China's Whirling Kaleidoscope

By Gerald Clarke

Peking opera somersaults into the Met

There ought to be a word to describe Peking opera, but there isn't, and for a very good reason: it is unique in all the world; no theatrical or musical experience in the West is remotely comparable. It is ballet, gymnastics, circus, mime, silent movie and, to a degree, even opera.

Most of all, it is spectacle--dazzling sights, exotic sounds, strange but engrossing stories. A few members of this troupe gave a sampling of the art in 1978. Now a full company from the Peking Opera Theater is presenting the broad and impressive range of the repertory. Last week it began a ten-city, twelve-week tour in Manhattan's Metropolitan Opera house; it will go from there to Philadelphia Aug. 25, travel on to such places as Los Angeles and Chicago and end its run in Boston Nov. 2. The company is presenting eight separate productions, with no more than three in any one night. Trying to gauge the tastes of American audiences, and their tolerance for the alien sounds of Chinese singing and musical instruments, the American organizers have chosen the most come-at-able works in the repertory, cutting even those when they seemed to go on too long. One that did not need to be cut by more than five minutes is the comic The Monkey King Fights the 18 Lo Hans (demons), which is taken from a legendary novel. The Monkey King, according to the story, has been making a nuisance of himself in heaven; for his misdeeds he is consigned to a fiery furnace. Like Brer Rabbit in another legend, that seems to be just what he wanted, however, and he emerges from the flames with supernatural strength.

The Jade Emperor appeals for help to the Buddha, who sends 18 demons to put an end to all the monkeyshines. The Monkey King (Li Yuanchun) meets them all and, in pantomime scenes worthy of Chaplin and Keaton, sends them tumbling. He takes one demon's weapon and twirls it on one finger, like a gyroscope; he grabs another one and flicks it away with his heel. No one in heaven or earth can touch this hilarious spirit of riot and disorder, and peace comes only when he finds his way home to the Flower-Fruit Mountain. Equally funny is an other bit of pantomime, The Three-Forked Crossroad. In a case of mistaken identities at a country inn, two men simulate a sword fight in the dark. Squinting through the supposed gloom, they swipe at one another, only rarely touching in this intricate game of peek and duck.

A more serious tale is Yan Dang Mountain. A peasant uprising in the 7th century has put the Sui dynasty on the defensive, forcing a retreat to Yan Dang Mountain. The forces of yellow (the empire) and blue (the peasants) clash in a kaleidoscope of acrobatic encounters, until finally the rebels vault over the defending walls and capture the stronghold. The athletic skills displayed in this and other parts of the program could win gold medals in a dozen Olympics, and the brilliantly garbed Chinese players have discovered what may be a new art form -- the somersault. They do fast flip-flops and they do slow ones; they can do almost any thing with their bodies, defying both gravity and anatomy. A more gorgeous dis play of costumes and gymnastics has probably never before been presented onstage.

Less exciting, but no less exotic is a more static number, The Jade Bracelet.

A young scholar (Fu Peng) passes the door of a farmer's daughter (Zhao Yanxia) and starts the usual boy-meets-girl talk. The situation progresses, and they burst into song, both in falsetto, until a matchmaker comes along and provides the mandatory happy ending.

Other works, like The White Snake and The Goddess of the Green Ripples, combine singing and acrobatics and seem less successful -- or at least less accessible. Chinese singing, even when done well, as it obviously is by the Peking stars, sounds curiously bland and uninviting to untutored ears. A combination of the best productions, however, is a marvel for eye, mind and ear as well.

Considering the outrages it suffered during the Cultural Revolution, the fact that the Peking company exists at all is a kind of miracle. Mao Tse-tung's wife, the arrogant and mischievous Jiang Qing (Chiang Ch'ing), barred all classical productions as antirevolutionary, and a major artist like the enchanting Zhao Yanxia had to spend five years planting wheat in the provinces. Thankfully, Jiang herself has now fallen out of favor, and Zhao and her colleagues can now delight Americans, as they and their predecessors have been thrilling the Chinese for generations.

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