CUHK Series:The Other Shore: Plays by Gao Xingjian

by Xingjian Gao

  The process opens up new venues of communication for the theatre. For instance, the “you” in Nocturnal Wanderer, in its capacity as the observed self of the “I,” is the main character in the play whose fate and emotions are on display. In this manner, the audience gets to see the play’s actions with an awareness of the non-experiencing “I” and his implicit judgement on the “you.” They are thus given a comprehensive picture of the drama, the complexity of the character and his inner conflicts which have been externalized, and his relationship with the world at large. In Between Life and Death, the heroine examines her own life in a series of narrated flashbacks. Here the implied “I” plays the role of narrator retelling the story of “she,” who is the projected and experiencing self of “I.” In this manner, a degree of objectivity is achieved because the narrating “I,” detached from immediate experience, can be largely sheltered from self-pity. Thus on the level of expressiveness, shifting the narrative mode facilitates self-examination and makes it easier for the unconscious to reveal itself.

  The modern stage has come a long way since the Stanislavskian method of realistic acting, i.e., total identification and immersion in the character being portrayed. Brecht’s epic theatre introduces the third-person narrator, and highlights stage narratology by adding another dimension to communication in the theatre—the audience, made aware of the existence of a world outside the world of the play, are “alienated” from the performance and performers. For Gao Xingjian, his idea of the theatre goes beyond alienation and invoking the audience’s rationality. It is inherent in and grows out of his conception of the world of the play, a world focusing on the consciousness of both actor and character, self-contained in its ostentation, yet made expansive so as to involve the audience both emotionally and intellectually. The key word is “self-consciousness.” Gao Xingjian’s self-conscious art reveals itself not merely in its self-reflexivity or in its relation to the world at large, i.e., how the world looks at the self; it can only be understood as self-observation in an alienated and detached manner. The relationship between the first-person self and his “other” hangs in a delicate balance, covering the whole spectrum of subjectivity and objectivity. The resultant potential for dramatic tension and conflict is part and parcel of his idea of the theatre, which encompasses both acting and playwriting.

  Drama and the Modern Man

  Gao Xingjian insists that his ideas should not be regarded as supporting technique for technique’s sake, nor are they merely aimed at rhetorical purposes. His pursuit of a new theatre is intended to reveal the naked realities of modern man and his living conditions—privileging formalism would only bury the truth of these realities and conditions.[0-28]Gao Xingjian is not a fan of the modern theatre (so-called “spoken drama” in Chinese) dominated by words and their meaning-generating functions. Far more concerned with the unstated emotions in language and in performance, he aspires to a “modern language,” akin to the language games found in Zhuangzi《莊子》and in the Diamond Sutra《金剛經》, that will express a feeling of detachment and a kind of “free and easy” contemplation as embodied in Taoist and Buddhist texts.[0-29]In this he finds an ally in the Chinese language, which he tries to rejuvenate and develop into an appropriate medium of expression for the stage:

  …I am not at all a cultural chauvinist, and I don’t have in me the incomprehensible arrogance typical of the Chinese race. The only thing I want to do is to rejuvenate this ancient language, so that it can be equally able to express the bewilderment of modern man, his pursuits, his frustrations in not being able to attain them, and in the final analysis, the sufferings and happiness of living, loneliness and the dire need for expression.[0-30]

  Gao Xingjian’s language is largely lyrical and at times even gossipy, yet it can be extremely powerful and moving in its indifference and apparent irrelevance, containing words of “unspoken wisdom.” As with many Zen Buddhist texts, his words “speaks directly to the heart,” striking at the innermost core of the human soul. When they are most effective, they are graced with an almost magical power derived from a spellbinding rhythm akin to chanting, evincing a materiality beyond mere utterance and primary referentiality. The idea is to allow the mind of the audience to “wander in contemplation” among the words so as to grasp their true spirit, which resides as a sublimated effect beyond the language being used.[0-31]

  Gao Xingjian does not resort to yelling and screaming in his writings. He is not a revolutionary, and he refuses to fight other people’s war other than the one that resides in his heart. In concentrating on the self, Gao Xingjian’s writings can be regarded as subjective and individualistic. However, his is a distinctive kind of individualism, one that values the self but not at the expense of others. As he says of his novel Spiritual Mountain:

  My perception of the self has nothing to do with self-worship. I detest those people whose desire is to displace God with himself, the kind of heroism which aspires to defeat the world, and the kind of self-purgation which puts on the guise of a tragic hero. I am myself, nothing less, nothing more.[0-32]

  In this way he rejects Nietzsche and the individualism of the West, which he considers destructive. His attitude is not unlike that of the traditional Taoist or Zen Buddhist who, bent on seclusion or exile from society to cultivating his inner virtues and strength, still casts an indifferent eye to observe the world of humans in his somewhat aloof and detached position. However, while Taoism and Buddhism aspire to understanding the tao, Gao Xingjian insists on knowing and studying the self and its inner secrets in all its complexities; while the former represents inner peace, Gao Xingjian finds only pain and suffering, and unfortunately, there appears to be no salvation. The individual is helpless in the face of this predicament, for he is impotent to change himself or his world. He can assert his existence only by way of thinking and of the production of discourse (he once proclaimed: “I discourse, therefore I am”[0-33]); ironically these tend to become as ineffectual and meaningless as the world he finds himself in—therein resides the frustration and insoluble dilemma of modern man.

  The Plays

  The Other Shore 彼岸(Bi’an) (1986)

  Written in early 1986, The Other Shore was originally scheduled to be performed by the Beijing People’s Art Theatre under the direction of Lin Zhaohua, but the rehearsal was suspended because the play was considered politically sensitive. This marked a turning point in Gao Xingjian’s thinking—he gradually came to the realization that the authorities would no longer allow his plays to be performed in China. (The Other Shore was subsequently performed in Taiwan by the Taiwan National College of Art in 1990 and by the Hong Kong Academy for Performing Arts in 1995. Both productions were directed by the playwright.)

  The Other Shore is a short but complex play. The plot is made up of disjointed narrative units that do not apparently or necessarily connect with one another, at least in a structurally coherent manner. However, each unit can be seen as self-contained and is interesting and meaningful by itself. Gao Xingjian considers the play as his attempt at “pure” drama:

  The Other Shore is different from conventional drama. One of the differences is that the play does not attempt to put together a coherent plot. I only intend it to be a revelation, to portray some of life’s experiences and feelings in a pure dramatic form, i.e., in the same way that music is pure.[0-34]

  The title Bi’an (literally “the other shore” or “the opposite shore”) refers to paramita, the land of enlightenment in Buddhism. According to Buddhist beliefs, one is able to cross the river of life—from the shore of delusion and suffering to the other shore of enlightenment—by cultivating and perfecting the paramita virtues of generosity, morality, patience, vigor, concentration (or meditation) and wisdom. The play reveals the fundamental tragedy of human life: even after crossing the river and reaching the other shore, the characters find that enlightenment is unobtainable, and that they are still trapped in the delusions and sufferings of everyday life from which there is no esc
ape. As Gao Xingjian says, “It is destined that the individual will never be able to acquire the ultimate truth, which is known as God or the other shore.”[0-35]

  At least two issues stand out in the play: collectivism and personal salvation. In the opening scene, the game of ropes first illustrates the establishment of inter-personal relationships and the virtue and necessity of communal living. However, the ropes are soon subject to manipulation and control, and the relationships turn into unequal partnerships overrun by totalitarian rule. Then comes the river crossing by a group of actors, a difficult undertaking but hopeful of happiness upon its completion. After crossing the river to the other shore, the actors are accorded a temporary bliss through their loss of language. However, as soon as they are taught to speak again by Woman, a mother figure, they learn to distinguish between self and other and are anxious to seek out the outsider among them. Incited by their own words to irrational violence, they smother Woman to death and try to put the blame on one another. As the group tuns into an unruly mob, they need a leader to guide them. They try to pressure Man, who may be regarded as the de facto hero in the play, to take up the role. When Man refuses, they let themselves fall into the hands of a manipulating card-playing Master, who tempts them with wine and coaxes them into making fools of themselves. In an attempt to please Master, they willingly confuse reality with illusion and compromise truth with falsehood. Together they ridicule and persecute Man, the individualist among them. The various episodes in the first part of the play, at first appearing fragmented, are now given a thematic unity underscoring the flaw of collectivism, that it can easily degenerate into blind obedience and violence and play into the hands of a manipulative leader.

  The scenes that follow describe Man’s search for personal salvation as he tries to assert his independence in the community of man. Besieged by adversities, he feels smothered by the unreasonable demands on his individuality. As a result, he is frustrated in every way, a total failure in human relations. With his non-conformist stance, he cannot get along with the masses, nor can he obtain any understanding from his father and his mother; even his yearning for love is denied him. An outcast turned cynic, he strives frantically to pick up the pieces of his life, doing so literally by rearranging the arms and legs of mannequins to make them whole again and, like God, he tries to create his own version of human society. But when the mannequins become too many, he finds himself helplessly drawn into their collective pattern of frenzied movements: this is mob behaviour once again. All the time his actions are haunted by the underlying presence of the Zen Master and his chanting, as if he is casting a “cold” eye of indifference on the futility of all of Man’s undertakings. In the end, Man leaves the stage “a drooping, blind, and deaf heart,” and the masses become actors again as the play reverts to the everyday life of the beginning, the world before the river crossing to “the other shore.”

  To an extent The Other Shore expresses the author’s misgivings about collectivism and its darker consequences. The ending offers no salvation for the persecuting masses and their irrationality, and there exists no one, like the “silent man” in Bus Stop or the ecologist in Wilderness Man, who takes on the role of the harbinger of hope. Communication is impossible despite human interaction, or because of it, for language is highly suspect, a means of deception, violence, and the distortion of intentions. As a result the individual can only seek refuge in the “dark and shady forest” of his heart, reminiscing about his past life until life itself perishes. But all is not futile—for all its darkness and despair, the play also affords a glimpse of self-knowledge in the pursuit of an equilibrium between the self and the outside world.[0-36]

  Of course we are treading on dangerous ground in attempting to interpret the unity and the meaning of the play. It is as if each interpretation leads to another that is its contradiction, and there is always the risk of oversimplification. Perhaps it is better to just regard the play, as Gao Xingjian suggests, as a training exercise for actors. To our writer, The Other Shore is an experiment in pursuit of a modern theatre, using Eastern drama as a starting point. As with Peking opera, it is actor-centred, and communication with the audience is mostly derived from the directness of the actors’ performance.[0-37] The play is also the first piece of work by the playwright embodying his idea of the neutral actor:

  Crossing the river to the other shore is a key moment in the performance. After the rigorous movements of playing with the ropes and rapidly exchanging partners, the actors relax their bodies and lie on the floor to listen to the music. As they let the music evoke their feelings, their bodies are not motivated by ideas. This is a process of self-purgation.[0-38]

  From this moment on the actors will be able to “forget” themselves and to effectively focus their attention on observing their own body movements and listening to their own voices. And Shadow, Man’s super-ego, is the physical manifestation of the neutral actor on stage: he is there to observe, evaluate and even make fun of “Man” in the encounter of the self with his other.

  Between Life and Death 生死界(Shengsijie) (1991)

  In 1989, Gao Xingjian finished Exile (Taowang 逃亡), which is set against the background of the 1989 Tiananmen incident. The play describes the stories of three characters, a young man, a young girl student, and a middle-aged writer, who are in hiding and running from the pursuing PLA (People’s Liberation Army) soldiers. It unmasks and examines the fundamental human weaknesses, such as fear and desire, and the naive idealism among the participants in the Democracy Movement, and casts doubts on the wisdom, and even the possibility, of the intelligentsia’s intrusion into politics. In the end, the only way out for all the characters, as for the writer in real life, is to go into exile.

  Between Life and Death, written two years after The Other Shore, can be seen as an attempt by Gao Xingjian to chastise the Chineseness in him (probably because of his displeasure with the adverse reactions to Exile in 1989) and pursue writing for a universal audience. The setting is unspecified and, except for the appearance of a Buddhist nun, there is no reference to anything specifically Chinese. The heroine, without any indication of her nationality, is just called Woman; she could be “everywoman.” She serves as the play’s narrator, describing her tortured life story, her fears and sensitivities, which are seen as typical of the female sex. In light of this, the play apparently champions feminism, especially women’s sufferings at the hands of men. As the narrator-heroine says, “In her life, a woman is destined to suffer five hundred times more than a man.” Even women help men to oppress other women, and they can be more vicious than men to their own kind. However, the play’s concerns are actually more ambitious, as the collectivist themes in Gao Xingjian’s previous works have been displaced by the more subjective question of the self and the existential.

  The story is about a woman who faces the end of her life’s journey in both mental and physical exhaustion. The various episodes in her monologue fall mainly into three categories. First there is her love-hate relationship with Man, who has no speaking parts but expresses his reactions to her monologue by performing pantomimes. She keeps nagging him, accuses him of infidelity and threatens to leave him. But when he disappears and eventually transforms into a pile of clothing, she is full of remorse, wishing that he could have stayed and made up with her. This is a sad comment on the fate of Woman, and of women in general—she attempts to assert her independence, but in the end she finds that she still has to depend on Man, at least for his companionship.

  What follows are reminiscences of Woman’s tainted past. She spent a harrowing childhood in a windowless house. She tried to get her mother’s attention by cutting her finger with a pair of scissors. She was raped by her mother’s lover. She had an affair with a woman doctor and her husband, in which she was used as a plaything to spice up their sex life. And then there was her irksome one-night stand with some unknown man. According to her own admission, she has abandoned herself to living a life of sin after being manipulated and
exploited by both men and women. Feeling guilty and remorseful, she takes off her ring, her bracelet and her earrings, all tokens of her past experiences, to purge herself of her sins, but all is in vain. As her disappointment grows, she feels increasingly depressed about herself, thinking that she is unfit to be a mother and unworthy of a warm and comfortable home. She is alone in the world among its evil and squalor, with nothing to look forward to except the end of her life.

  The latter part of the play features a series of hallucination scenes. Here Woman finds herself languishing in a state “between life and death” as she makes various frantic attempts to discover the meaning of her existence in her encounters with the supernatural. A masked man appears, chases her in his car and warns her of a bloody disaster. Then she slides down into the depths of icy water. A nun, whom Woman first mistakes as the Buddhist Bodhisattva, disembowels herself, cleanses her intestines, puts them on a plate and then throws them in Woman’s face. A man dressed in black and perched on high stilts approaches, watching over her with a big black eye in his hand. A headless woman follows Woman, also with a big eye in her hand. The play ends with Woman musing aloud on the question of her identity while an old man tries to catch an imaginary snowflake with his hat.