EIF Review: Book of Mountains and Seas

Huang Ruo’s opera meditates on humanity’s relationship with nature through the lens of ancient Chinese mythology.

His anthology of four creation stories plucked from the 4th Century B.C. Qin Dynasty begins with the birth of hairy giant Pan Gu from the cosmic egg, dividing Ying from Yang, Heaven from Earth, before dying 18,000 years later, his body creating the material universe with humans last in the line.

The staging of this contemporary opera is most remarkable from the start, the auditorium plunged into darkness, before trios of Danish choir Ars Nova Copenhagen’s 12-strong choir pop into being, faces visible thanks to illuminated scores. Their polyphonic song weaves a tapestry of lovely voices working with and against each other, speaking to both harmony and tension. In the wings, two percussionists conspire to add both rhythm and texture, sometimes urgent, but more often enigmatic.

With only chapter titles, plus pithy summaries of proceedings projected behind, there’s an undeniable sense of mystery; a sense of far more going on than can be put into words.

Subtitles, it transpires, would be impossible – Ruo having blended the original Mandarin with newly invented words and phrases. What’s that you say? A secret language, speaking of primordial movements and sung in the dark? Mystery indeed!

Fortunately, Director and puppeteer-par-excellence Bastil Twist loves playing in the dark, and it’s not long before our hypnotic choir divides to reveal the giant’s face constructed from what looks like sections of gnarled driftwood and paper lanterns. What’s this? Rivers of silk flowing forth from the dead giant’s eyes?! What else? Mountains rising from the wooden bones of the deceased 18,000-year-old.

The two final stories, in comparison, are easier to interpret. First, the story of the ‘original’ ten suns, which almost burned the earth to a crisp before the God of archery shot down all but one. Finally, the story of Kua Fu the giant’s vain and ultimately self-destructive pursuit of that final sun.

“The staging of this contemporary opera is most remarkable, the auditorium beginning in darkness, before trios of Danish choir Ars Nova Copenhagen’s 12-strong choir pop into being, only their faces visible thanks to illuminated scores.”

The word created, we move to the story of Jingwei, once the princess Nǚ Wa, before she drowned and metamorphosed into a vengeful bird determined to fill the sea with sticks and pebbles. A sea of silk billows on stage whilst she sails over it, a flashing kite, diving angrily only for the sea to flash with dappled green light. The male voices of the choir drone elegantly, whilst female voices pierce the calm with extended Chinese technique. What do Ruo and Twist intend to convey with Jingwei’s beautiful, but ultimately fruitless quest? Why has the driftwood become a sea serpent? More mystery!

The ten suns (ten cleverly piloted paper lanterns) sail out in the darkness, with smart direction cleverly managing 12 singers, and 10 puppeteers on stage, in the dark, without things going BUMP! It’s certainly arresting to watch, and the polyphonic spree reaches towards shades of Carmina Burana in its majesty and sense of the occult. However, I did find myself wondering just how long it would take for all ten suns to come out to play – let’s just say there’s no rush.

When the God of Archery emerges with a driftwood bow in hand, I was ready to cheer.

The final adventure takes the puppetry to a new level as Kua Fu rises from the driftwood to tower over the stage before striding out after the remaining sun, hand ever outstretched, but never in range. Twist certainly has a sense of the dramatic and the chops to deliver monumentally impressive action. Kudos to the 6-strong puppetry team who do themselves proud.

It’s also in this final scene that both percussionists and choir let loose, underlining the giant’s increasingly desperate pursuit. When the greedy fool takes to his knees to consume entire silken rivers to quench his unslakeable thirst, the parallels to humanity’s abuse of the planet couldn’t be clearer. Does this sequence, like the Ten Suns, go on a little too long without any variety or dramatic development? Well, yes, but Book of Mountains and Seas is never unimpressive.

When he falls apart, most spectacularly, and a peach blossom forest emerges from his bones, light finally dawns on stage: peach light. With blossom cascading down from above upon the choir huddled together in the centre with books closed, humanity has finally arrived. It’s a simple moment of loveliness, and a peachy note to leave the audience on.

In the end, Ruo and Twist’s production is a beautiful, elegantly simple 75 minutes of sophisticated but uncomplicated storytelling. It would, in my opinion, be improved by a little more explanation and a touch more pace. This aside, Book of Mountains and Seas certainly offers one of this year’s most spellbinding and mysterious events at the Edinburgh International Festival.