Wang Xiang knew he was venturing into uncharted territory, but he wanted to downplay it. "I don't want to challenge anyone, nor do I want to imitate anyone," says the CEO of Poloarts Entertainment Company.

Wang was embarking on an undertaking that would have him reconcile several impossibilities: he was intent on a dinner-theater-type show, but wanted to make it extremely high-brow; he had in mind the oldest operatic form in China, but wished to wow connoisseurs and tourists alike, turning it into a "must-see" on the cultural map of the capital.

On May 18, a special chamber version of The Peony Pavilion premiered in Beijing, creating a stir that is still rippling through the city. It would be meaningless to say the show is packing 'em in because the theater can only seat 60-some people. While it is too early to predict whether this production will have a running life of a typical Broadway musical, Wang hopes it will stay around long enough to get the Olympic crowd.

Du Liniang (right) played by Hu Zhexing and Liu Mengmei by Zeng Jie in the Imperial Granary Edition of The Peony Pavilion.

The impossible dream

It all started in May, 2005, when Wang Xiang rented the Imperial Granary behind an office tower in the Eastern District. First built in 1409, the granary was a storehouse for grains during the Ming and Qing dynasties. Wang rented the stretch on the southern side. (There is a longer stretch on the east side, which has been transformed into galleries.)

The idea of staging a Kunqu opera inside such a venue came much later. "I wanted something to match the history and status of the building," he recalls. He brushed aside Peking Opera, a natural choice to many.

Hu Zhexing is made up as Du Liniang for the show.
 
"There are many Peking Opera shows in the city, which I analyzed carefully," Wang says. He craved something even more upscale. To broaden his horizon, he went to London and took in as many West End shows as he could. He traveled to Japan and had a taste of Kabuki and Noh theater. In June, 2006, he caught a variety show in Beijing that consisted of several operatic forms considered "non-material cultural heritage". A 10-minute episode from The Peony Pavilion convinced him it had to be Kunqu.

"Putting a 600-old art form in a 600-old building has such an appeal to me," he says. Besides, just as in the old days grains were shipped along the Great Canal from the southern provinces to Beijing, now Wang Xiang is bringing a quintessentially Zhejiang and Jiangsu art form to the same destination.

Getting to know you

Kunqu, enshrined by UNESCO as one of the world's masterpieces of "oral and intangible heritages of humanity", is the oldest dramatic art that still exists in China. It originated in Suzhou, eastern China's Jiangsu Province, and has florid performing patterns. Its influence on other Chinese operas is palpable. About half of Peking Opera's tunes and melodies are borrowed from Kunqu, explained Wang Shiyu, director of the granary edition.

The granary has only 500 square meters, ruling out the possibility of a normal elevated stage. But that impediment turned out to be the biggest blessing in disguise. Famed theater director Lin Zhaohua went about to create a performing space that "breaks down all invisible walls of a stage" and brings audience so close to the actors that one can literally feel the fluttery of the flowing sleeves and the sparks that fly between the lovers.

Coincidentally, this was exactly how Kunqu was staged in the old days, said Wang Shiyu, the opera expert who directed the singing and acting part.

Herve Ladsous, ambassador of France to China, praises performance of Zeng Jie and Hu Zhexing.

Wang Xiang, executive producer, vetoed a suggestion that coffee tables be placed in front of each row of audience, which is an age-old practice at Peking Opera performances. Getting a hint from the Japanese shows he saw, he emphasized that "there must be a feeling of ritual and worship once an audience member steps in. He must hold in awe the building and the art form. There must be no snack to distract him."

Instead, Wang offers a sumptuous buffet dinner, included in the price of the show, at the next door. But even there, you can watch from several monitors the actors putting on makeup, an elaborate process that takes two hours. Inside the theater, you can also watch through the glass partitions.

There is no microphone, loud speaker or mixing device. Everything you hear, you hear it from the singers and the instrumentalists who flank both sides. The flutist performs his solo at the beginning of the show while walking through the audience section.

"As soon as the flute came on, tears welled up in me," says Yu Dan, the television evangelist of Confucianism, according to Wang Shiyu.

Judging from the audience demographic, people are not deterred by the ornate singing style and the no-gimmick staging. More than 80 percent of those who have attended are anything but opera buffs, and many have reported a mesmerizing experience that transported them from the hustle and bustle of this world into a time and space at once so distant yet so close.

No business like show business

Wang Xiang's Poloarts specializes in high art. Publishing of classical music, both Chinese and Western, is at the forefront of his business. It also publishes the Chinese edition of Gramophone. As the Chinese saying goes, "high places can be cold", and high art does not usually rake in tons of profits. But Wang claims he makes money from importing violin concertos, jazz albums or releasing audio books of Chinese classics.

An album he released in 2005 for an ethnic Mongolian singer did produce a hummable hit, Three Lucky Gems.

Still, to invest more than 10 million yuan ($1.3 million) into a chamber opera could be a make-or-break project. Wang Shiyu, the director, says that this is tantamount to three tasks rolled into one: a new theater, a new troupe and a new repertory. "It would be hard enough to succeed at just one of them."

Wang Xiang credits his wife for giving him the courage to "start from business and end up with high culture". "You may not take up cultural projects if you have money, but you'll definitely not be able to if you are not financially endowed. Now that I'm into it, I want to swim through the sea of culture and reach the end of profit. That would be good for culture, too."

Wang estimates that 200 shows in the next year, with box office intake of 80,000-100,000 yuan for each, would recoup his initial investment, which includes renovation of the venue. That translates to four shows a week. But currently he is presenting only two, one on Friday and one on Saturday, with an occasional extra show for an institutional buyer.

A seat starts from 580 yuan and goes as high as 1,980, and a box - accommodating eight people - goes for 12,000 yuan. The pricing strategy obviously points to an elite clientele, including business executives and foreign visitors.

Nobody can forecast the future of this show, he says, because it's the first time somebody did something like this. He is waiting to convert good buzz into higher frequency of performances. When director Lin Zhaohua called from the United States a few days ago, he asked self-deprecatingly: "Is our show still on?"

"Yes," replied Wang, "and tickets are selling better."

(Xinhua News Agency August 2, 2007)