Behind the Satin Curtains
For more than a thousand years, Chinese opera traditions have brought together drama, music, literature, dance and elaborate visual symbolism. Once a familiar presence at festivals and temple celebrations, many travelling troupes now face shrinking audiences and uncertain futures. Behind the satin curtains of a temporary stage in George Town, a Teochew opera company prepares to perform – for the people seated before them and for the gods.
The first Chinese opera warrior I met was playing a game on his phone.
His face was covered in elaborate makeup, his embroidered robes belonged to another century, and a towering headdress rose above him. Yet he remained entirely absorbed in the small glowing screen in his hands. Nearby, a noblewoman received a shoulder massage, a villain smoked beside a chest of costumes and another performer prayed at a small altar dedicated to the opera deity.
I had been trying to see Chinese opera for months. Then, while wandering through George Town in Penang, I turned a corner and found an open-air stage rising beside a Chinese temple, its roofline crowded with bright decorations.
There was no obvious entrance backstage – only a rickety wooden ladder leaning against the rear of the temporary structure. It did not look especially inviting, but it did look like an answer.
I climbed.
At the top, I stepped into a dim room dense with colour. Embroidered robes hung from beams; painted props leaned against walls; headdresses, wooden chests and containers of makeup occupied almost every remaining surface. In front of small mirrors, actors were slowly replacing their everyday faces with those of warriors, servants, villains and noblewomen.
From the street, Chinese opera is a spectacle of clashing cymbals, stylised movement and dazzling costumes. Backstage, the transformation begins quietly – with careful brushstrokes, shared pins, occasional laughter and enough mobile phones to confirm that warriors and noblewomen also have messages to answer.
A Stage beside the Temple
The performers belong to Sai Bo Hong, a Teochew opera troupe from Bangkok that began performing in 2001. I had expected to meet local Malaysian actors and am surprised to learn that the entire company has travelled from Thailand for the occasion. The costumes may belong to imperial China, but the troupe’s passports are thoroughly up to date.
The stage has been erected beside the temple for an important religious celebration. Chinese opera reached the Malay Peninsula through Chinese migration and trade and became an established part of community festivals and temple observances. Once widely performed, it is now encountered less frequently, often appearing during Lunar New Year, deity birthdays and other major celebrations.
Chinese opera is not a single dramatic tradition but a family of regional forms combining literature, history, music, song, dance, acting and highly codified movement.
This evening’s performance is in Teochew, a language I do not understand. Fortunately, subtlety is not the opera’s only means of communication, and cymbals require no translation.
Painting a Character
Around me, actors lean towards mirrors no larger than notebooks. Pots of pigment and powder are arranged within reach. The work is slow: a face may take hours to complete, making my own morning routine seem unusually efficient. Every line matters.
Makeup does more than make the features visible from a distance. It helps introduce the character before a word is spoken. Dark outlines enlarge the eyes and eyebrows; red sharpens the lips; painted patterns signal temperament, rank and moral qualities. Colour carries meaning: white is often associated with cunning or treachery, red with loyalty and courage, and black with integrity, justice or fierceness.
As the layers accumulate, age and gender become flexible. A young actor becomes an elderly official; another takes the role of a warrior; a man is transformed into an elegant female character. Historically, men commonly performed women’s roles when female performers were excluded from many troupes. Backstage, changing age, status and gender is all part of the working routine – and apparently much easier to accomplish with a brush and an embroidered robe than it is in ordinary life.
The concentration is intense. Brushes hover, lines are corrected, and elaborate hairpieces are secured. Nobody rushes. Chinese opera has survived for centuries; it is apparently not going to hurry for my camera.
Between Gods and Mobile Phones
Once their faces are finished, the actors help one another into embroidered robes. Some costumes are covered with symbolic patterns and brilliant colour; others are deliberately plain. As with makeup, clothing tells the audience whom it is meeting. Bright, elaborate garments generally belong to the young, powerful or wealthy, while darker, simpler clothes suggest age, poverty or a humbler position.
Several performers add towering feathered headdresses or heavy crowns decorated with coloured stones and crystals. Dressing is clearly a group undertaking. Sleeves must fall correctly, fastenings must hold, and ornaments must remain in place through every stylised turn of the head. There is no room here for a crown with independent ambitions.
Those already dressed settle into the peculiar calm that exists before a performance. One actor plays a game on his phone beneath an imperial headdress. Another watches videos of Chinese opera stars. Someone receives a shoulder massage; someone else smokes. At a small backstage altar, performers pause to pray to the opera deity.
The juxtapositions are irresistible: an ancient dramatic tradition, a temporary wooden stage and a glowing smartphone held by someone who, in a few minutes, will become a general from another century. Backstage chaos turns out to be less like disorder than an orchestra tuning before the conductor appears. Everyone seems to know what must happen next.
When the Cymbals Crash
A sudden clash of cymbals and the beating of gongs announce that the performance has begun. Nobody within several streets is left in doubt. The quiet preparation vanishes. Actors move towards the stage while musicians, positioned behind them, produce an emphatic accompaniment with drums, cymbals, gongs, lutes and other traditional instruments.
Chinese opera is not designed to be discreet. Voices rise in stylised song; percussion marks entrances, gestures and changes of mood. One performer proudly tells me that every member of the troupe can also play an instrument – a useful skill in a travelling company where versatility is evidently part of the job description.
The stories often draw on Chinese history, legends and moral teachings.
Love and loyalty confront betrayal; justice struggles against corruption; families separate and reunite; heroes defend their communities. Tragedy and comedy may occupy the same evening, but the drama usually carries a moral purpose: wrongdoing has consequences, and virtue, after enduring a suitably exhausting number of obstacles, deserves to prevail.
I cannot follow the Teochew dialogue, yet I rarely feel entirely lost. The costumes, painted faces, music and gestures provide their own form of translation. Warriors advance with controlled precision; noblewomen move with measured elegance; villains need very little linguistic assistance to appear untrustworthy – a reassuringly international theatrical skill.
The stage creates a self-contained world of poetic recitation and ritualised movement. For a while, the surrounding streets of George Town recede, replaced by a place where kingdoms are threatened, loyalty is tested, and justice remains possible – though seldom before several hours of singing.
Playing for an Invisible Audience
The visible audience, however, is small. Shortly after dusk, a few older residents sit in front of the stage while passers-by and curious visitors pause at the edges. As the evening advances, the rows thin. A few hours later, almost every chair is empty – excellent legroom, though not quite the triumph the performers deserve.
I find the sight uncomfortable. The actors have spent hours painting their faces and arranging heavy costumes, yet hardly anyone remains to watch them. The performers show no disappointment. They continue with the same concentration and intensity they displayed when the first cymbal sounded.
Then I understand that I have misread the audience. The opera has not been staged only for the people seated in front of it. Temple performances may honour deities, spirits, and ancestors; empty chairs do not mean nobody important is watching.
The troupe’s persistence feels significant. Travelling opera companies have declined as younger audiences turn towards other forms of entertainment, and performances that once belonged to ordinary community life have become increasingly scarce. Yet here, on a temporary stage beside a temple, the tradition remains fully alive – not preserved behind glass, but painted, sung, drummed and performed deep into the night.
Midnight approaches. I have been backstage and beside the stage for hours, but I still cannot make myself leave. The audience visible to me has almost disappeared; the musicians continue, the actors enter on cue, and the story moves towards its conclusion.
Perhaps the gods are more patient theatre-goers than the rest of us. They certainly do not leave at the interval.
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