“A smile brings on the spring, a tear releases sorrow. Such mannerism, who can possess? Such demeanour, who can withhold?” For as long as the Peking Opera existed, since the kick-start of it in ancient dynasties of China, “dan”(female) roles have always been perceived and portrayed as characters of beauteous enchantment. In the novel and internationally acclaimed movie scripted by Lillian Lee, “Farewell My Concubine”(1993) is an example of such.
Spanning over a few decades in the 1900s, the period was encircled between the diminishing traditional era and the impending New Society of modern China. Amongst the countless Chinese Opera performers, particularly a young man who adopted the name Dieyi takes on the role of Yuji the Concubine from the infamous opera script of “Farewell My Concubine”, traversing the theatre stages with his stage brother, the Emperor. Sold into an opera troupe at a tender age, Dieyi’s life was a fragile one. He was a tragedy right from the beginning.
Perhaps, destiny had etched the forlorn look onto his flawless face. The ghost of his past – the sedate young boy – has grown into a man of fine calibre, with a medium build just perfect for his female role and a voice tender enough to sing of the undying love Yuji had towards the Emperor. Straight-browed, a finely shaped nose lies between Dieyi’s cheeks, with bow-shaped lips and gentle eyes – eyes that seem to stare into a distant – which are molded in the right proportion onto an oval frame. Dieyi does not have very squarish jaws. He is a man, yet with so much resemblance to a woman. His well defined features shine forth an innate appeal, most of all an ethereal beauty that is alluring to both genders.
Peking Opera itself is a well-received form of artistry, an infinite performing stage where Dieyi obliterates all distractions and fully engrosses as Yuji, a woman destined for a sorrowful ending which somehow becomes Dieyi’s.
The estheticism of the outlook of Peking Opera “dan” characters lies in the spectrum of colours of the elaborate dressings as well as the headdresses. On stage, Dieyi dons intricate trinkets on top of his headdress, consisting of pearls and butterfly hairpins and basically decors to enhance the significance of his role. Dieyi’s entire face is covered in white oil paint while magenta colour pigment is spread over the eye area with bold, black paint for the brows and eye-lines. Subjected to his own world so aloof, he stands, ever so dignified and garners the audiences’ attention in its entirety. Yuji wears a genteel, prideful expression and with a single tilt of the head and gesture of a fair hand, his subtle yet lavishing charisma encompasses the finest qualities of what men and women yearn for. Minimal expression from his countenance amazingly outpours the most indescribable and complex emotions. Much like a piece of art; picturesque to the state of perfection.
In a particular scene, Dieyi takes on a graceful, well-planned gait as the sole performer on stage. The Japanese soldiers are rationing the electricity yet again, turning on and off the theatre lightings. Faced with the onslaught of the audience’s chaos, his silent figure spins, ignorant of all else, finally landing headlong upon the carpeted stage of crimson. A despondent concubine in a state a stupour. He lay still. He does not move. Yet beyond the stage, welling emotions arouse simultaneously and erupt the audience’s admiration and most of all, applause.
After all, it is his stage, his art, his life. These are meant to be, because – he is Yuji, in real life.
However obsession and enticement Dieyi brings about amongst his supportive fans, actors are merely a passing fancy in the Chinese culture, as the saying goes, “Actors are unfeeling”. Away from the splendidly dazzling role on the stage, Dieyi leads a bleak life and has a melancholic nature. It is not known, to them. He has a burning desire for beautiful things, for perfection, just as himself with a delicate and fragile personality. Like a metamorphic butterfly, mortified yet blessed with a beauty so overwhelming and intense that it can hurt.
A rich merchant, rather captivated by Dieyi, once exclaimed, “A smile brings on the spring, a tear releases sorrow. Such mannerism, to you, solely belongs. Such demeanour, can you, solely withhold.”
Dieyi’s tragic ending is a result of his lifelong suppressed love for his stage brother. Like an exact replica of the script of “Farewell My Concubine”, where Yuji drinks and dances for the King for the last time before slashing her throat with her sword, Dieyi’s death occurs as a symbolism of fleetness in life. Nothing matters even if life is short-lived. Just because it is short-lived, only then can life be thus beautiful.
written on 7 July 2005
