Commemorating Mr. Zhou Yude | Zhou Yude: A Reflection on “Rebuilding Chinese Drama”

“Chinese Drama” took “Rebuilding Chinese Drama” as its central theme and published a series of insightful articles.

The slogan “Rebuild Chinese Drama” sends a chill down the spine. It implies that Chinese drama has become an outdated, crumbling, and precarious old house—on the verge of being discarded and in need of replacement by a fashionable new structure. To this end, designers are sketching out a modern blueprint, planning to construct it with contemporary materials and techniques. I find this rhetoric rather alarmist. At the very least, those advocating “reconstruction” tend to overstate the historical significance of certain recent plays. Even so, the call to “rebuild Chinese drama” remains a heartfelt appeal born of deep concern for the fate of Chinese theater, driven by a sense of historical mission—and as such, it is bound to provoke reflection.

“Modernizing traditional theater” and “urbanizing regional theater” are the two major design frameworks proposed by Brother Luo Huaizhen for the “reconstruction of Chinese theater,” serving as two prescriptions aimed at curing the current malaise afflicting the theatrical arts. In fact, over the past years, a broad spectrum of theater practitioners has been conducting real‑world clinical trials of these two approaches, yielding certain results that merit theoretical reflection and synthesis.

As I understand it, the “traditional drama” that Huai Zhen refers to primarily encompasses Chinese opera, and may also include spoken drama and new operas that have already attained a certain degree of tradition; by contrast, “local drama” designates the various regional theatrical forms whose reach has yet to extend nationwide, as distinct from the Kunqu and Peking Opera that once enjoyed pan‑national popularity. Taken together, these two categories leave very few theatrical genres remaining in China today.

I believe that both “modernizing traditional theater” and “urbanizing regional theater” carry positive, targeted value; however, treating them as a panacea for the ills of contemporary culture still warrants careful consideration.

The proposition of “the modernization of traditional theater” is undoubtedly correct. “Modernization” is essential for everything, not just for theater. To put it simply, “modernization” means “keeping pace with the times.” Chinese opera has endured to this day precisely because, over the course of a thousand years of historical evolution, it has continually undergone “modernization.” From the Song‑dynasty comic skits that used song and dance to tell short stories, to the Nanxi—dramas that employed song and dance to unfold grand narratives; from the mutual exchange and refinement between Nanxi and Northern Zaju, to the evolution of the Ming and Qing chuanqi; from the heyday of qupai‑style opera to the widespread flourishing of banqiang‑style forms—each new chapter in the history of Chinese opera is, without exception, the outcome of the modernization of traditional theater. Along this path of modernization, one popular theatrical form after another has faded from the stage, consigned to history, while yet other emerging genres, by inheriting the artistic legacy of tradition and embracing its vital, healthy genetic lineage, have burst forth with renewed vitality, opening up a new era. Such is the course of history.

It is precisely within this historical process of “modernization” that the “tradition” of Chinese drama has gradually taken shape. “Tradition” is not a static “concept,” nor is it an unchanging “standard.” Tradition is a river—a long, flowing one. Once established, it acquires relatively stable norms that are worth upholding, much like a river gains its steady banks. For instance, Chinese opera, as a comprehensive stage art, features a detached, non‑illusionistic theatricality, flexible approaches to time and space on stage, performance techniques encompassing singing, acting, recitation, and dance, as well as distinct character types, vocal styles and melodic modes, and a repertoire passed down through the ages.

When it comes to “modernization,” the first challenge is how to approach the “traditional theater” that these “traditions” have long carried. Huai Zhen offered a summarizing response: “In the 1980s, all the theatrical competitions we launched made us feel ‘unlike ourselves’; by the 1990s, they sought to make us ‘more like ourselves.’ Yet even that ‘like’ was no longer enough—what was needed was to be ‘even more like.’ This ‘even more like’ does not mean returning to the ‘tradition’ that took shape before the 1960s, but rather to an even older tradition—one that reaches back to the classical, to the source, to the authenticity of life and the very essence of human nature.” “It may be even more traditional than the ‘tradition’ we have previously understood; only then can it truly be called a fine new work.” These remarks are somewhat roundabout, and it is inevitable that they will be misinterpreted.

In my view, whether it is “classical” drama or newly created “good plays,” they should all return to the “truth of life and the essence of human nature”—unless, of course, they are not good plays at all, but rather a pile of old and new cultural trash concocted in ancient and modern times. This, broadly speaking, is a matter of content, and it is quite easy to grasp. Then what, exactly, constitutes a “tradition” even older than the one that took shape before the 1960s? That is a question that requires some careful explanation. In my humble opinion, the style of Chinese drama from the first half of the last century up to the early 1960s is relatively straightforward to delineate. By contrast, the state of Chinese drama that predates this era—its “classical” roots, its very origins—is far less easy to define. Even painstaking research by historians may not fully illuminate it; indeed, there is scarcely any reliable “yardstick” by which to measure it. If I were to venture a hasty judgment, I would say that such an earlier stage could only be described as immature drama—drama still in the process of historical development. As for the very origins of drama, might we not regard the primitive ancestors’ practice of “striking stones together, causing all beasts to dance” as one such origin? Yet we are unlikely to wish to revert to that primordial condition. Moving forward a bit: isn’t the “East Sea Yellow Master” featured in the Han dynasty’s “Hundred Entertainments” sufficiently classical? And who among us would really seek to return to it? Further along, by the Song dynasty, Chinese opera had already emerged as an independent art form. Nevertheless, those highest‑level song-and-dance dramas performed at the courts of the Song, Liao, and Jin dynasties remained, in many respects, crude and discordant. They did include both song and dance, and they even told stories; yet during performance, singers sang on their own, dancers danced on their own—singers did not dance, and dancers did not sing. According to the limited historical evidence available, we can conclude that Song‑dynasty zaju was likewise an immature, disharmonious art form. Ironically, today there are indeed those who have “returned” to this very same “disharmony.” Haven’t you noticed that in some contemporary productions, a chorus of singers and dancers often makes an appearance, staging a non‑theatrical spectacle in which singers sing alone and dancers dance alone? It was only with the Qing dynasty, during the Qianlong era—the age when Kunqu quzi opera reigned supreme—that Chinese opera finally coalesced into a distinctive performing art, seamlessly integrating song, dance, and poetry, suffused with poetic sentiment and a spirit of movement. I believe that Huai Zhen would never advocate for Chinese drama to revert to the disharmonious, immature conditions that prevailed before the Qing. He simply puts his point in overly abstract terms, leaving one uncertain how exactly it would become “more like itself.”

In fact, some of Huai Zhen’s remarks are quite straightforward and easy to grasp. On the question of how to approach tradition, his stance is decidedly positive. There is one attitude that clings rigidly to the past, treating “tradition” as the sole authority—even at the cost of ignoring life and death—insisting on preserving outdated forms without any innovation. Such practices as “repeating old plays over and over” or producing work devoid of fresh ideas will only serve to alienate contemporary audiences. This kind of attitude is, of course, undesirable. Another approach, as Huai Zhen puts it, involves respecting tradition while simultaneously engaging in critical reflection, seeking within it to “rediscover, refine, polish, and re‑create,” thereby striving for “a renewed level of wholeness and harmony.” This, perhaps, is the true meaning of what Huai Zhen calls the “reconstruction” of Chinese theater. Such an outlook and practice are entirely sound. Time passes like a white horse flashing through a crack—swift and irreversible. As circumstances change and people’s sensibilities evolve, attempting to measure everything by an unchanging standard, to meet all changes with the same fixed yardstick, is bound to lead to failure. Over the past two decades, several relatively successful productions—including Huai Zhen’s own acclaimed works—whether original creations or adaptations of traditional repertoire, have all demonstrated a “new discovery and new application” of tradition (all quotations above are from Huai Zhen). When such works become more numerous and coalesce into a prevailing trend, they may well acquire a certain significance as a form of “reconstruction.” Yet whether these newly reconstructed pieces can endure remains to be tested by the stage and sifted by the passage of time. Some productions that set out to “reconstruct” find their audience dwindling after a single encounter; others, however, win acceptance and approval because they achieve “a renewed level of wholeness and harmony,” becoming works of art worthy of appreciation. These then naturally flow into the river of tradition, continuing onward. Take, for example, the pre‑mid‑20th‑century era: on the opera stage, the dominant mode was the “transitional scene”—a sequence that revolved around characters’ entrances and exits, with no independent, fixed stage space of its own, merely following the actors’ movements. By the first half of the last century—roughly the 1930s and ’40s—some innovators, drawing inspiration from Western drama imported from abroad and seeking to “align with international standards,” introduced onto the Chinese stage a new type of scene: the “fixed scene,” which occupied a stable, independent space behind the so‑called “fourth wall.” (Here we borrow Mr. Chen Duo’s terminology.) At the time, this “fixed scene” represented a kind of modernized, reconstructive theatrical practice. As such scenes grew in number and gained public favor, they gradually came to coexist alongside the transitional scenes, merging into the “tradition” that had taken shape before the early 1960s—sometimes referred to as a “new tradition”—and, together with the traditional transitional scenes, continue to flow down to the present day—and will surely keep flowing onward.

I have always believed that tradition is like a river. Within this river, myriad streams flow side by side, mingling and coexisting: there is the water carried from its source, as well as the diverse waters that join along the way from countless tributaries; there is the water that has traversed countless mountains and valleys, and there is also the rain that falls from the sky and the tides that surge up from the sea. In short, “tradition” and “reconstruction” maintain a relationship of mixed coexistence—two elements that cannot be severed. The so‑called “reconstruction of Chinese theater” is nothing more than adding a few new streams to the great river of Chinese theatrical tradition; thus, there is no need to treat the slogan of “reconstruction” with undue solemnity. In fact, since the 1990s, even the new works that have been touted as “reconstructed” and “enriched with a fresh layer of wholeness and harmony” have, by and large, not yet fully broken free from the forms and conventions established before the early 1960s. At least in the field of traditional opera, those successful new productions widely recognized by both audiences and experts still remain anchored in the basic framework of “telling stories through song and dance,” and have not yet lost sight of the very essence of opera. Despite the emergence of such innovations as the “telephone‑call dance” or the “Xipi waltz,” the Han opera *The Girl Who Plays the Guitar* remains a Han opera; and though it incorporates melodies from Xinjiang music and even features Zhu Bajie performing modern dance, the Peking opera *The Spider Cave* is still a Peking opera. By and large, these works have not forgotten the stage‑craft principles that define opera—its integrative nature, its rhythmic vitality, its use of virtuality—and they have merely undergone some reconfigurations. This, perhaps, is the “bottom line” that tradition embodies in opera, or, put another way, the “yardstick” that distinguishes opera from other art forms. For as long as one holds fast to this baseline, one will naturally flow into the river of traditional opera. Conversely, any new work that departs from this baseline, no matter how many novel titles it may bear, seems destined to have only a fleeting existence.

I believe that in the realms of literature and the arts, “traditional” and “modern” elements are not mutually exclusive; rather, they can coexist. Of course, not everything flowing in the great river of tradition is necessarily beautiful, brilliant, or fresh. Much of what once belonged to that tradition has been swept away by the tides of history and discarded. Yet the portion that endures—some of it will eventually become “classical,” worthy of standing alongside the “modern”—need not all be transformed into the “modern.” This is an undeniable fact. While readers eagerly devour bestsellers by new realists, postmodernists, and the so‑called “new generation,” do not novels like *Romance of the Three Kingdoms*, *Water Margin*, *Journey to the West*, and *Dream of the Red Chamber* still command vast shelf space in bookstores? And as everyone sings along to pop songs, are there not still those who recite Li Bai and Du Fu, or savor the sounds of the guqin and the guzheng? The “classics” that have survived the crucible of history are not merely ancient or traditional; they are the very essence, the paragons of their time. Not every traditional element can rise to the status of “classic,” but the rare few that do embody the quintessential spirit of tradition—and that is precisely what makes them truly precious. This, then, is why Kunqu opera deserves protection. Therefore, in the process of “modernizing traditional theater,” we should not sweep away all that is traditional; much less should we deliberately seek to “subvert” tradition. Nor should we compete over who can make the theatrical genre they practice unrecognizable as that very genre. Instead, as Huai Zhen has put it, we ought to “re‑search within the traditions of ‘tradition,’ re‑purify, re‑refine and filter, and then reconstruct anew.”

However, this is only one aspect of the issue. On the question of how to approach tradition, some colleagues—whether intentionally or not—have overlooked a profoundly important aspect of Chinese drama: the traditions of openness and adaptability that characterize Chinese opera. Before the twentieth century, both ancient and newly emerging theatrical forms all embraced this spirit of openness, actively undergoing transformation. With broad-mindedness and a keen capacity for assimilation, they were inclusive and willing to reshape themselves. As a result, they could keep pace with the times and endure for centuries. Take opera music and vocal styles, for instance: as early as the Ming dynasty, Wang Jide recognized their malleability and the inevitability of change, asserting that “the prevailing vocal modes shift every thirty years.” The Wenzhou Zaju of the Song dynasty stands as a quintessential example of openness and evolution. Reconstructed by the people of Wenzhou, it differed markedly from the traditional zaju of the Song, Liao, and Jin periods. Rather than being a comic performance featuring song and dance to tell short anecdotes, it staged large‑scale narratives in a highly “modern” dramatic form. Its music drew on Tang and Song lyrics, street ballads, and village tunes, creating a hybrid of melodic traditions. Even in the early Ming, when performers sang Nanxi, the so‑called “Yiyang tune,” “Haizhen tune,” “Yuyao tune,” and “Kunshan tune” still retained a character of “no fixed tonal framework, few rhythmic patterns, and free modulation according to mood and pitch”—qualities once dismissed by experts as “utter nonsense.” Yet precisely because of this openness and adaptability, Nanxi possessed a vibrant vitality. The common people welcomed this “reconstructed” novelty; once it took root among the populace, it further absorbed the artistic legacy of Northern‑style zaju, achieving artistic refinement and eventually evolving into the “chuanqi” dramas that enjoyed widespread popularity for centuries across the Ming and Qing dynasties—becoming a mighty current within the river of Chinese operatic tradition. Peking Opera, too, is the fruit of an art steeped in openness and mutability. During the Qianlong era of the Qing dynasty, the Hui troupes performing in Beijing employed not only the Erhuang style but also Kunqu, Gaocang, Qinjiang, and popular songs. Adopting an open stance, they entered Beijing, drawing rich nourishment from the city’s cultural and artistic milieu, and with a fresh wave of “modernity” reimagined the stage landscape, ultimately giving rise to what we now call “Jingxi,” which has endured to this day. Therefore, in the face of today’s new creations on stage that tout “reconstruction,” we should avoid wholesale rejection and adopt a more tolerant attitude. Even if their flavor is distinctive, far removed from tradition, and difficult to accept at first, there is no need to denounce them as heretical or unorthodox. Some experimental works that brand themselves as “reinventing the wheel” may, after being tested on stage and chosen by audiences, achieve a deeper level of wholeness and harmony, thereby demonstrating vitality and surviving to become part of the “new tradition,” flowing into the great river of Chinese theatrical heritage. Conversely, those productions that are consumed once and then abandoned—or even those that lure viewers with flashy advertising only to leave them disappointed—will naturally fade away, vanishing like bubbles in the torrent of tradition. To reject experimentation and innovation is to run counter to the very spirit of Chinese opera and is therefore undesirable.

As for the thesis of “the urbanization of local theater,” it likewise possesses significant academic value and practical relevance.

Indeed, the flourishing of drama in any given era has always been closely tied to urban development, and the maturation of each major dramatic form or the emergence of a distinct school has invariably depended on the vibrancy of the commercial metropolises and cultural centers of the time. Cities have consistently set the tone for the evolution of theatrical art—this is a fact amply borne out by the history of Chinese opera. Interestingly, the specific vocal styles of Chinese opera often first took root in relatively obscure locales; it was only when the people who relied on them for their livelihood migrated to nearby cities that these styles found opportunities to develop and refine themselves, expand their reach, and eventually achieve widespread recognition, firmly establishing themselves in the great urban centers. The ancient Yiyang, Haiyan, Yuyao, and Kunshan vocal traditions all followed this trajectory, rising to become renowned operatic forms celebrated throughout the country. Similarly, the modern growth of Peking Opera, Pingju, Yue Opera, and Huangmei Opera unfolded along analogous lines. Yet how many theatrical genres have truly managed to take firm hold in the city and undergo a process of “urbanization”? Not many.

The so‑called “metropolis” refers to large cities. China’s urban landscape is rapidly expanding, yet whether ancient or newly emerging, only a handful of cities can truly be called metropolises—no more than twenty at most. China boasts an astonishing array of theatrical genres: some claim there are over three hundred, others over four hundred. In reality, however, the number of performing arts forms still actively thriving today falls far short of that figure, and only about two dozen can sustain a foothold in the metropolitan sphere. The vast majority of these traditions remain rooted in rural areas, managing at best to maintain a single troupe or two in small and medium‑sized cities.

Faced with such a practical situation, The so‑called “urbanization of local theater” has a very limited scope; in essence, it amounts to nothing more than the modernization of the opera genres currently active in urban centers. This approach is no different from the path of “modernizing traditional theater”; its significance lies merely in striving to hold onto the urban foothold of certain theatrical genres. “Urbanization” can only hope to address the survival challenges of a few genres in the city, but it cannot resolve the fate of many others. The prescription of “urbanizing local theater” lacks a broad‑based, universal effect: it may offer a remedy for isolated cases, but it cannot serve as a one‑size‑fits‑all solution to the contemporary destiny of theater. For, in any event, it is neither feasible nor necessary to “urbanize” the vast array of “local theaters” that continue to thrive in rural areas and small‑to‑medium cities.

“Urbanization” requires a host of conditions. It calls for a large urban consumer base, modern theater facilities, and cutting-edge stagecraft; even more crucial are an acute grasp of the urban public’s aspirations, a deep understanding of urban audiences’ aesthetic tastes, and a community of theatrical artists thoroughly shaped by the urban environment. Yet on today’s Chinese landscape, even in the prosperous southeastern coastal regions—let alone the western interior—such conditions remain few and far between. China will never achieve full urbanization, much less complete urbanization. On the contrary, the pressing task at hand is to preserve as much green countryside as possible.

China has nearly one billion people living in rural areas. Today, and for the foreseeable future, the most pressing issue to address is the “three rural” problem—agriculture, rural areas, and farmers. How to bring high‑quality theatrical works that embody the “direction of advanced cultural development” and appeal to rural audiences is a question that theater professionals must give serious thought to. It is easy to imagine that taking already‑produced, “urbanized” plays to the countryside would be a difficult task. Even if one were to create “simplified versions” of urban dramas and stage them in rural settings, it is far from certain that rural audiences would embrace them.

China’s cities and rural areas have always been inextricably linked, bound by deep ties of kinship; the “urbanites” and the “country folk” share unbreakable familial bonds. Nor does Chinese theater exhibit a chasm of urban–rural antagonism. This is a distinctive feature of China—a fine tradition that deserves to be cherished and carried forward. Since ancient times, Chinese opera troupes and performing groups have roamed widely between urban and rural settings, “crisscrossing provinces and towns” and “traveling from village to village.” Even such prestigious forms as Kunqu and Peking Opera, which once shone brightly in the metropolis, have steadfastly upheld this tradition. Today, many regional theatrical genres likewise seek their place at the intersection of city and countryside. In provinces like Guangdong and Fujian, local operas enjoy a relatively optimistic survival outlook, seemingly yet to feel the weight of crisis—experiences that merit close attention. Take Min opera as an example: it has long taken root in Fuzhou, and throughout its history has enjoyed the patronage of the literati. Moreover, Fujian Province now boasts an Experimental Min Opera Theatre, which clearly possesses both the foundations and the momentum for urbanization. At present, Min opera stages over thirty thousand performances annually, with no sense of impending crisis. Yet it is important to recognize that sustaining this massive output depends not only on the provincial Experimental Min Opera Theatre but also on more than 160 private troupes—large and small—that remain active across urban and rural areas. One might ask: if those hundred‑plus private companies and the repertoires they stage were all to undergo a process of “urbanization,” could Min opera still maintain its current pace of thirty thousand annual performances? The answer would likely be no.

Rural areas have a great need for theater, and the rural populace does as well. Theater activities in the countryside are deeply rooted in traditional folk customs—cultural traditions that ought to be preserved and carried forward. It goes without saying that, at present, the repertoire on rural stages consists mainly of time‑honored classic plays. How to regularly bring fresh, genuinely moving works—pieces that elevate both completeness and harmony—to the people is surely the key to sustaining a vibrant rural theater market. Whether drawn from ancient or contemporary themes, new plays that are truly grounded in reality, life, and the everyday experiences of ordinary people, and that appeal to both refined and popular tastes, are warmly welcomed by farmers. Rural theater, too, must modernize, for farmers certainly do not relish stale, outdated fare.

That said, the question of how regional theater can survive in urban settings is equally important. How can those regional theatrical traditions that have already taken root in cities continue to claim a vibrant place within an ever‑changing, rapidly evolving urban cultural marketplace? How can they connect with urban audiences and harness the unique dynamics of urban theaters? These are indeed highly worthwhile questions.

Whether it is “the modernization of traditional theater” or “the urbanization of regional theater,” the issue of “rebuilding Chinese theater” ought to be approached with due care. This slogan carries both the positive promise of “innovating while preserving the old” and the peril of “upending” tradition.

From a positive standpoint, the “reconstruction of Chinese theater” carries the practical significance of renovating dilapidated buildings; yet the question of how to approach tradition remains. Such renovation must be guided by a historical perspective and sound planning; otherwise, even well-intentioned efforts can leave lasting regrets. Consider how many low‑rise houses Beijing demolished in recent years, how many traditional courtyard residences it dismantled, and how many narrow alleyways it obliterated—only to replace them with one “urbanized” high-rise after another. The dilapidated structures may have been refurbished, but the very essence of old Beijing—the hutong culture that once captivated both domestic and international visitors—has vanished from the cityscape. To make up for this loss, today painstaking efforts are being devoted to restoring the former homes of famous figures and repairing traditional courtyards, while the few remaining hutongs have likewise become objects of preservation. Even more striking: since the 1950s, Beijing’s city walls—structures far grander than the hutongs—were torn down; only now do people recognize that this was a misguided decision. Consequently, the lone stretch of ruined ramparts beside the railway station has been rebranded as a prized attraction, spruced up and turned into a tourist site. With the actual walls beyond repair, officials have resorted to “reconstructing” a mock Yongding Gate tower along the southern moat—a solitary structure that elicits nothing but sighs of regret: “Why did we ever do such a thing?”

Whenever the topic of “rebuilding Chinese theater” comes up, I can’t help but indulge in such off‑topic reflections.