Sichuan Face Changing Opera Theatre
Location: Chengdu
Famed For: Split second timing, incomprehensible plot lines and fire breathing actors.
'My
hair is my father'
-Student
quote of the week
It's
always an invitation to be wary when one of the Chinese staff members
sits down at your table in the teacher's canteen. The inevitability
of an inquisition, the curious raised eyebrow at the minimal amount
of meat on my lunch tray, the request for tuition during preciously
hoarded weekends all tend to make meal times a careful negotiation
between avoiding indigestion and leaving as quickly as possible.
I
pretend to study the tea boiled cabbage on my plate, before moving on
to attempting to identify what the latest gelatinous white blob is
wobbling beside it, all whilst eyeing my colleague suspiciously from
under my fringe. She smiles in my direction and slurps her noodles
before launching into an innocuous, largely one sided conversation
about why I have come to China and what kind of teaching I am doing.
Slowly, almost inexorably, I am dragged into the conversation and
before I can politely extricate myself she has my telephone number,
teaching schedule and has somehow contrived a meeting between myself
and her friend who wishes to learn English.
Fortunately,
Ruby turns out to be a lovely student.
With the help of one of my
university students, L, who has voluntarily agreed to act as
translator/dictionary, Ruby tells me she owns her own restaurant and
wants to learn English so she can go to a business conference next
year. Just approaching middle age, with laughing, intelligent eyes,
she allows me to drink as many chocolate milk teas as I want for the
two hours I teach her. I revel in the heating that is sadly missing
from my own apartment where I can now see my own breath. She notes
down everything I say in a large black book, is eager to learn,
assigns herself homework and finds English hysterical. The phrase
'been on my feet all day' sends her into a fit of laughter that
brings tears to her eyes.
With the help of one of my
university students, L, who has voluntarily agreed to act as
translator/dictionary, Ruby tells me she owns her own restaurant and
wants to learn English so she can go to a business conference next
year. Just approaching middle age, with laughing, intelligent eyes,
she allows me to drink as many chocolate milk teas as I want for the
two hours I teach her. I revel in the heating that is sadly missing
from my own apartment where I can now see my own breath. She notes
down everything I say in a large black book, is eager to learn,
assigns herself homework and finds English hysterical. The phrase
'been on my feet all day' sends her into a fit of laughter that
brings tears to her eyes.
Touchingly,
for my birthday she even makes me a cake, complete with candles. A
dinner plate sized confection of cream and vanilla sponge, as guest
of honour I am served a wedge that could keep a door open, complete
with tiny cake spork. It is delicious- light, airy and creamy. Then I
discover three tiny, random chunks of pineapple in my slice. No-one
else around the table is questioning why a traditional sponge cake
has small pieces of tropical fruit inside it, though a significant
nod at the cake and then at G prompts an expression of knowing
commiseration.
I am, however, used to Ruby serving me odd food combinations. During that first meeting she had offered L and I a chance to try the house pizza to ensure it tasted like it would in England. As we were doing her a favour simply by eating free food we readily agreed. After fifteen minutes the pizza arrived and though the topping looked unfamiliar I gamely nibbled a slice.
I am, however, used to Ruby serving me odd food combinations. During that first meeting she had offered L and I a chance to try the house pizza to ensure it tasted like it would in England. As we were doing her a favour simply by eating free food we readily agreed. After fifteen minutes the pizza arrived and though the topping looked unfamiliar I gamely nibbled a slice.
'Is
it good, like pizza in your England?' Ruby questioned anxiously.
'It's
a little different,' I confirmed, smiling between slightly clenched
teeth.
Out of politeness I managed to swallow a second piece before claiming to be full. I had to wait another hour before I could leave and brush my teeth to get rid of the taste of tomato sauce, cheese, onion, garlic, pulped cherry and banana.
Out of politeness I managed to swallow a second piece before claiming to be full. I had to wait another hour before I could leave and brush my teeth to get rid of the taste of tomato sauce, cheese, onion, garlic, pulped cherry and banana.
One
of my favourite students, Angela, has her birthday the day following
mine and as she and some of my other students sit around the
Caribbean inspired sponge cake with me and G in Ruby's restaurant
they explain the rules of candle blowing in China. You have
three wishes. The
first two are
said out loud and the
last is
kept secret. I explain that in England
when you
make a wish and blow the candles out you
don't say what it is because
then it won't come true. So Angela and I
compromise and make two wishes. One out
loud and one to ourselves.
This
birthday is my first in a foreign country but a package containing my
birthday cards has safely arrived and so has a parcel from home full
of necessities- a hot water bottle, fleecy pyjamas, a jumper,
emergency chocolate and the obligatory socks. It's different to what
I'd normally get on my birthday, but after sleeping in my hat,
gloves, scarf and coat last night, the chance to finally be warm in
the apartment makes them gratefully received.
As
to actually celebrating, on the Saturday evening (before a night of
KTV and dancing) my friends and I go to see the Face Changing Opera.
It's the second show I've seen in China- the first being an acrobat
show in Beijing, where all of the performers were sixteen or under,
their parents too poor to support them and so there they were earning
money to send back to their families. Girls span plates on sticks,
five clutched in each hand whilst doing forward rolls and twisting
their bodies into impossible poses, walking on each others shoulders
and then standing on the heads of their partners. One girl threw
paper parasols with her feet, balancing them with her toes and
flipping them over, teenage boys barrelled through tiny hoops,
another balanced on one hand on a stack of nine chairs.
The face changing, however, is very
different. There is a woman who appears between each act to explain
what will follow and electronic boards either side of the stage
translating what is happening into chinglish. The plot is still
largely baffling though. This makes it no less interesting or strange
but it truly demonstrates just how far down the rabbit hole we have
fallen. There are people in amazing battle costumes and faces painted
in a range of brilliant colours, singing up and down several octaves.
Women dance, billowing sleeves swirling around them in a riot of
colour. A clown appears and pretends to tip water onto the audience.
There are several scenes of ancient life in Chengdu, two lovers are
separated- the man is scarred by a rival and forced to wear a Phantom of
the Opera style mask. A puppeteer appears with a doll that can
dance and has fingers that can be individually manipulated to grasp
at flowers, feathers and floating scarves. A man spews fire into the
air. Two dancers on wires soar through the auditorium. The face
changers appear, skin thin masks disappearing from their faces in the
blink of an eye without the touch of human hands. One second they
wear one face. The next a completely different one. There are at
least a dozen masks worn underneath each other and it's intriguing to
wonder just how they remove them without touching their faces. Is it
the twitch of a facial muscle? A special compartment fitted into
their hats? They come down into the audience to shake people's hands-
and even as they are shaking hands their masks disappear into their
costumes until their faces are revealed. It's impossible to say how
it's done and deeply impressive.
Then to everyone's astonishment the masks
begin to reappear as if shuttered by invisible fingers.
The evening finishes with the
reappearance of the puppet that now breathes fire and we are left
with a deep sense of amazement (largely at how a wooden
fire-breathing puppet does not catch alight) and wonder at what we
have witnessed.
This is swiftly punctured by the lights
coming up and a voice speaking over the tannoy:
'Dear audience, the show has ended.
Please leave the theatre. Thank you.'
In England, the end of a show would be
marked by rousing music, the fall of the curtain and a round of
applause. In China, the audience have largely already left before the
end and there is no-one left to clap except the tourists.
We applaud loudly to make up for this and
there are a couple of whoops and cheers from along our row. The
actors look startled at all this enthusiasm, as though they're not
sure why they're being praised and I recognise the expression of
polite suspicion on their faces.
It's the one I wear every time Ruby
presents me with food.
Out of the theatre we head towards
Helen's Bar for post theatre drinks. As birthday girl I have mine
bought for me and then a plate arrives and is placed on the table
before me. What's this?
A has bought me cake. Chocolate
cheesecake by the look of it, but that's no guarantee of anything.
'Make a wish!' she says brightly.
I close my eyes and silently ask for no
pineapple.
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