For the love of Chinese street opera
Sounds of distress along a quiet street in George Town leads to an unexpected meeting with a young girl intent on preserving a dying art form
THE mournful wailing in the distance catches me by surprise. It’s long past dinner time and the stretch of Beach Street is deserted except for the occasional traffic heading towards Downing Street. There are a few restaurants still open for business but judging from their peaceful facade, I’m quite certain they’re not the source of the woeful commotion.
The weeping soon reduces to a whimper before ceasing completely.
Hoping that that’s the end, I continue walking briskly towards my hotel.
Alas, just when I thought that all was back to normal, the noise resumes again.
This time, however, I detect a complete change in emotions. There’s definitely a happier tone to the voice this time.
Intrigued by the sudden ebb and flow of sentiments, I decide to temporarily put my initial plans on hold and call on my Sherlock Holmes instinct to try seek out the source of the mysterious sound.
Within minutes, I arrive at Cheah Kongsi, which looks very much like any other Chinese clan house in George Town’s United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organisation (UNESCO) World Heritage Site, except for the large makeshift stage right in the middle of its compound.
Focusing my gaze on the two performing artistes on stage, it suddenly dawns upon me that the sounds heard earlier were actually coming from this theatrical performance.
What a coincidence. Just earlier in the afternoon, I’d purchased a stack of vintage black and white photographs of opera performers who made their mark in Malaya back in the early 1950s.
The elderly Chulia Street antique shop owner who sold me the priceless images spent some time regaling me with tales about his experiences watching Chinese street opera in George Town during his childhood days.
According to him, this traditional Chinese dramatic form arrived on the shores of Penang with the Chinese immigrants who arrived by the droves in the 19th century.
Hugely popular until the middle of the 20th century, especially during Chinese New Year and other customary festivals, the opera has since seen its popularity wane, no thanks to the proliferation of modern forms of entertainment.
Grateful for the shop proprietor’s elaborate description of the distinctive features and characteristics that separate the different Chinese opera genres, I realise that the fan-playing and acrobatic stunt-filled performance on the stage in front of me belongs to the Teochew dialect group.
With more and more people streaming in, I decide to find a comfortable spot on the perfectly manicured front lawn to soak in the rest of the performance.
Fortunately for me and the rest of the non-Teochew speaking members of the audience, the organisers have thoughtfully provided English subtitles on a small LED screen at the left side of the stage. large majority of spectators, including myself, are taken aback when it’s revealed that the main performer for the night is Tan Wei Tian, a 15-year-old girl who juggles between school work and her passion for the opera.
It never crossed our mind that such a sterling performance could come from a person considered one of Singapore’s youngest opera artistes.
Fielding questions like a true veteran of the arts, Wei Tian admits that she first