The Tang Xianzu Memorial Hall in Fuzhou is a comprehensive cultural venue built to commemorate Tang Xianzu, one of the world’s hundred great cultural figures and a master of Ming‑dynasty drama in China. It is also one of Jiangxi Province’s ten major memorial halls dedicated to historical luminaries.
Mei Lanfang and “The Peony Pavilion” (Part 2) | Mei Lanfang Details the Filming Process of the Kunqu Opera Film “The Peony Pavilion” (Part Two: Sound Recording)
Author:
Source:
Tang Xianzu Memorial Hall Official Account
Time:
2023-04-14
Original Title: “A Dream in the Garden” — From Stage to Screen
Author: Mei Lanfang
Source: My Life in the Movies (by Mei Lanfang)
A book cover image of Mei Lanfang’s “My Life in Film”
China Drama Publishing House, first edition, 1962
Test Recording
On November 18, the entire cast and the orchestra gathered at the Actors’ Troupe to conduct a trial recording. They began with the “Dream Encounter” scene from “A Dream in the Garden,” featuring Liu Mengmei’s lines upon first meeting Du Liniang, accompanied by music. In my view, the volume was too loud, detracting from the clarity of the dialogue.
Xu Ke said that at this stage, the tempo of the trial recording is calibrated against the music to serve as the basis for the official session. During the formal recording, the vocals and the music are captured through separate microphones, allowing precise control over pitch, dynamics, and balance, and requiring meticulous review. In a film, if no musical accompaniment is used, the result can appear monotonous.
The spatial arrangement of Liu Mengmei and Du Liniang prior to their “emergence from the dream”
On stage, after singing the final line of “Shan Tao Hong”—“…I long to depart yet linger on, gazing at her with solemn composure; how could it be that, upon meeting at last, we should remain silent?”—the scene transitions to Du Liniang being led into her boudoir, where she takes her seat on the chair set before the table (a stage‑specific term known as the “inner‑stage chair”). The subsequent spoken lines and exit verse delivered by Liu Mengmei are all recited from the “da bian” side (a stage‑specific designation: the side near the exit door is called the “da bian,” while the side near the entrance door is called the “xiao bian”).
During our rehearsal, Cui Wei offered a suggestion: “In the film, instead of escorting Du Liniang back to her chamber, Liu Mengmei simply helps her sit down on the stone bench beside the stone table while singing ‘Shan Tao Hong.’ Liu Mengmei’s line—‘Ah, sister, you’re weary; rest for a while—this humble one will take my leave’—could be revised to be spoken right by Du Liniang’s side, and then, after finishing, he could step over to the ‘far side’ to recite his poem before exiting. This approach might feel more intimate and tightly paced.”
Zhenfei immediately tried it as he had suggested, and sure enough, it worked smoothly.
Art Director: Cui Wei Sound Engineer: Lü Xianchang
1912–1979, native of Zhucheng, Shandong Province. 1925–1994, native of Dandong, Liaoning Province.
I think the “Youyuan” piece, with its seamless transitions and clean structure, is easier to weave into a cohesive emotional flow, making it more convenient for filming. By contrast, “Youyuan” demands closer collaboration among the director, actors, and orchestra to meet the demands of the cinematic medium.
Official Recording 1
On the evening of the thirtieth, after dinner, we went to the actors’ troupe for the official recording. The sound engineer, Lü Xianchang, and his assistant had already completed all the necessary preparations. Huizhu and I recorded together a section from “Youyuan Jingmeng,” specifically the aria “Bubu Jiao.”
In this spacious recording studio, two microphones are used—one aimed at the actor and the other at the band. Though they’re not positioned very close to each other, both can hear and see one another clearly.
Recalling the recording session from five years ago, I was in a makeshift wooden cabin while the band stood outside, and we could only communicate through headphones. Compared to that, things have come a long way. Comrade Wang Shaozeng, who had recorded for me back in 1955, happened to drop by the studio to watch us work. He told me that after returning from his studies in the Soviet Union, Lü Xianchang found this kind of recording technique to be quite cutting-edge.
When recording began, the sound engineer positioned Huizhu one step ahead of me. During the sound check, I felt my voice was too broad; since Du Liniang is a young maiden role, a wide vocal range would diminish that youthful quality, so I did my utmost to hold back and carefully control my volume.
When the recording was played back, Xu Ke suggested reversing our positions: I moved forward one step, and Huizhu stepped back. He felt that this passage, which portrays Du Liniang’s leisurely mood and her morning makeup routine, should highlight my voice. The “Bubu Jiao” aria was recorded three times, and Lü Xianchang thought the third take could be kept. At first, my voice sounded rather muffled and strained, but by then it had begun to open up. Just as we were about to record the next piece, “Zaoluopao,” it was already midnight—after seven hours of work, the orchestra and the crew were ready for a meal, so they all headed to the Xijiekou cafeteria. Huizhu and I stayed behind, fearing that a full stomach might affect our voices.
Half an hour later, I felt my stomach rumbling and decided to grab a bite. The microphone we were using this time was extremely sensitive—so much so that even the slightest gurgle from my belly would be picked up. A comrade on duty was eating some biscuits, and I asked him for a few to stave off hunger. After everyone returned, we began recording “Zao Luo Pao.” Because of that brief pause, my voice no longer had the same smoothness as in the previous section.
The director said, “I’m tired today—let’s shoot tomorrow!”
Official Recording 2
On December 1st, I went to the Actors’ Troupe to rehearse with Huizhu the movements for several arias—“Bubu Jiao,” “Zui Fu Gui,” and “Zaoluo Pao.” On stage, the performance flows seamlessly as one sings, recites, and performs all at once. Since the film employs rather realistic settings, the choreography had to be even more precise and detailed, so we could only break it up and add music. In the recording studio, the steps taken on set had to conform to the dimensions of the set, making them difficult to master. I suggested to the orchestra that we add a brief strike of the small gong before Chunxiang’s spoken interlude as a cue; they agreed.
I recorded “Shan Tao Hong” together with Zhenfei; it is the principal aria of Liu Mengmei, while Du Liniang has only a few lines in the chorus. The first time, Zhenfei sang at a slightly slower tempo.
Zhu Chuanming said, “In future filming, the body movements will follow the rhythm of the singing; if the singing is too slow, it will appear loose, so we’ll need to be more precise with the timing during recording.”
I said, “When I recorded ‘Zao Luopao,’ I encountered the same situation. Later, as I sang, I would mentally choreograph my movements and gauge the timing, which helped keep the rhythm tight and precise. After spending so much time on stage, actors tend to dread recording or singing a cappella; when they sing while moving, their tempo remains both accurate and fluid, whereas standing still can make them look stiff and constrained.”
Zhenfei said, “I’ll try to incorporate your experience the next time I record.”
When we recorded it a second time, the timing was indeed just right. But Zhenfei’s voice sounded hoarse, so we had to pause and pick it up again tomorrow.
From left to right: Mei Lanfang, Yan Huizhu, Mei Baoyue, Mei Baojiu.
We re‑recorded “Zao Luopao” twice; we thought it was fine, but the sound engineer wasn’t satisfied and raised two points:
1. Hui Zhu’s line was spoken too softly;
2. As for the bird song in “Listening to the birds’ sweet trills, clear as scissors,” Gu Zhaoqi of the band played it too low, resulting in a weak effect.
On the third take, Hui Zhu raised her vocal pitch, and Gu Zhaoqi filled the glass bird’s water reservoir to the brim. Standing up, she blew hard into the microphone, and the result was noticeably better than before. Finally, during the recording of the “Ge Wei” section from “Youyuan Jingmeng”—the last piece at the end of the suite is called the “Coda,” but here, since it serves as a brief interlude, it’s labeled “Ge Wei”—I felt phlegm rising in my throat and asked the director to stop. The sound engineer agreed that pressing on would only waste energy without meeting the required standard.
Official Recording 3
In the following days, because Zhenfei was suffering from a cough and undergoing herbal‑medicine treatment, he did not take part in the recording. I recorded both the opening and closing sections of “A Dream in the Garden.” My focus was on meticulously verifying and refining every syllable—its articulation, its final tone, and the phrasing and breathing techniques—ensuring that my mouth shape and the proper execution of the four vowel‑groupings were as precise as possible, with the firm resolve to deliver clear diction, pure vocal expression, and impeccable rhythmic precision.
I believe that among singing, recitation, acting, and martial arts, singing takes precedence. That’s why the older generation said that when performing a song, one must convey its emotional essence—meaning, today we strive to portray characters’ personalities and express their thoughts and feelings. To achieve this, one must also thoroughly grasp the script’s underlying meaning; if even a single word remains unclear, every line sung becomes a question mark. Accordingly, I devoted considerable time to working with several friends who possess a solid grounding in classical literature, scrutinizing each word and weighing it again and again. As a result, some issues that had long been left unresolved have finally found their answers.
In the past, though I had consistently devoted effort to understanding the musical text and refining my vocal technique, my limited intellectual horizons prevented me from fully grasping its intricacies. Only in recent years, through further study, have I come to realize that when confronting any challenge, one must pursue it to its very root; only then can the truth emerge clearly and all obstacles be removed. Accordingly, this filming of “A Dream in the Garden” has provided me with an invaluable opportunity to learn and organize my approach.
New Year print from the film “The Dream of the Red Chamber”
After recording the opening aria “Rao Di You” and the spoken passages, I realized that I hadn’t pronounced a few characters quite accurately, so I consulted with Zhenfei, Chuanming, Yuanlai, and others. They pointed out the pronunciation of the character “zhuàn” in “Meng Hui Ying Zhuan,” the character “yuàn” in “Ren Li Xiao Ting Shen Yuan,” and the character “guān” in “Xiao Lai Wang Duan Mei Guan.”
I know the illness lies in the open mouth; for instance, the character “zhuàn” belongs to the Zhongzhou rhyme group of “tiān‑tián,” and when sung, it should adopt a “shì‑è” tone, with the mouth shape kept “flat.” The “sǒu” vocalization of “zhuàn” reflects Du Liniang’s response to the oriole’s song, and must be rendered with quiet subtlety and fluid agility—its phrasing round and melodious, its final note delivered with composure—in order to convey Du Liniang’s leisurely state of mind: “At dawn, she gazes longingly beyond the plum‑gate, her evening makeup still lingering.”
I was reminded of the time-honored mnemonic for singing: “Words should be firm, melodies light; words should be resolute, melodies supple.” My voice is rather broad, so I must both exercise restraint and strive to achieve that lightness, roundness, and ethereal quality. This also touches on issues of breath control and the distinction between clear and mellow tones. After careful reflection and repeated humming and practice, I didn’t re-record until everyone agreed it was ready. 。
New Year print from the film “The Dream of the Red Chamber”
The spoken passage that precedes Du Liniang’s rendition of “Shanpo Yang” is a rhythmic, alliterative poem imbued with subtle nuance, suffused with the plaintive tone of a lyrical chant: “Suddenly swept up in spring’s wanderings, she lightly tries on the face of spring—what is spring, after all? To linger with you, to linger so; when spring departs, how shall one dispel this lingering ache? In weather like this, how can one but feel weighed down?” Here, the author painstakingly conveys the poetess’s profound, introspective emotions. During recording, I paid particular attention to the rhythm and emotional undertones of this passage, revisiting it several times before achieving the desired result.
[Shanpo Yang] I recorded it twice, and I thought it turned out pretty well. But the director felt that the flute and xiao parts in the band sounded too abrupt at the transitions, so he asked for another take. Xu Yuan came up with this feedback: the “luan” in “mei luan li” and the “yuan” in “huai ren you yuan” were pronounced with overly open mouth shapes, making them less precise.
Yao Yufu said, “Actors who are accustomed to singing Pihuang tend to keep their mouth shapes rather open; when performing Kunqu, they must be mindful of keeping them more restrained.”
I feel that the characters “yuan” and “luan” share a phonetic affinity with “zhuan” and “yuan,” which is why I, too, fell into the aforementioned pitfalls. Here, Du Liniang, weary from her travels, returns to find the spring light rippling like threads, and only then does she give voice to her “deep, brooding sorrow for the one she misses.” Moreover, the tune of “Shanpo Yang” is inherently lyrical, enabling me to grasp the principle that “in this short‑style aria, the vocal phrasing must be delicate, the articulation clear and authentic; southern melodies tend to be slow and unhurried, and their true strength lies in moments of stillness…” I have devoted careful thought to this aspect, not merely correcting my mouth shape but also refining the emotional expression of the piece as I sing it.
In the final scene, after Du Liniang sees her mother offstage, she delivers the line: “...I wonder which kind of book could possibly ease my stifled heart!” Xu Boqiu, the flute player at the Shanghai Opera School, remarked, “The character ‘xiao’ is a yin‑ping tone; it should be drawn out longer, which better conveys Du Liniang’s languid, coquettish demeanor.” I heeded his advice.
Official Recording 3
On the day when Zhen Fei, having recovered his voice, went to audition with the actors’ troupe, the recording engineer played back all the previously recorded pieces—“Rao Di You,” “Bu Bu Jiao,” “Zui Fu Gui,” “Zao Luo Pao,” “Hao Jie Jie,” “Ge Wei,” “Shan Po Yang,” “Mian Da Xu,” and the “Finale”—for review. Everyone was satisfied, except that while the three sections—“Rao Di You,” “Ge Wei,” and the “Finale”—were usable, some felt their pacing and delivery lacked sufficient tightness, particularly in Chunxiang’s singing and speaking, which should have been faster than Du Liniang’s.
Yao Yufu said, “Both the opening and the closing are crucial; tomorrow, when Mei and Yu record ‘Shan Tao Hong,’ they should consider re‑recording these three sections.” These three sections have been recorded most often, yet they consistently run into trouble—practitioners in the know call it “haunted.”
Once, I accompanied foreign guests as they enjoyed Peking duck, drank wine, and sipped strong tea—conditions that can affect the clarity and smoothness of one’s voice. Sometimes, too, problems arose with the accompanying instruments during the interlude; on several occasions, a passing train happened to be recorded, introducing unwanted background noise. And then there was the case when Du Liniang and Chunxiang were performing the “gewei” section together: the pronunciation of the character “qian” was slightly off‑beat. All in all, while the sound engineer and the director were indeed meticulous, the actors and the orchestra were equally conscientious, refusing to overlook even the tiniest imperfections.
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On the final day of recording, I first recorded “Shan Tao Hong” with Zhenfei. Everyone’s voice was excellent, and even after two takes, each version retained its own merit. I then went on to re‑record the play’s opening, middle, and closing sections—“Rao Di You,” “Ge Wei,” and the “Epilogue”—which also went very smoothly.
Although I had managed to control my voice, it still seemed rather broad, so I consulted Lü Xianchang about whether there was any way to fine-tune it. He said it could indeed be adjusted, and then played the recording from the beginning again; sure enough, the pronunciation was noticeably more precise. He added that even finer adjustments were possible, demonstrating that scientific advances truly enable us to tackle problems once deemed insurmountable.
(To be continued)
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