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The production in all its glory. Courtesy of Calarts.edu/redcat/season/theater/peachblossomfan.html.
When A Peach Is Still A Peach
The lavish, hyperkinetic fantasy of Chen Shi-Zheng’s "Peach Blossom Fan" oozes stylistic brilliance, but falls a wee bit short on the content meter.
Peach Blossom Fan is much-ballyhooed director Chen Shi-Zheng’s most breathtaking work yet—it’s a whirling dervish of sound, of fury, and of images so jaw-dropping in their presentation that one sometimes forgets that we’re watching an ensemble of living, breathing performers without the use of cue cards, multiple shots, or the cutting room floor to sharpen the final results. That’s because Peach Blossom Fan is a play in only the loosest, Moulin-Rouge-is-a-musical-sense, meaning it topples any and all boundaries of stage decorum while simultaneously juggling a smorgasbord of universal themes and motifs.
What kinds of themes, exactly? Well, for starters, there’s the always-timeless doomed lovers approach that takes precedence over all else--in this case, the couple consisting of a “courtesan” and her idyllic, bohemian poet-lover. Of course, the primary action certainly must take place within thick, impenetrable walls of political intrigue, most notably a plot involving an effeminate emperor and his assortment of devious henchmen, which includes a sexually ambiguous governor and a couple of sexpots. Oh, and did I mention that the Ming dynasty is about to collapse?
All of which is secondary to what you really came to see—the technical fireworks. But despite Peach Blossom Fan's embarrassment of visual riches—and trust me, there are quite a few to behold—and fantastically over-the-top, but appropriately sinister reconstruction of the 17th Century opera (from which this modern adaptation takes its name and narrative set-up), the play’s biggest shortcoming is that it doesn’t take things quite far enough. Shi-Zheng scatters a few subliminal potshots at the Bush administration and its dealings in the Iraqi conflict, as well as several zingers concerning modern society’s schizophrenic attitudes towards sex and wantonness. But when the final curtain drops, one gets the distinct impression that Shi-Zheng doesn’t seem altogether comfortable treating the more explorative, substantive notions behind his work with the same untamed bravado that he injects into his aesthetic layout.
Which is not to say that the play is all style, and no substance. Rather, it’s too much unconcentrated, unrefined substance, and not enough gang-busting, envelope-pushing ideas that’ll take some of the heat off of the visuals. And while some of this can be attributed to the original opera’s somewhat cluttered storyline, one must be prepared to weed out superfluities and misplaced sequences in order to arrive at what is an unquestionably single-minded and irreplaceable reinterpretation.
It’s not that anyone doubts Shi-Zheng’s expertise in the flourishes of traditional Chinese opera (his mammoth production of another Chinese opera, Peony Pavilion, is considered a pinnacle achievement). But there are certainly times when he cannot help but flout this knowledge as a sort of exercise in authenticity. The character whose presence feels the most jarring in PBF is also, curiously enough, the one who would inspire a plethora of standing ovations in a more traditional operatic setting. As the once-powerful general Shih Ke Fa whose troops and monarchy have abandoned him, Zhou Long is the play’s only remaining link to Chinese opera training. And while we marvel at his ability to channel the trademarks of Chinese opera—those high-pitched, highly-stylized, sing-songy declarations of feeling—we are also struck by their disjunction with the predominantly Western elements of the play. In the end, Peach Blossom Fan manifests itself as a sort of multicultural playground—it’s intoxicating, vivacious and intensely varied. But it’s also a bit chaotic, a bit tumultuous and more importantly, a bit too inconsequential.
Date Posted: 5/4/2004