‘Sword of Wisdom’ is a captivating whirl of hypnotic performance
Published: 04:12 PM,Dec 25,2024 | EDITED : 08:12 PM,Dec 25,2024
The breathtaking performances of Taiwan's U-Theatre’s ‘Sword of Wisdom’, which took place last Thursday and Friday evenings at the Royal Opera, House of Musical Arts, presented something of a dichotomy. The one word that sums up their extraordinary skill and precision is: discipline. However, one might also add power and strength, perfect synchronisation, and beauty in all movement.
U-Theatre’s style combines elements of Chinese martial arts, drumming, meditation, sacred dance, and ritual. Its founder-director, Liu Ruo-Yu, who established the company in 1988, was deeply influenced by the Polish academic Jerzy Grotowski’s aesthetic and performance training method, which explores the body and mind in theatre. In 1993, she invited Huang Chih-Chun, a traditional Malaysian-Chinese percussionist, to join and teach drumming. Huang’s deeply held conviction that “to play the drum, one must first learn meditation” inspired and informed the core principle of “drumming in one’s own tranquility”, which is the central ethos of U-Theatre.
The hall was packed to capacity with a diverse audience from various backgrounds and ages, with barely a spare seat in sight. The 18 male and female performers crept softly onto the stage in red costumes like Buddhist monks to the call of a conch shell. Five large cowhide drums were smoothly wheeled on, accompanied by three huge gongs. Small percussion instruments, followed by finger cymbals, were beaten rapidly to keep the pulse, while the five large drummers were precisely synchronised in their mesmerising music, punctuated only by the eastern echoes of metallic gongs reverberating like a Gamelan. The lighting design by Lin Keh-Hua was evocative and intense throughout, yet subtle enough not to be intrusive.
A dancer wearing a four-faced mask of Buddha appeared—the Vajrasattva, who helps alleviate human suffering in his terrifying, wrathful form. A pre-recorded track surprisingly simulated monks chanting from behind, later providing vibraphones and singing. He removed his mask to reveal the Master, Huang Chih-Chun, as a warrior in quest of self-realisation.
In the second scene, the warrior uses his spiritual sword—represented by a long stick—not to fight, but to embark on a journey of self-discovery. He spins, twirls, and slaps the drums and floor with a violent crack. Two drummers performed from the wings, while four women rolled double-sided drums centre stage. They performed coordinated rhythms, with the perpetual dance-like poise and grace of the women’s arms never stopping. Each scene built up to a crescendo of sound before dissolving into silence. The warrior was left alone to contemplate his identity.
Scene three, ‘Clearing the Grass to Find the Snake’, was explained by surtitles. In eastern culture, the snake represents wisdom and human nature but can also symbolise cunning and deceit. The dichotomy of the two distinct selves in conflict yet coexisting in the warrior’s heart was explored through a slow, searching mime or stylised dance in perfect synchrony to recorded pipe music, describing two aspects of the warrior’s personae, or alter-egos: “One dancer is controlling and cautious while the other is open and provocative. One wields a sword while the other does not.” The performance synthesises the discipline of Japanese Taiko drumming with the ritualised storytelling of Indonesian Wayang Kulit (shadow puppetry).
‘Crouching Lion’s Roar’ takes the Master on a journey of inner searching. Six drums are silently pushed on, gongs descend, and he plays a startling, powerful solo as the other performers freeze. The crescendo begins, with gongs and cymbals punctuating the frenzy. Eight drums slide on to join seamlessly; the repeated rhythm is steady, with meticulously synchronised arm movements while warrior-master Huang Chih-Chun plays a technically challenging solo of complex patterns on the huge suspended instrument, facing backwards. The full drum ensemble builds up in a strongly syncopated, irregular rhythmic pattern as the warrior’s inner conflicts dissipate into strong conviction and resilience. He emits a loud roar, addressing his challenges directly, and moves towards the 'Sword of Wisdom’.
This tour de force synchronises five drummers with long sticks beating uneven, complex rhythms in choreographed leaps, hurling and flinging sticks between them with expert hand-eye coordination, while the ladies maintain a constant pulse on hand-held percussion stage right.
The concluding ‘Mandala Offering’ represents the self, symbolising the unconscious inner wisdom that encompasses infinite beauty, transcending the limitations of time and space. A solo figure mimed a slow dance, without drum or sword, accompanied only by a pre-recorded woman singing. Then eight drummers entered with a deep-throated Buddhist chant, dressed in red and brown flowing gowns created by ‘Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon’ designer Tim Yip. They began fast kicking and twirling, reminiscent of Whirling Dervishes, hands raised in uniform gesture, until just our warrior, Huang Chih-Chun himself, remained alone, spinning continuously to a haunting 'Om'.
The entire performance, just 75 minutes of unbroken drama, was spellbinding and compelling. The energy in the hall was electric as the audience was transported on this profound journey of self-exploration and transcendence.
Photos: Khalid al Busaidi
U-Theatre’s style combines elements of Chinese martial arts, drumming, meditation, sacred dance, and ritual. Its founder-director, Liu Ruo-Yu, who established the company in 1988, was deeply influenced by the Polish academic Jerzy Grotowski’s aesthetic and performance training method, which explores the body and mind in theatre. In 1993, she invited Huang Chih-Chun, a traditional Malaysian-Chinese percussionist, to join and teach drumming. Huang’s deeply held conviction that “to play the drum, one must first learn meditation” inspired and informed the core principle of “drumming in one’s own tranquility”, which is the central ethos of U-Theatre.
The hall was packed to capacity with a diverse audience from various backgrounds and ages, with barely a spare seat in sight. The 18 male and female performers crept softly onto the stage in red costumes like Buddhist monks to the call of a conch shell. Five large cowhide drums were smoothly wheeled on, accompanied by three huge gongs. Small percussion instruments, followed by finger cymbals, were beaten rapidly to keep the pulse, while the five large drummers were precisely synchronised in their mesmerising music, punctuated only by the eastern echoes of metallic gongs reverberating like a Gamelan. The lighting design by Lin Keh-Hua was evocative and intense throughout, yet subtle enough not to be intrusive.
A dancer wearing a four-faced mask of Buddha appeared—the Vajrasattva, who helps alleviate human suffering in his terrifying, wrathful form. A pre-recorded track surprisingly simulated monks chanting from behind, later providing vibraphones and singing. He removed his mask to reveal the Master, Huang Chih-Chun, as a warrior in quest of self-realisation.
In the second scene, the warrior uses his spiritual sword—represented by a long stick—not to fight, but to embark on a journey of self-discovery. He spins, twirls, and slaps the drums and floor with a violent crack. Two drummers performed from the wings, while four women rolled double-sided drums centre stage. They performed coordinated rhythms, with the perpetual dance-like poise and grace of the women’s arms never stopping. Each scene built up to a crescendo of sound before dissolving into silence. The warrior was left alone to contemplate his identity.
Scene three, ‘Clearing the Grass to Find the Snake’, was explained by surtitles. In eastern culture, the snake represents wisdom and human nature but can also symbolise cunning and deceit. The dichotomy of the two distinct selves in conflict yet coexisting in the warrior’s heart was explored through a slow, searching mime or stylised dance in perfect synchrony to recorded pipe music, describing two aspects of the warrior’s personae, or alter-egos: “One dancer is controlling and cautious while the other is open and provocative. One wields a sword while the other does not.” The performance synthesises the discipline of Japanese Taiko drumming with the ritualised storytelling of Indonesian Wayang Kulit (shadow puppetry).
‘Crouching Lion’s Roar’ takes the Master on a journey of inner searching. Six drums are silently pushed on, gongs descend, and he plays a startling, powerful solo as the other performers freeze. The crescendo begins, with gongs and cymbals punctuating the frenzy. Eight drums slide on to join seamlessly; the repeated rhythm is steady, with meticulously synchronised arm movements while warrior-master Huang Chih-Chun plays a technically challenging solo of complex patterns on the huge suspended instrument, facing backwards. The full drum ensemble builds up in a strongly syncopated, irregular rhythmic pattern as the warrior’s inner conflicts dissipate into strong conviction and resilience. He emits a loud roar, addressing his challenges directly, and moves towards the 'Sword of Wisdom’.
This tour de force synchronises five drummers with long sticks beating uneven, complex rhythms in choreographed leaps, hurling and flinging sticks between them with expert hand-eye coordination, while the ladies maintain a constant pulse on hand-held percussion stage right.
The concluding ‘Mandala Offering’ represents the self, symbolising the unconscious inner wisdom that encompasses infinite beauty, transcending the limitations of time and space. A solo figure mimed a slow dance, without drum or sword, accompanied only by a pre-recorded woman singing. Then eight drummers entered with a deep-throated Buddhist chant, dressed in red and brown flowing gowns created by ‘Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon’ designer Tim Yip. They began fast kicking and twirling, reminiscent of Whirling Dervishes, hands raised in uniform gesture, until just our warrior, Huang Chih-Chun himself, remained alone, spinning continuously to a haunting 'Om'.
The entire performance, just 75 minutes of unbroken drama, was spellbinding and compelling. The energy in the hall was electric as the audience was transported on this profound journey of self-exploration and transcendence.
Photos: Khalid al Busaidi