NPR News

In Taiwan, opera celebrates life and the gods

By Emily Feng

Published October 22, 2024 at 5:47 AM EDT

Zhang Hue Ya prepares her hair, ready to take the stage for her next performance.

Updated December 09, 2024 at 09:36 AM ET

PINGTUNG, Taiwan – In the sweltering heat, actors for the Shenhsien Opera Troupe lacquer their lips with vermillion rouge and shrug on magenta satin robes, while the director barks out a rapid patter of Hokkien.

Although the backstage is a flurry of the activity, the audience section in front of the stage is entirely empty. This is a special performance, meant just for the gods.

Zhi Hao, the troupe leader's nephew, serves as the company's drummer and is still training to become an opera actor. While his primary interest lies in drumming, Zhi Hao is eager to learn the art of opera acting.

Lin Xuen applies makeup to Zhi Hao, helping him prepare for the performance.

Zhang Hue Ya grew up in a Taiwanese opera family, training in the art form from a young age. Despite her early reluctance, fueled by performance anxiety and a particular aversion to singing, her family's influence, especially from her younger brothers, who showed a natural passion for opera, led her to continue the tradition. Today, Zhang Hue Ya continues to prefer action-based roles over vocal-heavy scenes.

"We want to express our gratitude to the gods," says actor Cheng Hsiu-jyan, while furiously powdering her face, the thicker the better, to absorb the sweat. She contours her nose, draws on bold eyeliner and thickens her eyebrows. "The gods usually protect us, so on their birthdays, we need to send them blessings."

The troupe's first performance is for a group of five Taoist gods called wufu qiansui, which are worshipped in Taiwan and parts of southern China because it is believed they can protect their followers from disasters and grant them good luck and prosperity.

Backstage at Shen Hsien Taiwanese Opera, just before the night's performance.

"Just like you would throw a party for the birthday of a good friend, even if the gods do not throw a party themselves, we take the initiative to remember and help them," explains Cheng.

Music is a big part of Taiwan's culture, and the piercing notes and crashing cymbals of gezaixi, or Taiwanese opera, can still be heard everywhere across the island today, from opera theaters to temples. Gezaixi, or koa-á-hì in Hokkien, draws heavily in its style and storylines from traditional Chinese opera (think Peking opera), but it exclusively uses Hokkien, one of the main languages spoken in Taiwan, not Mandarin Chinese.

Originating in northern Taiwan, gezaixi was immensely popular across the island in early the 20th century before being eclipsed by television and changing musical tastes. However, in the last decade, it has experienced a revival in popularity among younger audiences and modern theater troupes, in part due to state support and a generation of gezaixi artists who have mentored a new crop of actors and who continue to mount new productions and write new plays.

Tang Tang takes a moment to pause between hair, makeup, and costume preparations. At 23, she has been performing Taiwanese opera for three years. Her love for the art form began in childhood, inspired by the vibrant performances and diverse characters she grew up watching.

Chi Chuan adjusts a hairclip before stepping into wardrobe.

A variant of gezaixi opera, called "wild stage" or yetaixi, is held completely outdoors, often on temple grounds, as the Shengxian Opera Troupe is doing: a luxuriant, musical display of spirituality.

"We rely on the gods' birthdays to make a living, and there are a lot of gods in Taiwan," says Tseng Huan-chi, the troupe's energetic director.

Every time the earth god, the Mazu sea goddess, or the Eight Generals has a birthday, a temple will invite Tseng and his troupe to perform in front.

Chi Chuan has been performing Taiwanese opera for 18 years. Originally from Kaohsiung, where he also attended university, he now works full-time in insurance sales, adjusting his schedule to continue performing. Although opera is a part-time pursuit, Chi Chuan views it as a vital creative outlet that provides a welcome escape from his daily life. He enjoys playing both male and female roles, appreciating the transformative power of the art.

"Wild stage" opera can be demanding on performers. It is baking backstage (Taiwan is a tropical island, after all) as the Shenhsien actors prepare, but that is not stopping them from putting on full-face makeup, wigs and embroidered Ming Dynasty-style costumes.

Also, everything, from the dialogue to the music, must be improvised.

With fifty minutes left to go before showtime, the keyboardist and percussionist start warming up, but we are still waiting for the director to decide which play the troupe will perform.

Lin Xuen, a fine arts university student specializing in Chinese brush painting and calligraphy, began performing Taiwanese opera four years ago after being introduced to it by his friend Xiao Wei. He quickly transitioned from observing to performing on stage. Lin is typically cast as young male characters with minimal action scenes.

Xiao Wei hails from a family with deep roots in Taiwanese opera. He began his training as a child under the guidance of his parents, both performers with Min Hua Yuan, Taiwan's most renowned opera company. After serving in the Taiwanese military, Xiao Wei now balances university studies in Kaohsiung with his ongoing work in opera. In addition to performing, he also contributes to the troupe by providing graphic design support.

Tang Tang generates sparks for a special effect during the performance. In a small company like Shen Hsien, performers often wear many hats, contributing to every aspect of the production.

"Gezaixi is a 'living' opera in the sense that we see which story the boss decides on, and then every actor in the troupe has to think for themselves and what their spoken parts will be," says actor Wu Hsiu-huan.

Even the fight scenes and the pace of the stories—dozens of which the actors all know by heart—must be made up, minute by minute, by the troupe's actors, Wu explains. They rely on a familiar rhythm and instinctive understanding the troupe has built up over years of performing together.

With 35 minutes left to go, the director decides the troupe will perform a story about Koxinga, the real-life Ming-era pirate warlord who fought off Dutch colonizers from Taiwan's main island.

And at precisely 3 p.m., the troupe launches into their first act. They stride on stage, their headdresses quivering.