IT'S A TYPICAL Sunday afternoon at the Bashu Theatre. Every seat in the first 20 rows is filled with elderly Sichuanese wrapped in synthetic fur and clutching cups of green tea as they gossip and wait for the show to begin. In a bare room backstage, Zhang Juhua applies the final touches to her elaborately painted face: snow-white skin lit up by thick black lines outlining almond eyes and a mass of ruby red smudged in-between.
Zhang is about to play a concubine in the rendition of Iron Dragon Mountain, a typical Sichuan opera where debauchery, death and deceit are played out against the backdrop of regal China. The story follows the plight of a dead emperor's eldest son, who is convinced the concubine, a mistress of his brother, has killed the emperor in an attempt to seize the throne. Determined not to weaken the ancestral lineage with non-royal blood, and over the duration of about two hours, he attempts to disarm her. Realising the good son has unveiled her devious ways, the concubine turns her fluttering eyelashes towards him. 'All the heroes cannot pass through the gates of beauty without falling,' declares the good son's minder as his master begins to sway under the allure of the concubine's temptations.
A high-pitched singing begins and the concubine dances. Twisting and twirling, her ornamental cape swishing and swirling, she enthrals the audience, who although familiar with the storyline, have left their cups of tea and are now on the edge of their seats in anticipation of the next move.
Straining under the pressure, the good son seems to lose control, almost verging on the brink of madness. Snapped back to reality by his minder, he manages to resist her charms and regains his composure, sending the concubine into her own state of madness. The precious royal lineage is restored and the plebeian and now frenetic concubine is dragged into the new emperor's dungeons.
With records dating back to the Qing dynasty, Sichuan opera and theatre - which is similar to Beijing opera in terms of costumes and singing style, but tells uniquely Sichuanese tales - has a long and vibrant history. Chengdu was once riddled with troupes such as the Bashu, their opera houses scattered throughout stone and wood neighbourhoods. Back then, courtyards were filled with elders passing folklore on to the younger generation. However, competing for attention with China's accelerated burst into the 21st century, many of the traditional troupes are now struggling to survive.
Drawing its storylines from myths, legends and tall tales dating back to feudal China, theatre has long held an integral place in Sichuan's cultural fabric, not only as entertainment, but also as a way of outlining and exemplifying social values. 'Theatre stories illustrate what is good and what is bad,' Zhang says. 'They teach people how to behave in Sichuan culture, how to be a good person and respectful to those around you, and how to overcome fear and enduring hardship in order to follow your dreams.'
For Zhang, acting is not a job, but a lifestyle. 'I always wanted to be an actress. When I was little, there were many, many theatres. Big, elaborate theatres. And being an actress was a respectable occupation,' she says. 'But now, young people don't like to go to the theatre. The government does nothing to promote it and as a result it's dying.'