Mei Lanfang and “The Peony Pavilion” (Part 8) | Mei Lanfang Details the Filming Process of the Kunqu Opera Film “The Peony Pavilion” (Part 4: Production—2)

Appearance outfit

 

Then Du Liniang, in the customary operatic style of spoken verse, asked Chunxiang, “Have you already instructed the flower‑boys to sweep the flower‑path?” Chunxiang replied, “I have already given the order.” She then handed the flowers in her hand to her young mistress.

 

Du: “Bring the dressing table over.” Chunxiang exits the frame, holding the dressing table and reciting: “With my cloud-like hair undone, I face the mirror once more; as I change my silk robes, a fainter fragrance seems to linger.” She turns to Du and says, “Young Mistress, the dressing table is here.”

 

Du said, “Let it go.” Chunxiang went first to the boudoir. Du glanced out the window and murmured, “What fine weather!” Then he sang in the style of “Bubu Jiao”: “Tendrils of clear sunlight, wafting through the idle courtyard, swaying—spring is but a thread.”

 

In the following interlude, Du removes her cloak and hands it to Chunxiang. She then approaches the dressing table and sits before the mirror, while Chunxiang begins to style her mistress’s hair. Du sings: “Pausing for a moment, she arranges her flower ornaments, unaware that the reflecting mirror reveals only half of her face.” As she reaches the word “ling,” a reverse shot captures the image of a figure in the mirror from behind. For the gesture of “stealing half a face,” on stage Chunxiang holds a handled bronze mirror to illuminate Du’s coiffure; in the film, a glass‑inlaid mirror is used—its glass reflects light, so gold powder is applied to mute the glare.

 

 

When singing “Yi Dou De,” Du makes a gesture with one finger, signaling Chunxiang to fetch the garment and change. Chunxiang exits the frame; upon reaching the word “Yun” in “Cai Yun Pian,” she returns, opens her pèi, and drapes it over Du Liniang’s body—at this moment, the camera cuts to a new shot.

 

Because I once pointed out that the way one dresses is hard to pull off; on stage, I simply felt it lacked a certain dance‑like quality. The principles of opera performance are distilled from life and refined through artistic treatment, demanding that every gesture and movement be aesthetically enhanced. A solo performance allows for repeated practice and easy mastery. In “The Peony Pavilion,” when movements must be executed during the singing, they often come across as constrained. Following my suggestions, the director excised trivial everyday details, a choice that proved more suitable for the cinematic medium.
 

 

I remember during the final rehearsal of “A Dream in the Garden,” the understudy actors Cai Yaoxian and Yang Chunxia stood in for us on stage. Their two turns while looking into the mirror were quite well executed, so I said, “You two young performers, let’s do it one more time.” And they obliged, repeating the sequence for us to see.

 

Zhen Fei said, “On stage, they’ve never portrayed Du Liniang or Chunxiang. This time, the choreography was devised by Zhu Chuanming based on the film’s storyboard. Through the filming process, they were able to learn a great deal from you—how to master the coordination of hands, eyes, body, and steps. With the camera’s close-ups and cuts, their movements are even clearer than on stage. As a result, not only these two but every student who took on the role of a flower deity received a vivid lesson, and the gains were substantial.”

 

I said, “In my view, the young actors at your school are both intelligent and graceful, with solid training and a bright future—of course, this is inseparable from the teachers’ hard work.”

 

Du Liniang, having finished dressing and adorning herself, sings: “How can I, stepping forth from my fragrant boudoir, so readily reveal my whole being?” Below, the dialogue is rendered in lyrical verse, highlighting the splendor and beauty of Du Liniang’s attire and ornaments. Chunxiang sings in the tune of “Zui Fu Gui”: “ You say that her gown is a vivid crimson, and her floral hairpin gleams with the eight treasures. “Du Chang said, ‘As you can see, my lifelong passion has always been for nature.’ In this scene, the performance must highlight Du Liniang’s love of beauty through her vocal style, facial expressions, and gestures. Then Chunxiang says, ‘Princess, please step out to your bridal chamber!’ and lifts the curtain, accompanying her out of the boudoir.”
 

Mei Lanfang and Yan Huizhu in film footage

 

      Filming “Zao Luo Pao”

[Good Sister] [End of Line]
 

From the boudoir to the courtyard. The courtyard scene was shot last; a long corridor was set up within it. Originally, the plan was for Du and Chun to finish their song in the courtyard: “How can one see the perfect beauty of early spring? Unforeseen, the fish sink at her glance, the wild geese fall at her call, and even the birds startle—how could one not fear that the shy blossoms and the moon herself would tremble with sorrow?” Passing through the corridor, they would step out of frame in just a few paces. I felt it would be a pity not to make use of such a beautiful corridor. The director agreed with my suggestion and, together with the cinematographer, reworked the shot, replacing the straight passage with a circuitous walk around the corridor.

 

In this way, Du Liniang and Chunxiang can, amid the musical interludes, stroll along the veranda to savor the spring scenery, then step out of the courtyard and into the garden. Upon entering, Du Liniang recites: “On the painted corridor, golden dust lies scattered here and there; in the pavilions and ponds, green moss spreads in a single expanse.” Chunxiang responds: “Treading on the grass, I fear the mud staining my newly embroidered silk socks; cherishing the blossoms, my heart aches for the little golden bells.”

 

These few lines of poetry, through references to architecture and the flower-lined path, suggest that this garden is not frequented by visitors. During rehearsals, there have been two interpretations of the “little golden bell”: one associates it with the shoe on the foot. I recall that in earlier times, women’s shoes were adorned with little bells, and the gestures we learned from our teacher also pointed beneath the skirt. Others argue, based on the newly published annotations to The Peony Pavilion, that the golden bell is hung from a tree and should therefore point upward toward the tree. However, I find this interpretation inconsistent with the play’s meaning, and moreover, the phrase “painfully agonizing” remains difficult to explain. Thus, I maintain that the golden bell should still be understood as the bell attached to the shoe.

 

Comrade Ouyang Yuqian holds a different view from mine regarding Jinling’s explanation. He says: “According to the ‘Tianbao Yishi,’ during the spring, Prince Ning would thread red silk into cords in the rear garden, fastening them to the tips of the blossoms; whenever birds alighted and gathered there, he would order the garden officials to pull the bell‑ropes to startle them. This is the origin of the ‘flower‑protecting bell,’ which is frequently alluded to in poetry. As for the meaning of ‘painful to the utmost,’ it can indeed be understood as expressing the sorrow felt at the sight of the flowers—sorrow that extends even to the little golden bell that guards them.”

 

Mei Lanfang and Yan Huizhu in a film scene

 

The arias that follow the opening scene are woven with a bittersweet, joyful melancholy; and from the piece “Zao Luo Pao,” we can also discern Du Liniang’s dissatisfaction with her present circumstances:

 

Once the vibrant blossoms bloomed in profusion, yet all is now consigned to broken wells and crumbling walls. What can one do with such fine days and beautiful sights? Who, pray tell, finds joy in such a scene? At dawn they flutter, at dusk they gather; clouds and rosy hues grace the emerald pavilion; rain threads and gusts of wind drift by; on the misty waters, painted boats glide—yet the maiden behind the brocade screen holds this fleeting springtime far too lightly.

 

    The author uses the blooming of myriad flowers and the desolation and neglect of buildings to illustrate that the “Jinping people,” obsessed with fame and fortune, have no time to savor the beautiful seasons and exquisite sights of nature. Of course, this includes her father, Du Bao. Therefore, in our performance, we must convey her complex emotions—primarily through her facial expressions and the subtle play of her eyes.

 

In the aria “Good Sister,” the film’s handling is quite effective: “Across the green hills, the cuckoos have reddened the azaleas; beyond the climbing roses, the misty tendrils seem drunk and soft.” In the ensuing interlude, Du Liniang and Chunxiang pass through a flower trellis, and the camera follows them to the peony platform. Chunxiang recites, “All the flowers are in bloom—yet the peonies are still far from their time!” Du Liniang pauses in thought, then takes up the verse, using the blossoms as a mirror for herself: “Though the peonies may be lovely, how could they claim the first place when spring has already departed?”

 

Then, using the sound of birds as a cue, Chunxiang chimes in: “Miss, those warblers and swallows sing so sweetly.” Du Liniang and Chunxiang join in harmony: “The oriole’s song is clear as if cut with scissors, its trills round and smooth as rolling pearls.” As the performance on stage draws to a close, Chunxiang adds: “Miss, this garden truly cannot be fully appreciated in a single visit.” With a wistful expression, Du Liniang replies, “What need is there to speak of it?” Chunxiang suggests, “Let us leave some lingering charm—come back tomorrow for another stroll!” Du concurs, “Very well.”
 

 

Then they all sang together the “Ge Wei” section: “Though we gaze at it till our eyes are sated, what good is that? Even if we were to admire every one of the twelve pavilions, it would still be in vain. Better far to let our pleasure run its course and then return home to while away the hours in leisure.” As they sang, they walked out of the garden; by the line “better far to,” they had already reached the threshold of the boudoir. Upon entering, Du handed her fan to Chunxiang, removed her shawl, and sat down.

 

In this passage, the opera stages the scene on an empty stage with no set, relying instead on stylized gestures—such as exiting the garden or entering a chamber—to convey the action. In the film, after the aria “Good Sister” concludes, Du Liniang slowly steps forward during a musical interlude, pausing to ponder. When Chunxiang calls out “Miss” for the first time, she is so lost in the springtime beauty of the garden that she fails to hear her. Only when Chunxiang calls again does Du Liniang, as if awakening from a dream, respond with, “What’s there to mention?”

 

With that spoken passage concluded, the two turn and exit the frame, then re-enter through the flower trellis, singing a “gewei” while threading their way between the blossoms. Once they’ve finished, they pivot and walk off across the little bridge. During recording, Hui Zhu and I worked closely with the director and the orchestra to meticulously time every moment, rehearsing again and again—so the actual shoot went quite smoothly.
 

But at home, all I could picture was a vague outline; without being on location and seeing the scene firsthand, imagination alone just wouldn’t cut it. After more than a month of shooting, I’ve come to realize that meticulous preparation on set is even more crucial. So when it came time to film this scene, before each shot began, I’d step into the performance area to carefully discuss angles and positions with the director and the cinematographer, thoughtfully considering how this particular shot would differ from both film and stage—and how best to arrange and execute those transitions. That approach was far more composed and effective than scrambling for solutions once I was already in front of the camera.

 

Du Liniang stepped into the inner chamber and cast a glance around. Accompanied by soft, delicate music, the secluded boudoir seemed all the more tranquil and forlorn. With a wistful tone, she murmured, “Silently wandering through spring’s bloom, I lightly try on the face of early spring.” Having finished, she walked to the window, drew back the bamboo curtain, and leaned out to gaze upon the vexing beauty of spring, softly chanting, “Spring, oh spring, how I long to linger with you!”

 

The cinematographer uses a reverse shot to pan from a wide shot to a close-up of Du Liniang. She turns and recites: “How can spring be sent away? In weather like this, one feels so weary.” With a gentle flick of her sleeve, she slowly walks to the round table, sits down, and begins to sing the aria “Shanpo Yang”: “Amid this chaotic springtime, my feelings are hard to dispel.” Here, the scene seeks to convey, through the languor of spring, an atmosphere of listlessness, loneliness, and hollow emptiness.
 

 

Standing up to sing “Suddenly, a tender sorrow for the one I long for,” the word “one” here stands as the object of this hypothetical longing. “Only because I was born with such delicate beauty,” one must reveal a self‑pitying air, echoing the sentiment from the earlier scene in “The Garden”: “All my life, my only passion is nature itself.”

 

“Selecting the celestial beings one by one from among the illustrious families”—in this line, the performer sings and walks through the study, alternately pointing forward with each hand, their eyes shining with optimistic hope. Finally, they crouch down and execute a graceful dance gesture, intended to highlight… Though she remains secluded in the inner chambers, she is nonetheless filled with a fervent desire for a happy life. 。

 

“Such a fine match, yet I’ve cast my youth far away; who but I can see my longing? All I can do is yield to timidity and reserve.” With these lines, the mood shifts abruptly from the earlier optimism to one of melancholy and discontent. “I wonder by whose side my dreams drift, mingling with the fleeting beauty of spring. Procrastination—where can I find words to express this heart’s ache? Torment—what else is left in this wretched life but to ask Heaven?” Here, the gestures are slow and restrained, meant to be conveyed through the singing style and facial expressions. Du Liniang feels her youth slipping away, time flowing silently like a passing stream, while the anguish in her heart finds no one to confide in—only Heaven knows. 。
 

 

After Du Liniang finishes singing the aria “Shanpo Yang” and leans against the table to fall asleep, a sleep deity appears on stage, using two bronze cymbals to usher Du and Liu into their dream‑time rendezvous. In the film, two flower goddesses separately guide Du and Liu to their dream encounter. Special effects are also employed to depict Du Liniang’s “out‑of‑body” departure and her “return” during her spirit’s journey.

 

To film the “exit” and “entry” scenes, a raised platform is constructed, with a narrow ramp leading up to it. For the “exit,” the performer ascends from below onto the platform; for the “entry,” they descend from the platform. Both the backdrop and the platform are draped in black velvet; since black is insensitive to light, the effect creates the illusion of weightlessness, as if floating in midair.

 

During a test shoot, I slipped on the downhill slope while wearing leather-soled, colorful shoes, much to the astonishment of the entire crew. We immediately decided to widen the ramp, reinforce the velvet surface with nailed wooden strips, and affix adhesive rubber to the soles of the shoes. The next day, everyone put their heads together again and came up with an even better solution: they had Du Liniang stand atop a cart, eliminating the need for her to walk. Others would pull the cart along using ropes, ensuring both safety and stability on the incline—while also making the sensation of floating in midair all the more vivid.
 

 

The scenes of “leaving the body” and “returning to the body” were shot alternately in Studios One and Two. That day, as heavy snow swirled and fell, Du Liniang traveled back and forth by car through the snowy night; had Tang Xianzu been alive to know, he would surely have stroked his beard and smiled. 。

 

Our working method this time is to have the filmed footage developed and reviewed as quickly as possible, and to reshoot any scenes that raise concerns right away. One day, while I was in makeup getting ready to reshot the “out-of-body” sequence, the director told me that, before the screening room review, they had already screened the monologue from “A Terrifying Dream,” which had been shot two days earlier.

 

I asked Yuan to take a look, and when he came back, he told me that Du Liniang was reciting, “Spring, oh spring, how I long to linger with you.” But judging from the shot, it seemed the line didn’t quite connect with the word “spring.” We decided to reshoot this scene.
 

I recalled that during the last shoot, I was simply standing by an octagonal window, not leaning against the railing inside. That lacquered, carved window rail blocked my upper body, leaving only a small portion of me visible in the frame. Moreover, my gaze was level, not looking upward. These factors may well have been why the character “spring” failed to connect with the rest of the composition.

 

During rehearsals before the reshoot, I tried standing by the window and resting my arm on the railing, but the rail was too high, and no matter how many poses I struck, none looked right. So I suggested to the director that they pad something under my feet; once I did, my arm rested comfortably on the railing, with my upper body leaning slightly over it. My right hand tugged at the water sleeve of my left, and my eyes gazed upward—immediately, I felt a deep connection to the springtime scenery outside the window, and the shot came together smoothly.

 

The director chuckled and said, “Just now, when we started shooting, the lights fell on you—you really looked like a figure from a painting.” As I was preparing, I did indeed think of the poses of beauties in many classical paintings, but I wasn’t consciously trying to imitate any particular style. My mind had to stay focused on conveying Du Liniang’s lingering emotions as she wanders through the spring scenery. After finishing that shot, I came to appreciate how meticulous and subtle filmmaking can be: even a slight adjustment—just a few inches away from whether or not one leans on the railing—can make all the difference. At the same time, it also became clear that reshoots play an important role in elevating the quality of the work.

 

 

  Filming [Mian Da Xu] [Epilogue]

 

After the “Dream Encounter” and the “Floral Arrangement,” the brief scene in which Du’s mother awakens Du Liniang is equally crucial. At the Shanghai Opera School, teacher Hua Chuanhao, playing Du’s mother, exudes the dignified presence of a wife who might well declare, “My husband sits upon the yellow throne…” The script portrays this character by having her ask her daughter, “…”. Why do you sleep here during the day? ?” “ Why don’t you go to the schoolhouse to read? ?” and admonishing his daughter “ The garden is serene; avoid aimless wandering. “Such everyday, casual chatter is used to portray the quintessential character of an elderly matriarch in a feudal family.”

 

Yet this elderly lady still dearly loves her daughter; so, as she takes her leave, she says, “Now that my daughter has married, she will naturally have her own ways—let her be free. Indeed, one bends and yields to one’s children, yet toils tirelessly as a mother.”
 

 

After her mother exits, Du Liniang recites: “Mother, you sent this child to the academy to read—but which book could possibly ease my stifling melancholy?” This line is meant to convey Du Liniang’s languid, hollow, and vexed inner world; the word “yo” should be sung in a low, measured tone, with a slow, drawn-out intonation that sets the stage for the melodic phrase “Mian Da Xu.”

 

【Mian Da Xu】This piece of music portrays Du Liniang’s feelings as she recalls her dream:

 

The fragrant rain and wisps of cloud have barely reached the edge of my dreams. Alas, the high hall calls me back, and through the gauze window, sleep grows uneasy. A sudden rush of fresh sweat clings to me, making my heart flutter and my thoughts grow faint; my hair falls loose, my spirit grows soft. Why waste so much of my spirit? Once I sit up, who could bear it—only to lie down again.

 

This scene is extremely difficult to perform: if it’s too overt, it risks becoming vulgar; if it’s overly solemn, it fails to capture the text’s intended meaning. Here, my aim is to convey her lingering, intricate emotions and her languid, coquettish demeanor, thus echoing the original work’s vivid depiction of a young girl’s first love. Accordingly, the movements should follow the slow, measured phrasing of the singing—neither excessive nor hurried—so as to illuminate her inner state. This state of mind is not easily put into words; even Chunxiang, standing by her side, would scarcely understand it.
 

 

On the day we shot “Mian Da Xu,” the storyboard called for two separate shots for this piece. I shared with the director my observations from the past few days: when a song is broken up into too many cuts, it can disrupt the emotional flow. The director replied, “For this scene today, I’m thinking of shooting it as one long take.” I thought that was spot on.

 

When Chen Fangqian was designing how to handle this long take, he and the members of the Mei Opera Troupe carefully examined the gestures and expressions I should emphasize in this scene. They agreed that the scene hinges on facial expression, so it’s essential to shoot more of the upper body; however, when the singing reaches “xin you bu duo,” the feet come into play, and the camera needs to pull back to capture the movement clearly.

 

Photographer Nie Jing, in accordance with the director’s vision, meticulously tested the push‑and‑pull shots. During the pre‑shoot lighting setup, both the director and the cinematographer asked me to run several extra takes compared to usual, and the atmosphere in the studio seemed noticeably more tense than before.
 

Once filming began, everything went smoothly; the shot was nailed on the first take, earning a round of applause from everyone. The director remarked, “This single take runs over three hundred feet—by far the longest in the entire film. Film stock has a fixed gauge, and other brands, after testing, simply didn’t blend well. We hesitated to tell you beforehand, fearing it might weigh on your spirits. But today, your performance was exquisitely nuanced and perfectly poised, brimming with energy—truly a comprehensive artistic triumph.”

 

Hearing him say this, I only then learned that when this shot was being filmed, the entire crew held their breath—truly a mission accomplished under intense tension. Especially photographer Nie Jing, who kept his focus razor‑sharp on the lens, while even the two comrades responsible for gauging the shot and operating the camera dolly coordinated with precise precision.
 

 

The next scene shows Chunxiang coming to invite the young lady back to her chamber to rest. Du Liniang rises and sings in the “Epilogue”: “Weary with springtime longing, weary from wandering—no need to scent the embroidered quilt and lie down. Oh, spring! With such a mood, even dreams will not stray far.”

 

As she sings “It’s still not far,” the tempo of her vocal delivery gradually slows. Du Liniang makes a slight sidestep, and with Chunxiang’s hand gently guiding her toward the distance, her gaze follows the imagined target, conveying her longing for that dashing, refined, and perfectly attuned “one” she had seen in her dream.

 

In this way, it creates a contrast between the “person” in the earlier line from “Shanpo Yang”—“suddenly seized by longing and melancholy”—and the concrete reality of the scene. Meanwhile, Chunxiang, walking beside her, must wear an expression of utter bewilderment; yet even she senses that her mistress’s demeanor today bears a certain difference from what it once was.

 

Du Liniang, supported by Chunxiang, slowly stepped into the inner chamber, leaving behind only the quiet solitude of a spring boudoir. The accompanying music was perfectly suited: the gentle, secluded sound of the xiao, mingled with the crisp plucking of the sanxian, drew the audience into the mood of “a late spring day in a secluded courtyard, where no one is to be found,” before the lingering echoes gently brought this poetic drama to a close.

To be continued...               

 

The paragraph headings were added by the editor.

Image from the internet.

 

Editor: Deng Chao | Source: Yang Kun Studio

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