Lijia Zhang's Blog, page 7

A comical version of M Bovary

“The Massive Tragedy of Madame Bovary” at Southwark Playhouse
Last night, I ventured to the theatre once more, this time with my dear friend Ruth, to see The Massive Tragedy of Madame Bovary, a comedic reinterpretation of Gustave Flaubert’s classic novel. I chose this play because I adore the novel – one of my all-time favorites—about a romantic and beautiful woman yearning for more than her provincial life in 19th-century France. Adapted by John Nicholson and directed by Kirstie Davis, the production injects the tragic tale with humor and farcical twists.
Southwark Playhouse often stages works by emerging artists or experiments with unconventional theatre. Over the years, I’ve seen both gems and missteps there, so I’ve learned to temper my expectations.
To my delight, I enjoyed this production more than anticipated. The play’s inventive approach and the commendable comedic performances stood out. Aside from Madame Bovary herself, the three other cast members seamlessly juggled multiple roles. Stephen Cavanagh, for instance, was particularly impressive, portraying a staggering fifteen characters with ease and flair. Some of the sex scenes were hilariously audacious. Ruth and I laughed our teeth off.
While this adaptation retains the novel’s darker themes, including Emma Bovary’s tragic demise, it balances them with sharp humour. However, the production’s ambition occasionally felt constrained by the theatre’s limited physical space. We happened to sit on the front. I had carefully tuck my feet under the seat as not to trip the actors. Moreover, its extended runtime could have benefited from tighter pacing.
Overall, The Massive Tragedy of Madame Bovary offers an entertaining and unconventional take on a literary classic, blending humor with its inherent tragedy. It’s good value for money, and with only two shows left, I’d recommend catching it if you can.

Wintry Beauty

Wintry Beauty
I generally prefer warmth to cold—so much so that winter often finds me fleeing to sunnier, gentler climes. However, this morning was different. Braving the chill, I ventured out to White Horse Meadow, a small sanctuary just around the corner from my house. The air was crisp and sharp, biting yet invigorating. A delicate layer of frost cloaked the meadow, its icy sheen glinting beneath a dramatic sky. The landscape, austere and fleetingly fragile, seemed more beautiful than I had ever known it to be.
I recall an interview with a Chinese writer from the northeast, who once told me that her journey as a writer began with the distinct four seasons of her hometown. At the time, her words intrigued me; now, they resonate deeply.
The beauty of four seasons lies in their ceaseless rhythm: spring’s renewal, summer’s vitality, autumn’s introspection, and winter’s quietude—a cycle that mirrors the ebb and flow of life itself.

Ballet Dhoes

Ballet Shoes at the National
Last night, at the invitation of my dear friend Sara (whose mother was a renowned theatre director), I attended Katy Rudd’s adaptation of Noel Streatfeild’s Ballet Shoes at the National Theatre. I loved it! What fun!
The play is a heartwarming coming-of-age story about three orphaned sisters—Pauline, Petrova, and Posy Fossil—pursuing their dreams in acting, aviation, and ballet while navigating family, ambition, and self-discovery in 1930s London. Staying true to the beloved novel, this version introduces contemporary elements such as racial diversity and sexual inclusivity (one of the characters is a lesbian), ensuring it resonates with today’s audiences.
The inventive set design by Frankie Bradshaw impressed me, as did the spirited performances, especially by the actors playing the three sisters, Grace Saif (Pauline), Yanexi Enriquez (Petrova), and Daisy Sequerra (Posy). Ellen Kane’s choreography was a highlight, seamlessly blending ballet, tap, and modern dance to give the show a dynamic energy.
My only criticism is that the dramatic punch could have been a bit stronger. Nevertheless, I found this highly enjoyable production deserving of 4.5 stars. Ballet Shoes is a festive delight that appeals to both children and adult alike.

My review of novel dinner for six

Dinner For Six
Dinner for Six by Lu Min unfolds every Saturday evening around a dinner table, where a makeshift family of six gathers amidst the lingering stench of factory smoke. The family comprises Su Qin, an elegant accountant and widow, her two children, Xiaolan and Xiaobai, and Ding Bogang, a laid-off laborer, a widower, with his daughter Zhenzhen and son Chenggong, a former child prodigy turned aimless youth. The atmosphere at these dinners is polite yet fraught with unease, as each character grapples with a mix of mistrust, curiosity, discomfort, and hope.
The fragile balance shatters when Su Qin abruptly ends her relationship with Ding. She senses a growing romantic interest between her studious and ambitious daughter, Xiaolan, and Chenggong, whose decision to forgo higher education has left him adrift.
Set in the residential compound of a state-owned factory, the story spans the 1990s and early 2000s—a period of rapid social and economic transformation in China. Narrated through the eyes of the six characters, the novel offers a kaleidoscope of perspectives, peeling back layers of their struggles, aspirations, and fractured relationships.
Dinner for Six is a poignant and intricately woven family saga that captures the bittersweet realities of China’s working class during an era of upheaval. Lu Min deftly balances irony with tenderness, painting a vivid portrait of individuals navigating societal shifts, personal grief, and the complexities of blended family dynamics. The characters feel authentic, and the intricate interplay among them is both compelling and deeply human.
The translators, Nicky Harman and Helen Wang, deserve particular praise for their skillful rendering of the text. The prose flows seamlessly, preserving the nuances of the original while making it accessible to English readers.
However, the novel is not without its flaws. The shifting perspectives, while an effective narrative device, occasionally falter. At times, the point of view shifts abruptly, disrupting the reader’s immersion. For instance, in the chapter narrated by Ding Bogang, the perspective suddenly shifts to Su Qin after their final sexual encounter: “Will you remember me?” she asks, only to immediately regret the question. The transition feels jarring and symptomatic of a broader tendency among Chinese authors to favor omniscient narration, a technique that, when not executed with precision, can feel awkward and disjointed.
Another example occurs in Chenggong’s chapter, where he is attacked by a mob of forcibly retired workers. Mid-scene, the perspective inexplicably shifts to Xiaolan, who feels his pain. Such moments are unnecessary and detract from the narrative’s cohesion.
Additionally, the novel’s second half loses some of its earlier momentum, with certain sections feeling redundant. A more rigorous edit could have tightened the pacing and sharpened the story’s impact.
Despite these shortcomings, Dinner for Six remains a compelling exploration of love, resilience, and the quiet endurance of ordinary people amidst rapid change. It is a testament to Lu Min’s ability to illuminate the complexities of human relationships in the face of social change.

My event on Jan. 15

Book Lovers in London:
I’ll be speaking at a Young China Watcher event on January 15th at Old China Hand. This free event is open to the public—come along if you’re interested!

YCW London Book Club: Lotus with Lijia Zhang Tickets, Wed, Jan 15, 2025 at 6:00 PM | Eventbrite

Meeting a Moroccan writer

Meeting a Moroccan Writer
Everywhere I travel, I seek out fellow writers, artists, and intellectuals—a pursuit far more enriching than any tourist site or museum. For me, the allure of interesting people eclipses even the most celebrated landmarks.
Yesterday afternoon, I had the privilege of meeting the renowned Moroccan writer Fouad Laroui, along with my American friends Emily and Stephen, for high tea at the elegant Les Jardins de la Koutoubia, a hotel stands in the shadow of Koutoubia Mosque. Fouad, an economist-turned-writer and public intellectual, is a literary powerhouse, with a staggering oeuvre of some forty books spanning fiction and nonfiction.
Our conversation unfolded with a richness that matched the setting. Fouad spoke with eloquence about the intricate tapestry of languages in Morocco: the coexistence of classical Arabic, Berber, Moroccan Arabic, French, and Spanish, and the cultural and religious tensions that ripple through this linguistic diversity. To my surprise, he revealed that he had not learned Arabic until the age of nineteen, when he was studying engineering in Paris. His education at a French school in Morocco and his upbringing in a Francophone household had insulated him from the language of his heritage.
In his book Le Drame Linguistique Marocain, Fouad delves into the fraught relationship between classical Arabic, the language of literature, and Darija, the dialect of everyday life. He lamented the absence of a robust literary tradition in Darija and the limited reach of classical Arabic, which many Moroccans neither read nor fully grasp. It struck me how language here is not merely a tool of communication but a crucible of identity, culture, and aspiration. There is so much I have yet to understand about this country and its complexities.
The setting itself was a feast for the senses. As we sipped our mint tea, the hotel staff bustled about, preparing for the New Year’s festivities. One man waded into the pool, stripped to his waist, to arrange floating candles.
The afternoon was a cool blend of intellectual stimulation and aesthetic delight.

New Year

I can’t imagine a more fitting way to bid farewell to the year—or to my Moroccan adventure. What began in Marrakech with my dear friends Emily and Stephen has come full circle, ending here in the company of this remarkable couple.
Last night, on New Year’s Eve, the three of us indulged in a fabulous celebration—a four-course Moroccan feast on the rooftop of a charming restaurant overlooking Jemaa el-Fnaa, the main square. The air buzzed with festivity as we savored each dish, our laughter mingling with the sounds of the square below. A bottle of champagne, joyfully but discreetly uncorked, flowed freely as we talked about life, travel and literature. What joy it was to share such moments!
Later, we ventured to a trendy rooftop bar near the Jewish quarter, on the far end of the Medina. The atmosphere was electric, with live music and performances marking the arrival of the new year.
Now, content and rejuvenated, I feel ready to embrace 2025 with open arms the adventures yet to come. My heartfelt thanks to Emily and Stephen.

Life-writing workshop

This morning, I ran a life-writing workshop in the office of our co-living hostel. The experience was both invigorating and deeply fulfilling. I began with an introduction—speaking about myself with ease, as I often do. To my delight, everyone else seemed equally comfortable, and what started as a simple preamble soon evolved into an open exchange of personal stories. People spoke candidly, revealing the challenges and complexities that had shaped their lives. The session stretched longer than anticipated, as the room filled with voices sharing vulnerability and resilience. One participant quipped that it felt more like group therapy than a writing workshop.
Midway through, I introduced a writing exercise: to recount a memorable Christmas. The responses were remarkable. A Welsh man, with a storyteller’s flair, painted a vivid picture of himself as a wide-eyed three-year-old, receiving unusually generous gifts from his working-class parents, who had stretched their meager means to make the day magical. As he read aloud, his voice faltered, overcome with emotion, and he paused to brush away tears. His story, like so many others shared that morning, was a poignant reminder of the power of memory and the written word.
The workshop ran over two hours—longer than planned—but I left with the hope that, in some small way, it had been meaningful for those who participated.

Changing attitudes towards marriage and motherhood

Here’s a link to an interview with a Polish publication about Chinese women’s changing attitude towards marriage and motherhood. You should be able to read it in English.https://weekend.gazeta.pl/weekend/7,177333,31527978,20-tys-dolarow-za-zone-w-niektorych-chinskich-prowincjach.html

Colonial gaze

Tangier, Paul Bowles, and The Sheltering Sky
Before traveling to a new country, I often immerse myself in its literature and cinema—a novel or two set in its landscapes, a film or two that captures its spirit. Nearly twenty years ago, before my first journey to Morocco, I read Paul Bowles’ The Sheltering Sky, first published in 1949 and a New York Times bestseller. I also watched the film adaptation.
The novel follows Port Moresby and his wife Kit, American travelers who venture deeper into the North African desert—a setting that grows increasingly hostile, mirroring the unraveling of their inner worlds. It is a story of alienation and existential despair, themes that resonated with me at the time. I remember being struck by the novel’s vivid descriptions of the harsh, unforgiving landscapes, which seemed to echo the characters’ turmoil.
Bowles settled in Tangier’s International Zone in 1947 and, apart from brief departures, spent the rest of his life here. He was a man who absorbed the rhythms of the place, its people, and its culture, even as he remained an outsider.
My friend Stephen, a fellow writer and headmaster of the American School in Marrakech, befriended Bowles in the 1990s, when the author was in his final years, but hadn’t lost his marbles. Their conversations inspired Stephen to write a short book titled In Search of Paul, a tribute to Bowles’ life and lingering influence.
Now, as I re-read The Sheltering Sky, I find myself less enamored. The local people in Bowles’ narrative are reduced to minor characters—often unkind, inscrutable, or merely tools to advance the Western protagonists’ story. Their voices are absent, their feelings left unspoken, as though they exist only as part of the landscape: exotic, unknowable, other. I cannot help but notice the colonial gaze.
And yet, I wonder: am I guilty of holding the past to the standards of the present? Perhaps. What do you think?