwu Zhongxing 光武中興 (Revival of the Han Dynasty by Emperor Guangwu), and Zhan Hongzhou 戰洪州 (The Battle at Hongzhou), became staples, not just as entertainment but as tools to reinforce ideological values. Wang Hai-ling, a Taiwan-trained yuju actress who began performing at age ten, recalled schedules that included two or three performances a day during week-long tours, underscoring the troupe’s dedication and the soldiers’ enthusiasm (Wang Hai-ling 2017: 15–16). Looking at the development of regional xiqu forms since the late Qing dynasty, the tendency of jingjuhua 京劇化 (jingju-ization, evolution toward jingju) is not uncommon. However, in the case of yuju in Taiwan, it was closer to a process of regularization, 171 standardization, and paradigmization than jingjuhua. Jingju was regarded as a paradigm of the highest artistic achievement. Moreover, given the lack of professional yuju actors and the shortage of qualified instructors in Taiwan, the transmission of yuju inevitably required greater reliance on the assistance of jingju actors. In the practice of teaching, the jingju actors did not have the consciousness of transforming yuju; instead, they passed on exclusively what they had learned in their jingju performance training to the yuju students, focusing on only the stylized gestures, movements, and martial arts choreography.157 Meanwhile, the teachers of yuju were responsible for rewriting of the lyrics and singing style to suit the yuju aesthetic. This balance between refinement and preservation ensured that yuju retained its unique vocal qualities while becoming more polished and standardized. The regularization of yuju in Taiwan was of paramount importance. This gradually refined and standardized direction allowed yuju to be favored and qualified for promotion by both politicians and the literati in different contexts. At the same time, this patriotic transformation also brought about a process of artistic refinement. The thematic shift required more rigorous performance standards, particularly in martial arts choreography and stagecraft, which had previously been underdeveloped in yuju. To achieve these standards, yuju began incorporating resources from jingju, including stylized martial arts training and performance 157 Jingju performers serving as teachers of jiben gong 基本功 (basic skills), tanzi gong 毯子功 (techniques on carpets) and bazi gong 把子功 (techniques with weapons) for yuju students have also had a profound impact on the disciplinary process of yuju in Taiwan. The Feima Yuju Troupe began recruiting its first class of students in 1959, with twenty-three students aged seven to thirteen. Chang was responsible for teaching vocal training and explaining the plays, while the performance teachers, including Li Yuduo 李玉鐸, Zhang Yipeng 張義鵬, Zhang Yilian 張義廉, Liu Chunting 劉春庭, and Hui Fanglin惠芳林, were either jingju performers or had a background in jingju. Under the tutelage of these jingju teachers, the first class of yuju students learned many xiao wuxi 小武戲 (small martial arts featured plays), such as Hua hudie 花蝴蝶 (Colored Butterfly), Pantao hui 蟠桃會 (Peach Feast), Hongtao shan 紅桃山 (Red Peach Mountain), and Sizhou cheng 泗洲城 (Sizhou City). These xiaoxi 小戲 (little play, simple plot, and small scale play) usually do not have many lines and lyrics; the emphasis is on the acting techniques, especially martial arts related skills, which gives the students a good foundation. 172 techniques.158 This influx of expertise enabled yuju to shed some of its earlier crude and folksy traits, preserving its simplicity while moving toward a more elevated and polished style. The emphasis on discipline and technical skill aligned with the nationalist spirit, creating a performance style that was both stirring and ideologically resonant. The reliance on jingju’s resources did not lead to outright assimilation but rather a process of regularization and standardization that balanced refinement with the preservation of yuju’s unique vocal aesthetics. This balance allowed yuju to transcend its regional roots, becoming a powerful cultural instrument of the ROC. Its patriotic repertoire and improved artistry secured yuju’s place in the military and Taiwan’s broader cultural framework. Beyond general performances within the military, yuju’s development in Taiwan was closely tied to the political and military leadership. In April 1957, the Feima Yuju Troupe performed Kaige gui 凱歌歸 (The Return in Triumph) for Chiang Kai-shek and Chiang Ching-kuo at the Yangmingshan Institute of Revolutionary Research.159 Depicting a patriotic woman fighting for her country’s honor, the play earned high praise, with Chiang Kai-shek calling yuju “the most educational theatrical form.” This recognition led to subsequent invitations, including a performance of Yang Jinhua 楊金花 (General Yang) at the KMT’s Tenth National Congress in 1958, further solidifying governmental support.160 The endorsement from top leadership further 158 A milestone was reached in 1966 when 14-year-old Wang Hai-ling performed Hua Mulan 花木蘭 (Mulan Joins the Army), adapted from jingju due to the lack of yuju performers and scripts for this role. The Feima Yuju Troupe collaborated with the Navy Jingju Troupe to produce the play within a week, incorporating jingju’s stylized martial arts and choreography. This cross-xiqu collaboration was pivotal in refining yuju’s performance style, particularly in areas like martial arts scene choreography (wuda diaodu 武打調度). 159 The play is actually the modernized yuju Dichixue 滌恥血 (Cleansing the Shame) written by Fan Cuiting in 1936 and premiered by Chen Suchen. Chang Shiou Yun brought the play to Taiwan, where it is known chiefly as Kaige gui. The whole play usually lasts about three hours including one intermission, but in order to fit in with the conference schedule, this performance was only about an hour long. 160 Titled “Zongtong teban liangwan yuan, kaoshang Feima Yuju Dui” 總統特頒兩萬元, 犒賞飛馬豫劇隊 (President Awards NTD 20,000 to Feima Yuju Troupe). See Junwenshe 1969: 5. 173 solidified yuju’s survival and development. Such recognition led to increased governmental support and the production of more patriotic-themed plays, firmly rooting yuju within the fabric of the ROC’s national identity. While born out of necessity, this transformation ultimately elevated yuju, allowing it to survive and thrive in Taiwan as both an artistic and political force. The Cultural Revolution (1966–76) in China provided the ROC government with an opportunity to position itself as the legitimate protector of Chinese culture. In line with this cultural agenda, the MND promoted yuju through initiatives like the New Arts and Culture Movement (Xin Wenyi Yundong 新文藝運動) and the Military Golden Award of Arts and Literature (Guojun Wenyi Jinxiang Jiang 國軍文藝金像獎). Although yuju was not required to compete, it participated in observational performances (guanmo yanchu 觀摩演出), further establishing its significance within military and cultural circles. Interestingly, during this period, the ROC government regularly organized local theater competitions (1952–1999) to monitor and control Taiwan’s local artistic and cultural ecology under martial law. Before 1993, all officially registered Taiwanese theater troupes were required to participate in these competitions according to regulations (Wang Yunyu 1998: 42-69). Curiously, however, yuju, despite being a regional theater form, was excluded from these mandatory competitions. Instead, it participated as an observer in military initiatives such as the National Army Arts and Culture Gold Award, highlighting its unique status within the ROC’s cultural and military frameworks. In short, the inclusion of yuju in the New Arts and Culture Movement aimed to strengthen the institutionalization of military theater troupes. Promising troupes were incorporated into official structures and required to carry out tasks according to the regulations set by the Ministry of National Defense and the Armed Forces Headquarters. They were prohibited from performing publicly or supporting civilian events as they had in the past. By 174 being excluded from local theater contexts and integrated into the military, yuju became an integral part of propaganda efforts. 4.4.2 The Yuju as Chinese Culture Ambassador Period (1965-1990) The evolution of yuju during this period cannot be marked by a single, decisive policy change; rather, it was a gradual transition. For this reason, the military-bound yuju of the first stage and the yuju that emerged as an ambassador of Chinese culture in the second stage overlap significantly. This slow transformation occurred against the backdrop of two major political events: the Cultural Revolution (1966–1976) in the People’s Republic of China and the marginalization of the Republic of China in Taiwan’s international relations. Paradoxically, these events allowed yuju to expand its role beyond the military and the waishengren community, gradually integrating into broader Taiwanese society as a representative of Chinese culture. As discussed earlier, the KMT launched the Chinese Cultural Renaissance Movement (Zhongguo wenhua fuxing yundong 中國文化復興運動, 1966–1980) in reaction to the Cultural Revolution in mainland China. Under this initiative, yuju retained its military role of inspiring soldiers and sustaining morale but was also adopted as a representative of Chinese xiqu alongside jingju, which had been elevated as the guoju 國劇 (national dramatic form). This marked a rare moment for a regional xiqu form like yuju to be recognized by the state as a national representative. Within this framework a hierarchy of theatrical forms quickly emerged, reflecting the political and cultural agenda of the ROC. At the top was jingju, positioned as the highest artistic paradigm representing the Republic of China. In the middle was yuju, a refined regional xiqu genre elevated to symbolize the local but with the elegance and cultural sophistication of Chinese 175 regional theater. At the bottom were Taiwan’s native theatrical forms—such as gezaixi 歌仔戲, and budaixi 布袋戲 (Taiwanese puppet theater)—which were viewed as embodying a Taiwan-centric identity at odds with the ROC’s emphasis on Chinese cultural heritage. In Rendering the Regional: Local Language in Contemporary Chinese Media, Edward Gunn highlights how local languages and cultures are often suppressed, marginalized, or transformed in the process of nation-state building. Taiwan under KMT rule exhibited similar patterns, with jingju nationalized as guoju and Mandarin established as the standard language, relegating Taiwanese languages like Taiyu 台語 to subordinate status. However, including yuju within the national framework deviates from this pattern. While yuju emerged from Henan Province’s local traditions, its promotion by the state in Taiwan suggests a broader interpretation of “Chineseness” that was strategically pluralistic. This inclusivity served two purposes: opposing the Cultural Revolution’s destruction of traditional culture and uniting the displaced mainlanders who had fled to Taiwan. Recognizing yuju as part of Chinese culture helped affirm the identities of these individuals, many of whom spoke dialects rather than standard Mandarin. By incorporating yuju, the KMT could strengthen its narrative of cultural continuity without alienating its most loyal supporters. In the international arena, the ROC faced significant challenges in the 1970s. The rapprochement between the PRC and the United States, marked by President Nixon’s 1972 visit to China, led to ROC’s diplomatic marginalization. The ROC was increasingly excluded from international organizations such as the United Nations, where the PRC replaced it as the representative of China. Facing these setbacks, the KMT turned to cultural diplomacy as a way to assert its legitimacy. Yuju, with its strong popular appeal and refined artistry, became an ideal cultural ambassador. Unlike jingju, which was also celebrated in PRC-led China, yuju offered the 176 ROC a distinctive symbol of Chinese culture that could resonate with both domestic and international audiences. During this period, yuju underwent significant modernization. The Feima Yuju Troupe, under the leadership of playwright Cao Jinxiu 曹進修, adapted numerous patriotic plays from jingju into the yuju repertoire, including works like Hongfu nü 紅拂女 (originally a masterpiece from Cheng Yanqiu 程硯秋) and Qin Liangyu 秦良玉 (adapted from jingju productions by the renowned performer Shang Xiaoyun尚小雲). According to Yan Limo 嚴立謨, the storyline of Qin Liangyu effectively integrated strategies such as tactical warfare, ideological propaganda, organizational coordination, psychological manipulation, intelligence-gathering, and mass mobilization, making it not only politically significant but also rich in educational value (Chen Fang and Yan Li-mo 2003: 30–31). Politically aligned and artistically polished, Qin Liangyu was widely praised during Military Golden Award of Arts and Literature competitions. Its success led to the production of a sequel in 1973, which was again featured in competitions. In 1974, the film adaptation of Qin Liangyu was produced by the Chinese Film Studio and screened across military units, further extending its reach and influence.161 Along with other jingju-oriented yuju productions such as Hua Mulan (1966), Yang Jinhua (1969), Lu Wenlong陸文龍 (1969), Shen Yunying 沈雲英 (1971), Liang Hongyu 梁紅玉 (1975), and Sidai qingying zhen guowei 四代請纓振國威 (Four Generations of the Patriotic Yang Family, 1980),162 these productions marked a 161 Qin Liangyu is also the only yuju to have been made into a movie (xiqu pian, 戲曲片 xiqu film) in Taiwan. In 1974, at the Zhongguo Dianying Zhipian Chang (中國電影製片廠 China Film Studio), the Feima Yuju Troupe filmed Qin Liangyu, an observational performance for the National Army Arts and Culture Gold Award. According to Chu Mei-li 朱美麗, one of the performers, the reason why there was a film version was because President Chiang Kai-shek wanted to see it, but he was too sick to sit still for a one-night performance (Chu Mei-li 2018: 56). 162 This latter play was adapted from the jingju play Yang Bamei 楊八妹 (The Eighth Daughter of the Yang Family), which depicts the story of the four generations of Yang family generals who went on an expedition to save Yang Zongbao楊宗保, the family’s only male descendent, and capture the bandits. 177 departure from traditional narratives, focusing instead on newly written scripts that emphasized cohesive plot structures and patriotic themes. The prominence of female performers in the Feima Yuju Troupe also shaped the genre, with female-centered heroic plays becoming a defining feature of yuju during this era. In 1975, the MND clearly directed that the main content of a xiqu performance be focused on “fighting against the multitude with the few, united with sincerity, sharing a bitter hatred of the enemy, and showing the spirit of adventure” 以寡擊眾, 精誠團結, 同仇敵愾, 冒險犯難 (Central Daily News 1975: 6). From the above announcement, it is clear that the MND hoped to stimulate national unity and the vitality of all the xiqu troupes to work together. It made perfect sense considering the old plays usually did not prioritize unity of the plot. Although the old plays contained patriotic elements and exhibited political consciousness, their plots, structure, and the logic behind the scenes were not only less focused, but also dragging and loosely structured. The MND made such changes to emphasize that the content of the new plays must be thematically conscious, patriotically focused, and newly written. Furthermore, since it was a new play, it could attract fresh curiosity from an audience that included soldiers, retired soldiers and the general public, stimulate box office sales, and promote xiqu. These changes helped to bring yuju to the attention of the new audience. Modernization extended beyond narrative content to include advancements in stage technology. Productions like Qin Liangyu (1972) featured groundbreaking lighting designs that introduced dynamic shifts in light and color to reflect changes in time and atmosphere. Inspired by spoken drama techniques, director Li Yuduo 李玉鐸 customized lighting equipment and used 178 colored cellophane gels to project vivid visual effects,163 creating a more immersive theatrical experience. These innovations not only enhanced the visual appeal of yuju performances but also helped attract younger audiences, broadening the genre’s appeal. Last but not least, the interest in and promotion of yuju by the literati, including Yang Quesu 楊却俗, Chen Jiying 陳紀瀅, Yu Dagang俞大綱, Wang Chimei汪其楣, and Zhang Daqian 張大千, also helped yuju to step out of its tight bond to the army. In 1967-1968, Yang and Chen published several yuju-focused articles in Zhongyuan wenxian 中原文獻 (Local History of Henan). Yang once remarked, “Because of the residual old concepts, many people are still contemptuous of local xiqu forms, but those who have been paying attention to the development of xiqu would agree that the current state of yuju is one of the beautiful achievements of the arts and culture in the twenty years since the [KMT] government moved to Taiwan” 因爲殘留的舊觀念，許多人士對地方戲仍不免抱有輕視心理，可是眞正留心戲劇發展的廣大觀衆，無不認爲豫劇現狀，是政府遷臺二十年來，文藝美好成果之一 (Chen Ji-ying 1969: 5). Yang and Chen advocated for finding a version of yuju beyond its patriotic themes, hoping to reclaim the vibrant local flavor inherent to the genre. In 1968, Yu Dagang handed over his own play, Xin xiuru ji 新繡襦記 (New Story of the Embroidered Robe), to Zhang Ruojian 張若鑑, a Henan-born yuju playwright formerly serving in the Dapeng Yuju Troupe, who adapted it into a yuju version titled Li Yaxian 李亞先.164 Yu 163 Li Yuduo ao was a member of the Xianfeng Yuju Troupe specializing in the xiaosheng role type. After the disbandment of the troupe, he joined Feima Yuju Troupe, where he served as a juwu 劇務 (manager), scriptwriter, director, actor, leading drummer, and fuduizhang 副隊長 (deputy team leader). 164 Xin Xiuru ji reinterprets the classic Ming-dynasty tale Xiuru ji (The Story of an Embroidered Robe), which in turn draws from the renowned Tang-dynasty narrative Li Wa zhuan. While maintaining central themes of love, betrayal, and redemption, its adaptation into Li Yaxian integrates stylistic features of yuju, resulting in a hybrid form that negotiates between traditional storytelling and modern aesthetic refinement. 179 declared that his purpose was to provide more literary content for yuju storytelling, with the intention of expanding Wang Hai-ling’s performance possibilities (Cheng Yao-chang 2003: 32). In this adaptation, Zhang only adjusted the singing passages to align with yuju’s musical conventions, leaving the original lines, plots, scenes, and characters intact. In Yu Dagang’s version, the narrative emphasized moral integrity and emotional depth, aligning with refined literary traditions. The adaptation into Li Yaxian retained these qualities while blending them with yuju’s performance style, proving that the genre was capable of presenting a poignant and sophisticated love story with remarkable artistry. As a result, Li Yaxian moved away from both yuju’s traditional vernacular and slang style and militarized patriotic theme focus, instead gravitating toward a refined and elegant aesthetic. Ultimately, the most crucial event that confirmed yuju’s turn from the military to the general public was its being invited to perform in the eighth Taibei yishu ji 台北藝術季 (Taipei Arts Season Festival) in 1986. This was a festival where almost no traditional xiqu troupe had previously been invited to perform; most of the performing groups were contemporary experimental theaters or renowned international avant-garde theaters staging contemporary productions. Its audience was young people with higher education. Wang Chimei 汪其楣, a theater researcher, director, and educator who had returned to Taiwan after studying in the United States with a focus on contemporary theater, was the curator and the producer for the xiqu productions for the entire season that year. She selected two traditional yuju plays, a comedy titled Xiangnang ji 香囊記 (The Perfume Bag) and a tragedy titled Da jizhuang 大祭樁 (At the Execution Ground), highlighting the genre’s artistic potential beyond its traditional associations with politics and the military. The choice of these two plays is especially noteworthy. For one thing, both can be regarded as foundational works of yuju in Taiwan that have a distinguished 180 heritage.165 For another, both had almost no political connotations, so they could break away from the general public’s stereotype of yuju’s exclusive association with military and political affairs. At the same time, both plays are very accessible to audiences unfamiliar with xiqu performance. For example, in the “Tai huajiao” 抬花轎 (Carrying the Sedan Chair) scene of The Perfume Bag, four sedan chair bearers vividly mime the act of carrying an invisible sedan chair. Through synchronized, stylized movements, they convey not only the physical weight and sway of the chair but also the challenges of the journey, such as navigating uphill or downhill terrain. Their precise gestures, combined with deliberate shifts in rhythm and tempo, bring the imagined sedan chair to life. The lively accompaniment of the suona 嗩吶 (a traditional Chinese wind instrument) enhances the performance, creating a dynamic and engaging stage atmosphere that fully immerses the audience. Lin Huaimin 林懷民, founder of the Cloud Gate Dance Theater, recalled, “The Perfume Bag made me excited for two to three weeks, and every time I thought of it, anywhere, I couldn’t help but grin. Since then, I’ve learned what a ‘theater fan’ is.” 《香囊記》使我興奮了兩三個禮拜，隨時隨地想起時，不覺咧口而笑，自此，我才曉得什麼是「戲迷』(Lin Huai-ming 1987). In addition to Lin, Wang also invited Jiang Xun蔣勳, Li Guoxiu 李國修, Qiu Kunliang 邱坤良, Xi Song 奚淞 and other representatives of modern drama, art, aesthetics, and xiqu specialist and scholars, thus elevating the society’s perception of yuju’s transformation from a traditional form that was adjunct to political and military affairs to an art form worthy of wider appreciation. 165 The Perfume Bag was brought to Taiwan by Chang Shiou Yun. She learned this play from Xiao Huobian 筱火鞭 in Kaifeng 開封, Henan Province in 1946. At the Execution Ground is the masterpiece of famous yuju artist Chang Xiangyu. Since the establishment of the yuju troupe in Vietnam, it has been performed regularly. 181 The greatest significance of the performances for the Feima Yuju Troupe was that it moved out of the traditional stage of the Armed Forces Cultural Center (AFCC), which was dominated by older waishengren audiences, to venues that catered to a new generation of cultural audience. In addition, yuju has gradually shifted from a focus on recreational and educational activities for the military to social and cultural touring performances for the general public; the venues yuju performed in have moved from the AFCC to the Guojia Xijuyuan 國家戲劇院 (National Theater), cultural centers in various cities, and auditoriums in colleges and universities. 4.4.3 Yuju’s Transition Away from Military and National Narratives (1990-present) The abovementioned transformation was driven by a new political environment characterized by the liberalization of cross-strait exchanges, the lifting of martial law (1987), and the emergence of a growing Taiwanese consciousness.166 With the easing of restrictions on creative freedom and the opening up of the press, yuju performances were no longer limited to patriotic and anti-communist themes. During this period, the Feima Yuju Troupe participated in events such as the Quanguo Wenyi Ji 全國文藝季 (National Cultural Arts Season), Jiari difang wenhua guangchang biaoyan 假日地方文化廣場表演 (Holiday Local Cultural Outdoor Performances), and Wenhua Chang 166 In July 1987, the ROC government announced the lifting of martial law, which was followed in August by allowing people in Taiwan to finally visit their relatives in China after more than forty years of separation. In January of the following year, baojin 報禁 (the ban on reporting) was lifted. These two events directly contributed to the activation of arts and cultural activities, not only by ending the censorship of scripts but also by ending the list of permitted plays. In response to the opening up of the press and more freedom of speech, yuju performances were no longer limited to plays with patriotic and anti-communist ideology. 182 文化場 (Promoting Cultural Performances),167 co-organized by the Council for Cultural Affairs, the Executive Yuan, and local governments. The troupe was also frequently invited by Henan clansmen’s associations across various cities and represented the ROC in international cultural exchanges, where it performed to comfort qiaobao 僑胞 (overseas Chinese). Some of its most significant international appearances include the 1987 tour in Seoul, South Korea, the 1991 performance at Lincoln Center in New York, and a prestigious banquet performance in 1991 during Margaret Thatcher’s visit to Taiwan, where yuju represented the ROC’s cultural diplomacy on the global stage. For the commercial performances, unlike the grand patriotic plays of earlier decades, the most frequently staged productions during this time were gong’an xi 公案戲 (court case plays). These included works such as Enyi daichou 恩義待仇 (Righteousness and Justice for the Enemy, also known as San furen 三夫人, The Third Madam, 1988), which explores themes of political vendettas; Jindian kanghun 金殿抗婚 (Resistance to Marriage in the Royal Palace, 1994), focusing on a loyal subject’s defiance of the emperor’s marriage proposal; and Baogong zuojian (包公坐監, Judge Bao in Prison, 1998). These gong’an xi marked a stark departure from earlier productions that prioritized nationalistic ideology and self-sacrifice for the country, and discouraged questioning of the state. Instead, these court case dramas often portrayed the collapse of institutional systems and relied on the figure of the incorruptible judge—most notably Judge Bao 包公—to deliver justice and 167 Based on the perspective of valuing the universality of culture, the ROC government hosts a lot of wenhua chang, combining state resources such as laws, policies, performance spaces, and arts festivals to further strengthen the artistic and cultural characteristics of traditional xiqu. In general, wenhua chang performances are hosted or sponsored by the government, are usually more elaborately produced, and mostly tour for free. 183 restore fairness. This thematic shift resonated deeply with audiences, who were drawn to the portrayal of a single honest official standing against systemic corruption to uphold justice. The popularity of these productions reflected both the relaxation of state-imposed ideological restrictions and the evolving preferences of the audience. Themes such as the questioning of political authority and the depiction of political conspiracies, which had been suppressed during the preceding thirty years, emerged as significant narrative elements. The success of these plays underscored the audience’s appetite for stories that explored social and political complexities, marking a new chapter in yuju’s cultural evolution. Similar to the experience of jingju, yuju entered a new era of cultural interaction following the end of the Dongyuan Kanluan Linshi Tiaokuan 動員戡亂臨時條款 (Temporary Provisions against the Communist Rebellion) by the ROC government.168 With the easing of cross-strait tensions, cultural and theatrical exchanges between Taiwan and mainland China became possible. During this period, known as the “China Fever” (Zhongguo re 中國熱),169 the Feima Yuju Troupe, alongside other xiqu troupes in Taiwan, actively engaged in collaborative efforts with mainland China’s yuju companies. The influences of “China Fever” can be roughly divided into two phases. The first phase focused on inviting creative talents from mainland China to Taiwan, such as playwrights, 168 The ROC government subsequently established the Dalu Weiyuan Hui 大陸委員會 (Mainland Affairs Commission, MAC) of the Executive Yuan in the same year to coordinate cross-strait affairs. In June 1992, the Caituan Faren Haixia Liang’an Jiaoliu Jijin Hui 財團法人海峽兩岸交流基金會 (The Foundation for Cross-Strait Exchanges, a.k.a., Haijihui 海基會) was established as a non-governmental organization to handle various affairs arising from cross-strait exchanges, under the supervision and guidance of the MAC. In June 1992, the Dalu zhuanye renshi shenqing lai Tai yanchu zhuyi shixiang 大陸專業人士申請來臺演出注意事項 (Notes for Mainland China’s Professionals Applying for Performances in Taiwan) was promulgated, expanding the target applicants from individuals to groups and opening the application form to commercial performances. 169 The term “Chinese fever” was coined by Wang An-chi. In her use of the term, she emphasizes that after the end of martial law in 1987, when the two sides of the Taiwan Strait were not in contact with each other, Taiwanese jingju practitioners were full of yearning for China’s jingju performances after the resumption of cross-strait relations. More details can be found in Wang An-chi 2002a. 184 directors, and stage designers, who introduced fresh perspectives and techniques to enhance the artistic quality of yuju. This phase reflected a mutual curiosity and the desire to bridge artistic practices across the strait. For example, in Xichu yangguan 西出陽關 (Heading West and Crossing Yang Pass, 1997), Niu Shuxian 牛淑賢, the queen of China’s contemporary yuju, was invited to Taiwan to teach the play in person. The following year, in Limao huan taizi 狸貓換太子 (Wild Cat Exchanged for the Crown Prince, 1998), the company went one step further by not only inviting Ma Jinfeng 馬金鳳, a renowned actress from China, to star in the production, but also bringing over nearly the entire creative team from Henan, including the director, playwright, musicians, choreographers, and stage designers. This comprehensive exchange aimed to emulate the mainland’s production practices and artistic styles closely. As a result of such an exchange aimed toward China-ization and Sinicization, Taiwan’s local yuju was affected and performances even came to a halt. As Taiwan’s yuju grew increasingly influenced by mainland practices, the genre began to experience a sense of self-doubt. Similar to the challenges faced by jingju in Taiwan, yuju struggled with questions regarding its cultural authenticity, genealogical legitimacy, and even its justification for existing as a distinct art form in Taiwan. This self-reflection underscored the tension between embracing external influences and maintaining a unique local identity. The second phase of the “China Fever” saw an increased emphasis on transplanting and adopting cross-genre plays from mainland China. Interestingly, the yuju productions transferred to Taiwan during this time were no longer limited to yuju from China but included works from other xiqu genres. This shift away from strictly adhering to the “orthodox” Henan-originated yuju may have provided Taiwan’s yuju with the creative space to explore and define its own unique identity. As such, the Feima Yuju Troupe incorporated a variety of productions that blended 185 elements from different xiqu styles, showcasing a creative synthesis of regional characteristics. For example, Meng Lijun 孟麗君 (2000) was adapted by combining jingju, yueju 越劇 (Yue opera) and yuju versions;170 Dajiao huanghao 大腳皇后 (The Queen with Big Feet, 2000) was transplanted from the Shanxi Provincial Jingju Troupe’s version of the same play; Dulanduo 杜蘭朵 (Turandot, 2000) was first adapted into a jingju version by Chinese playwright Wei Minglun 魏明倫 from Giacomo Puccini’s opera Turandot, which Wei later adapted into a chuanju 川劇 (Sichuan opera) version in 1994. Most importantly, Liu laolao 劉姥姥 (Grand Auntie Liu) was initially written by China’s playwrights Li Hanyun 李翰雲 and Wei Zhong 魏中 for pingju 評劇 (ping opera) and later adapted into yuju by Taiwanese playwright Liu Huifen 劉慧芬. These collaborations not only expanded yuju’s repertoire but also demonstrated its adaptability and openness to innovation within the xiqu ecosystem. This period of cultural exchange revitalized yuju, allowing it to connect with its roots in mainland China while continuing to evolve as a distinctive art form in Taiwan. The collaborations underscored the shared cultural heritage between the two sides of the strait and highlighted yuju’s role as a medium of cross-strait dialogue and artistic renewal. 170 According to Liu Chien-kuo’s 劉建幗 interview with then producer of the play, Wei Guotai 韋國泰. More details can be found in Liu Chien-kuo 2011: 19. 186 4.5 Liu Laolao: Discovering a New Voice for Taiwanese Yuju through Rooted Chinese Culture and Local Innovation In The Haunted Stage: The Theater as Memory Machine, Marvin Carlson introduces the concept of the theater as a space haunted by ghosts, emphasizing that processes of repetition and memory continuously permeate theatrical practice. The notion of the “haunted stage” suggests that when a play is performed on a contemporary stage, the experiences of the stage, the actors, and the audience are not entirely new. Instead, they carry traces of past performances, previous interpretations, existing texts, and traditional codes. These residues linger like “ghosts” in the performance space, shaping the audience’s understanding of the play. Through the constant resurgence of these memories, the theatrical space becomes a site rich in historical depth and cultural layering. In this sense, yuju in Taiwan, a context new to this particular theatrical form, inevitably bears “echoes” of the past: a symbolic shadow that overlaps with the present performance. The dislocation of space brings with it the pressure inherent in inheriting the tradition, yet it also allows the tradition to remain in a state of reproduction. This state is neither a wholesale transmission of the old nor a complete break from it. Instead, it involves reassembling and reappropriating traditional features through memory, contextual transformation, and cross-cultural dialogue processes. Tradition, thus, is both the ghost summoned and a participant in the present action, demonstrating its flexibility and vitality in a new time and place. In this section, I will use Liu Laolao—originally created for the Hebei Ping Opera Troupe and later adapted by Taiwanese yuju—as a case study. By examining how the performance engages with theatrical form, canonical text, aesthetics, and modes of enactment, I will illustrate how it constitutes a “haunted” post-traditional creation. 187 The 2006 production of Liu Laolao by the Taiwan Bangzi Opera Company (Taiwan Yu Opera Troupe) serves as a remarkable example of Taiwanese yuju discovering its unique voice by deeply rooting itself in Chinese culture while embracing modern Taiwanese innovations. Originally adapted from the pingju script by the Hebei Ping Opera Troupe, the play was reinterpreted by Taiwanese playwright Liu Huifen and directed by Lü Boshen呂柏伸, a director known for his expertise in modern drama. Lü’s extensive background in contemporary theater enabled the integration of modern stage aesthetics into a traditional xiqu performance, an approach rarely attempted within the rigid boundaries separating traditional and modern drama. This adaptation is distinguished by its departure from traditional role-type conventions. While the Hebei pingju version portrayed Liu Laolao as a comic figure (chou), characterized by exaggerated mannerisms and humorous contrasts with the aristocratic world of the Rongguo Mansion, the yuju version added layers of complexity to the character. Performed by Wang Hai-ling, Liu Laolao, while still a rustic and unpolished character, emerged as bold, empathetic, and perceptive. Wang’s portrayal emphasized not just her naivety but her audacity and wisdom, showcasing her ability to navigate the complexities of social hierarchy with resilience and tact. The play’s reimagining of Liu Laolao also invokes her literary origin in Honglou meng 紅樓夢 (Dream of the Red Chamber),171 where she is a minor yet symbolically rich character. Her reappearance in this yuju adaptation may be read as a form of cultural memory and intertextual homage, revealing the ways in which Taiwanese opera draws upon, reinterprets, and transforms canonical figures from the Chinese literary tradition. 171 Dream of the Red Chamber, written by Cao Xueqin曹雪芹 in the 18th century, is one of the “masterworks” (qishu 奇書) of the Chinese premodern novel. Liu Laolao is a recurring character who represents vernacular wisdom and serves as a foil to the aristocratic Jia family. 188 A centerpiece of the production was the “crab banquet” scene, which became a focal point for exploring social dynamics and cultural commentary. In traditional adaptations, the banquet often served as a humorous interlude, highlighting Liu Laolao’s rustic background through her clumsy attempts to adapt to an aristocratic setting. However, in the yuju version, the scene was transformed into a nuanced commentary on power dynamics, cultural translation, and character depth. Liu Laolao’s witty and grounded remarks, such as the humorous line, “You can’t raise goldfish at the bottom of the cup” (Act 2, 26 mins),172 drew not only laughter but also reflections on her ability to subtly challenge social norms. Director Lü’s innovative staging further elevated the banquet scene. Working with stage designer Ren Yongxin, Lü introduced reflective surfaces, such as mirrors and glass doors, to create a layered visual narrative that blurred the boundaries between illusion and reality. These design elements emphasized Liu Laolao’s role as a mirror reflecting the vanities, hypocrisies, and insecurities of the Rongguo Mansion's elite. The interplay of light, reflections, and physical space highlighted the fleeting nature of wealth and status, encapsulated in Liu Laolao’s earthy yet profound perspective. 172 The phrase “Beidi wutong si jinyu” 杯底毋通飼金魚 (You can’t raise goldfish at the bottom of the cup) originates from a Taiwanese proverb encouraging people to finish their drink in one go. It was popularized through the Taiwanese art song “Beidi buke si jinyu” 杯底不可飼金魚 (You Can’t Raise Goldfish at the Bottom of the Cup), composed by Lü Quansheng 呂泉生 with lyrics by playwright Chen Dayu 陳大禹 and first published on April 18, 1949. The song became widely recognized not only for its melody but also for its profound social and political significance. Inspired by the tragic 228 Incident, Lü Quansheng used the song to advocate for unity and reconciliation among Taiwan’s ethnic groups. The lyrics—such as “Friends and brothers, no disputes” (朋友弟兄無議論)—symbolized a hope for solidarity and harmony between benshengren (native Taiwanese) and waishengren (mainlanders). Finishing one’s drink without leaving anything behind was a metaphor for trust and openness, aiming to dissolve mutual suspicion and foster community integration. Actually, using Taiwanese music pieces is not uncommon in the modernized yuju in Taiwan. One example of such inclusive creation is in The Legend of Caogong, where music designer Geng Yuqing 耿玉卿 used the old Taiwanese song “Wang chunfeng” 望春風 (Looking for the Wind of Spring) as the theme melody with constant variations throughout the play. Zuo Qiwei左奇偉, the music designer of The Sorceress Bride, incorporated the Taiwanese folk song about indigenous people, Gaoshan qing 高山青 (The Youth in the Mountain) into the yuju singing passages. 189 The production also showcased linguistic ingenuity, blending traditional yuju language with modern Taiwanese references to resonate with local audiences. For instance, Liu Laolao’s quip about not having relatives involved in construction projects or state-owned enterprises added a distinctly Taiwanese humor that grounded the play in contemporary realities. Such adaptations underscored the production’s effort to connect deeply with its audience while maintaining the universal appeal of its themes. Most importantly, the yuju adaptation of Liu Laolao transcended its rural roots without abandoning its cultural authenticity. It redefined yuju as a medium capable of exploring complex social themes through a blend of traditional aesthetics and modern theatrical techniques. By integrating reflective staging, layered character development, and linguistic creativity, the production exemplified how regional opera could evolve while staying true to its core identity. Ultimately, Liu Laolao stands as a paradigm of Taiwanese yuju’s potential to innovate while preserving its cultural heritage. It illustrates how local xiqu forms can adapt to contemporary artistic demands, offering a performance that is both rooted in tradition and forward-looking in its execution. This production not only solidifies yuju’s place within Taiwan’s theatrical landscape but also positions it as a model for the revitalization of regional opera in a globalized cultural context. After the success of Liu Laolao, Taiwanese yuju rapidly embarked on a variety of cross-disciplinary experiments that remained closely interconnected with Taiwan’s overall theatrical activities (including both modern and experimental theater works and traditional xiqu). Influenced by audience demographics, repertoire selection, cultural policies, and performance direction, the Feima Yuju Troupe—originally focused on military tours—gradually ventured into cultural and commercial venues. As the number of waishengren audience members decreased, 190 the troupe persistently pursued innovation and reform of yuju’s performance styles. Following the opening of cross-strait relations in the 1990s, mainland China’s yuju troupes, with their “legitimate” status, stronger fundamental training, and more accurate Henan dialect, had a considerable impact on Taiwanese yuju, giving rise to a period of excessive reverence for Chinese yuju productions. However, it was precisely through this process of learning from and imitating mainland troupes that Taiwanese yuju practitioners were prompted to reassess the strengths and weaknesses of their own tradition, ushering in a wave of new directions in performance and creation. Among these developments, after reorganizing and renaming itself the Taiwan Bangzi Troupe (formerly GuoGuang Opera Company’s Yuju Troupe 國光劇團豫劇隊),173 the troupe no longer confined its productions to adaptations of Chinese xiqu. It successively introduced works such as Yueshu 約／束 (Bond, 2009), Liangdu 量・度 (Measure, Measure! 2012), and Tianwen 天問 (Questioning Heaven, 2015)—collectively known as the “Yusha Trilogy,” 174as well as Taiwanese literary adaptations including Meiren jian 美人尖 (The Widow’s Peak, 2011) and Meishan cun 梅山村 (Spring of Plum Mountain, 2014). In addition, a number of brand-new original productions emerged, including Caogong waizhuan 曹公外傳 (Legend of Caogong, 2003), Cixi yu Zhenfei 慈禧與珍妃 (Empress Cixi and Consort Zhen, 2007)175, Huajia wuniang 花嫁巫娘 (The Sorceress Bride, 2007), Bangzi guniang 梆子姑娘 (A 173 The year of 1996 was the key moment when the Feima Yuju Troupe was renamed the National GuoGuang Opera Company Yuju Troupe (GGYT) and transferred to the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Education from the MND. When the troupe was under the MND, all of its actors and staff had at least partial military status, and there were many restrictions on inviting performers from China. 174 The term “Yusha” 豫莎 is an abbreviation combining Yu 豫, referring to yuju, with “Sha,” short for Shakespeare. The designation highlights the trilogy’s experiment in mediating between indigenous operatic traditions and the global literary canon, situating yuju as both a vehicle of local cultural identity and a site of transnational adaptation. 175 Although Empress Cixi and Consort Zhen draws on a familiar historical story often adapted in chapter novels and on the theatrical stage, it departs from traditional xiqu conventions in which Cixi is typically reduced to a symbol of power and desire and Consort Zhen is portrayed merely as a victimized weakling. Through the design of dual protagonists, the play reconstructs the dynamics of power and emotional tension between the two figures, offering a 191 Girl Singing Yuju, 2011), Jinguo, hualiyuan 巾幗・華麗緣 (Women Are Renamed, 2013), Feima xing 飛馬行 (Wings of Horses, 2016), Lanruo si 蘭若寺 (Lanruo Temple, 2016), Guanyin 觀・音 (Guanyin, 2017), and Wuhuang taojian 武皇投簡 (Empress Wu Casts the Golden Slip, 2018). Whether in terms of theme, form, stage design, directing techniques, or performance style, these productions all clearly reveal the influence of Taiwanese contemporary theater. Confronted with the competition and impact brought by mainland Chinese classical yuju, Taiwanese yuju, in the process of reexamining its own style, has steadily opened up new avenues of thinking. No longer relying solely on traditional models, it instead explores vibrant exchanges with the innovation found in Taiwan’s broader theatrical ecology, thereby unlocking an array of new possibilities for the future of Taiwanese yuju. more complex representation of female subjectivity and historical interpretation. Moreover, it does not rely on stitching together preexisting lines and arias from excerpt plays. For this reason, I regard it as an original creation. 192 Coda This dissertation examines the development of jingju, yuju, and kunqu in Taiwan. However, rather than providing a purely historical account, it asks how Taiwan’s unique cultural and political conditions have shaped the evolution of these forms and their global significance. By exploring these three xiqu genres, often considered “too Chinese” in Taiwanese society, I aim to demonstrate how xiqu’s entanglement with national and cultural identity has triggered an obsession with orthodoxy, indigeneity, and authenticity. Such preoccupations frequently confine discussions to a binary framework that obscures the inherent creativity woven into all artistic practices. Even the most faithful imitation inevitably requires a certain degree of reinvention, rendering the notion of an unchanging tradition an illusion. To underscore the limitations of categorizing xiqu along nationalist lines, I draw attention to gezaixi 歌仔戲 (Taiwanese opera), a genre that has largely remained outside the scope of earlier chapters. As its name suggests, with elements of the Taiyu language, gezaixi is often invoked by pro-Taiwanese advocates as the antithesis of xiqu genres from China. Unlike jingju, yuju, and kunqu, gezaixi initially lacked a set theatrical structure when it emerged in Taiwan, functioning solely as a musical style. According to Lü Sushang’s Taiwan dianyin xiju shi (A Brief History of Taiwanese Film and Theater): “Gezaixi” was formed by merging various folk songs—jinge 錦歌, caicha 採茶, and chegu車鼓—which were brought from the Xiangjiang region of Zhangzhou into Taiwan. […] Jinge has been passed down in Taiwan for over three centuries. In 1624, when Li Zicheng’s rebellion broke out at the end of the Ming Dynasty and the Qing army invaded Fujian, large numbers of loyal patriots fled to Taiwan, and it was during this migration that jinge was introduced there. 193 「歌仔戲」是由彰州薌江一帶的「錦歌」、「採茶」和「車鼓」各種民謠流 傳到臺灣，而揉合形成的一種戲曲。……「錦歌」留傳到臺灣的歷史有三百多年了。明末（1624）匪寇李自成之亂，清兵侵入福建，一陣忠貞 愛國的志士紛紛的遷移到臺灣，「錦歌」就是在這時候傳到了臺灣. (Lü Sushang 1961: 233) In short, gezaixi’s Minnan musical heritage arrived in Taiwan during the seventeenth century with these waves of migrants. At this early stage, however, it had yet to develop into a fully-fledged singing or theatrical form. As a result, its formative period bore minimal connection to China, and gezaixi has since been regarded as among the most representative of Taiwan’s “indigenous” xiqu traditions. Imagine a makeshift stage assembled in front of a temple, where the sounds of gongs and stringed instruments intermingle with the lively chatter of an eager crowd. Actors gather offstage, applying makeup while listening to the troupe manager outline that day’s scenario. This approach, based on a provisional script rather than a fixed text, helped define the early character of gezaixi as lively, closely tied to local communities, reliant on improvisation, and highly interactive with audiences. Such spontaneity, however, often attracted criticism for lacking refinement. Decked out in vividly colored costumes, performers step onto the stage to present tales in Taiyu—narratives of mischief and romance with comedic twists. This was gezaixi in its infancy, a musical tradition without a stable dramatic framework. Its vibrancy, integration with local rituals, and strong rapport with audiences embody the roots of Taiwanese gezaixi. Later, following the lifting of martial law and the rise of Taiwanese consciousness, gezaixi would be hailed as a symbol of Taiwanese identity; yet it repeatedly found itself embroiled in debates over what defines a national cultural form. Historically, gezaixi encountered repeated setbacks. Under Japanese colonial rule, its popularity, reflected in temple festivals, rowdy celebrations, and devoted local audiences, was deemed potentially subversive. In the subsequent era, the KMT government viewed the Taiyu 194 language as a challenge to its authority, thereby imposing restrictions on performances and discouraging local dialect use. Decades of external pressure left gezaixi simultaneously marginalized and romanticized, perceived by some as too crude or lacking the literary pedigree of other xiqu, yet embraced by proponents of a distinctly Taiwanese cultural identity. These tensions became particularly pronounced during the 1990s, when Taiwan’s localization (bentuhua 本土化) movement transformed gezaixi into the “representative” Taiwanese theater.176 Determined to raise its artistic stature, Liu Zhongyuan 劉鐘元 (1934-2019), producer and proprietor of the Holo Gezixi Tuan河洛歌子戲團 (Holo Taiwanese Opera Troupe),177 championed the notion of “refined gezaixi”—a strategy geared toward enhancing stagecraft, dramatic structure, and cultural impact (Chiu, Wu and You 2011: 92). In 1993, Zeng Yong-yi elaborated further on this vision, highlighting the need for profound rather than vulgar subject matter, concise yet coherent plots, striking sets, witty but tasteful dialogue, varied melodies, and advanced technical performance skills. Yet the longstanding preference for actor-centric, loosely outlined scenarios, coupled with the difficulty of finding scriptwriters fluent in Taiyu, led troupes to seek creative inspiration from regional Chinese operas. At a time of limited cross-strait contact and incomplete copyright awareness, creators such as Liu Zhongyuan explored theatrical traditions in eastern and southeastern China, among them xiangju 薌劇 176 Bentu 本土 is a complex term to translate into English. While its literal meaning can be rendered as native or local, in contemporary Taiwan, the term increasingly emphasizes a distinction from China, positioning itself in contrast to “foreign” influences, particularly from across the strait. However, there is a subtle irony: while bentu asserts a uniquely Taiwanese cultural identity, it remains distinct from indigenous cultures that originate from Taiwan itself, highlighting the layered and sometimes paradoxical nature of local identity. 177 The process of scripting Taiyu involves multiple stages. While gezai 歌仔 (lit. little song or small tune) is the most commonly used term for Taiwanese opera, I adopt the Holo Taiwanese Opera Troupe’s choice of gezi 歌子 (lit. branch of songs). The character 歌 (ge) means “song” while 仔 (zai) is a diminutive suffix in Taiyu, often conveying a sense of familiarity or smallness. The choice of geizi 歌子 over geizai 歌仔 is primarily a stylistic or linguistic preference adopted by specific groups to distinguish their approach. 195 (Xiang opera), minju 閩劇 (Min opera), and putianxi 莆仙戲 (Puxian opera), to import scripts, scenes, and recorded performances back to Taiwan for re-staging. Such acts of transplantation inevitably invited disputes. Many award-winning, anti-feudal operas born of China’s official Theater Reform (xigai 戲改, short from xiju gaige 戲劇改革) circulated widely on the mainland, yet gained scant attention in Taiwan.178 Holo Taiwanese Opera Troupe recognized this “time lag” and traveled to the mainland to collect and adapt them, thereby enriching the pool of gezaixi scripts. One prominent example is Tian’e yan 天鵝宴 (The Swan Banquet), a signature production of the Holo Taiwanese Opera Troupe that allegedly replicated the directorial approach of the Fuzhou Minju Yuan 福州閩劇院 (Fuzhou Min Opera Theater) without permission. The director of Fuzhou Min Opera Theater, Jiang Dongseng江東森, claimed: “The director’s approach of Holo’s The Swan Banquet completely borrowed from Fuzhou Min Opera Theater’s original production without obtaining authorization [….] When he turned on the television, he was shocked to discover that The Swan Banquet had been adapted into gezaixi, with the directing techniques blatantly copying his own” 台灣河洛歌仔戲團曾演出「天鵝宴」，導演手法完全「延用」閩劇院的原創作，卻沒有取得閩劇院的授權 […].打開電視愕然發現「天鵝宴」已經被改編成歌仔戲，而導演手法則一味抄襲他的 (Chou Mei-Hui 1994: 36). 178 Theater Reform comprised three major initiatives: (1) reforming the repertoire (gaixi, 改戲), which involved eliminating outdated or politically undesirable elements from xiqu scripts; (2) reforming practitioners (gairen, 改人), which sought to reshape artists’ ideological perspectives and enhance their political consciousness; and (3) reforming organizational structures (gaizhi, 改制), aimed at restructuring xiqu institutions in accordance with state policies. While these initiatives occasionally produced notable works, the stringent censorship they imposed severely curtailed artistic freedom. Plays that gained recognition during this period often adhered to state-sanctioned narratives, critiquing feudalism, exposing bureaucratic corruption, and advocating justice for the lower classes. 196 This was only one of the several cases that surfaced in the early years of artistic refinement in gezaixi. Representative productions from this period include Qupan ji 曲判記 (The Story of Unfair Judgment, 1991), Tian’er yan 天鵝宴 (Swan Banquet, 1992), Shazhu zhuangyuan 殺豬狀元 (Pig-Killing Scholar, 1992), Huangdi, xiucai, qishi 皇帝・秀才・乞食 (Emperor, Scholar, and Beggar, 1993), Fuchen shamao 浮沈紗帽 (The Ups and Downs of Officialdom, 1994), Fenghuang dan 鳳凰蛋 (The Phoenix Egg, 1994), and Yubian 御匾 (The Imperial Plaque, 1995). All of the productions are adapted from the structurally sophisticated Theater Reform plays that emphasized anti-feudal themes, exposing the injustices of the old political system. In the following decades, more scripts used by Holo Taiwanese Opera Troupe and other Taiwanese gezaixi troupes were discovered to have been acquired through similar means. However, whether the producers were fully conscious of these political implications when selecting scripts remains uncertain. In reality, beyond the underdeveloped notion of copyright at the time, the motivations included the needs of gezaixi troupes and their performers. Anti-feudal storylines, replete with officials, were particularly suited to female leads playing male roles (nü xiaosheng 女小生), a common practice of gezaixi troupes, providing a wealth of dramatic conflicts for heightened stage effect. For many years, these works were regarded as defining examples of Taiwanese gezaixi. In retrospect, they demonstrated a high degree of artistic sophistication and structural complexity, representing a marked departure from earlier gezaixi productions. Yet, this trajectory also reveals an irony: gezaixi, widely regarded as Taiwan’s most indigenous opera form, found 197 its path to artistic maturity through direct engagement with Chinese Theater Reform plays. This paradox remains largely unacknowledged in Taiwan’s cultural discourse. The primary reason for this silence is Taiwan’s ongoing efforts to construct a distinct cultural identity. In the pursuit of a theatrical tradition that is unequivocally separate from China, acknowledging gezaixi’s indebtedness to Chinese regional opera contradicts the narrative of its indigenous authenticity. Thus, even as gezaixi rose to prominence as Taiwan’s national opera, its historical entanglement with Chinese xiqu traditions was strategically overlooked—a testament to the complex and often contradictory intersections of art, politics, and identity. In reality, this example does not aim to dispute the “Taiwanese” character of gezaixi. On the contrary, if these adaptations had not been skillfully executed—incorporating Taiwanese proverbs and aligning the script selections with the stylistic tendencies of gezaixi—such unauthorized appropriations would not have gone unnoticed for so long. This further demonstrates that such unofficial forms of borrowing reveal gezaixi’s adaptive, locally grounded strategies for survival and evolution under existing constraints. But most significantly, it highlights a political paradox: on the one hand, gezaixi was championed as Taiwan’s quintessential form of local xiqu; on the other, it plagiarized works identified with the Chinese state agenda of the PRC government, which was intolerable for those who viewed gezaixi as the very embodiment of Taiwan’s cultural resistance against China. This brief discussion of gezaixi mirrors the broader themes explored in the previous chapters, each of which examines how a different xiqu genre has evolved in Taiwan under specific historical and political conditions. The development of jingju, kunqu, and yuju in Taiwan 198 highlights ongoing negotiations between tradition and adaptation, revealing how each form has navigated issues of identity, preservation, and reinvention. For example, I delve into the haunted politics of identity that shape jingju in Taiwan, taking the 2015 production of The Painting of 18 Lohans as my key example. At first glance, the play’s story—centered on the restoration of a damaged painting—may seem distant from Taiwan’s present, yet it perfectly mirrors the experiences of local jingju practitioners. They have struggled to maintain what they see as Chinese “authenticity” while also responding to Taiwan’s unique political and cultural shifts. From grappling with the KMT’s policies to adapting with limited guidance from seasoned jingju masters, these performers have moved beyond mere imitation, gradually forging an identity that is distinctly their own. If Taiwan had not existed as a space for these subtle negotiations, it is questionable whether jingju would have found such creative, self-assertive pathways to remake itself. I also examine kunqu through the lens of a 1992 performance of The Peony Pavilion, a production that unexpectedly transformed an art form once regarded as archaic and insular into a cultural sensation. Free from a monolithic set of rules, kunqu has discovered new ways to thrive, suggesting that Taiwan is both a refuge and a place of connoisseurship. In particular its welcoming environment for those kunqu masters who defected from China has encouraged theatrical innovation rather than stifling it. I then turn to yuju, which was initially transplanted to Taiwan by the Nationalist government yet soon found itself caught between official narratives and the realities of local performance culture. As a so-called “regional” form, yuju might have seemed an odd fit in Taiwan’s multiethnic, multilingual setting. Nevertheless, it adapted, taking on what I describe as difangxing 地方性 (locality or local character) and navigating the drive toward jingjuhua (jingju- 199 ization)—a push to standardize and regularize its aesthetics in line with jingju. By exploring yuju’s gradual reshaping of repertoire, staging, and even vocal techniques, I show how Taiwan’s cultural environment led to a form of “ersatz folklore” that nevertheless resonates powerfully with local audiences. Ultimately, these cases highlight that no xiqu genre exists in a state of absolute purity. Their stories illustrate the perpetual reinvention of so-called “traditional xiqu.” Reflecting on this research, I have found that Taiwan’s xiqu landscape transcends simple East/West or China/Taiwan binaries. The island functions as an incubator of innovation for decolonization, cultural hybridization, and global exchange in the performing arts. Whether jingju, kunqu, yuju, or gezaixi, these xiqu forms demonstrate that cultural identity is perpetually in flux rather than monolithic. From this perspective, Taiwan’s position on the margins transforms into a source of creative vitality, a place where xiqu can break free from ossified strictures while still preserving its historical roots. Who owns xiqu, and who defines its legitimacy? With every performance and adaptation, these questions are reimagined and challenged. Far from simply stewarding xiqu, Taiwan continually reinvents xiqu, endowing it with renewed life and redefining its place in global culture. 200 Bibliography Interviews: Chu Mei-li 朱美麗, in-person interview by Yu-ning Liu at Taiwan Bangzi Theater. Kaohsiung, Taiwan. 2022/10/31. Hsia Yuan-tseng 夏元增, in-person interview by Yu-ning Liu. At his home in Richmond, BC, Canada. 2023/1/23. Michael Wilper, in-person interview by Yu-ning Liu, at Teaism restaurant in DC, U.S. 2022/07/08. Tong-ching Chang 張冬青, in-person interview by Yu-ning Liu at her home in Maryland, U.S. 2022/07/07. Tong-ching Chang 張冬青, telephone interview by Yu-ning Liu. 2022/08/11. 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Thesis/Dissertation
eng
Theatre
Vancouver : University of British Columbia Library
Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International
Graduate
Liu, 1964 November 7- Siyuan
Accidental encounters : a journey of developing the subjectivity of Taiwan’s contemporary xiqu forms
Text