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Zhou Libo-mania puts a smile on city's face
By Ni Tao |
August 13, 2009, Thursday
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Print Edition
Print Edition
DANCING to the theme tune of a landmark TV series of the 1980s, he emerges through swirls of artificial mist from behind a door that slowly swings open.
Sporting slicked-back hair, clad in a sharp black suit - a look typical of preening dandies in the 1930s, he does his share of imitating the dashing hero Hsu Wen-Chiang in the half bodice ripper, half gangster series "Once upon a time in Shanghai."
Walking in exuberant strides that exude bonhomie, he cuts a handsome figure that belies his stubby shape.
When he appears on stage, the audience breaks into effusive applause that echoes through a packed Majestic Theater. He reciprocates, by bending over practically ninety degrees to the audience before starting his show.
Zhou Libo, until recently an obscure comedian, has risen through the theatrical ranks in a career arc so steep that fills his peers with probably as much vertigo as envy. His brand of Shanghai-style stand-up comedy has become the talk of the town, as trendy as LV bags and haute couture, with many of his catchphrases seeping into street lingo.
Zhou's performance owes its appeal partly to his steady grasp of Shanghai's history. His anecdotes about being chastised as an urchin for tucking into spoonfuls of malt milk powder - back then only a luxurious few households could consume that without scrimping on the amount - come easily to a crowd that has lived through this particular era of austerity.
He mimicked to perfection the manners of Dang Zang Mu Zi, or scalpers of smuggled goods, who roamed the city's streets in the 1980s: Creepy eyes darting around, wary of police presence; hands casually and constantly lodged in pockets; scampering without bending the knees; speaking in a way that verged on stammering, with words sometimes tumbling over one another; and when not on the move, they assumed their signature stance, bouncing on tiptoes, as if to dispel fits of boredom - a motion akin to that of a working pile driver, from which they derived their moniker.
What differentiates Zhou from other comedians in his genre is his penchant for commenting on the news. He draws as much on news events as on personal observation as a source of inspiration. The habit of reading 14 newspapers every day has stayed with him for years, as he once told the Southern People Weekly magazine.
Unlike those who came before him in this profession, Zhou's hallmark as a blunt speaker who seldom tiptoes around sensitive social issues is something of an aberration. That doesn't mean, however, that interminable harangue is all he has to offer. Nor are his seemingly irreverent remarks about public figures necessarily driven by malicious intent.
That Zhou's wit and humor are occasionally barbed and sarcastic, and his tone shrill and strident in the heavy manner of a lampoonist, is bound to ruffle a few feathers. Despite his pretence of trying to straddle the cultural rifts that exist between the Shanghainese and the "provincial" Chinese, he's actually highlighting - if not deliberately widening - them through the comparisons of Shanghai's "civilized and polished denizens" and their "rustic and uncouth brethren"; of "a people who sip coffee and exhale whiffs of aroma" and "a multitude of garlic-smelling mouths to deodorize"; of "cohorts of gentlemen who pride themselves on respecting their spouses" and "macho husbands who deride 'hen-peckedness' and delight in beating up their wives to show impeccable masculinity."
Glib jester
Stark comparisons, indeed. But also annoying, as they are disturbingly holier-than-thou, although I have to concede that Zhou's demeanor is much less objectionable than that of a certain transvestite dressed in a loud Scottish kilt, giving coarse "masculinity" a rancid taste.
By betraying an irritating swagger, Zhou has laid himself - together with a people he supposedly speaks for - open to more acrimony.
He appears unruffled and unapologetic nonetheless. Why shouldn't he? After all, it is only to be expected that a glib jester like him would attract a huge following and in the meantime get readily dismissed by his detractors as a theatrical bete noire.
So all this watching, worshipping, imitating and rooting for Zhou goes well beyond mere new-found interest in the renewal of a time-honored art form. It is literally an act of defiance, a way of thumbing one's Shanghainese nose at the bigotry directed at him.
Open displays of such feelings used to be confined to small circles. Now they are given full vent in the soccer stadium where hisses and boos by local fans at visiting teams go hand in hand with collective chanting of Ne Yi Zu Te (Have him disposed of), one of Zhou's punchlines redolent of some Green Gang honchos overrunning Shanghai before its liberation in 1949.
Moreover, this "Zhou Libo-mania" is a cultural manifesto, proclaiming, via the sturdy symbol of resilience Zhou has come to represent, that Shanghai's culture remains quintessentially the way it was: at once eclectic and nativistic, inclusive and exclusive after enduring the onslaught of numerous cultural fads.
Having such a feisty person unfailingly stir up Shanghai's drowsy theatrical landscape is a spectacle to behold.
Sporting slicked-back hair, clad in a sharp black suit - a look typical of preening dandies in the 1930s, he does his share of imitating the dashing hero Hsu Wen-Chiang in the half bodice ripper, half gangster series "Once upon a time in Shanghai."
Walking in exuberant strides that exude bonhomie, he cuts a handsome figure that belies his stubby shape.
When he appears on stage, the audience breaks into effusive applause that echoes through a packed Majestic Theater. He reciprocates, by bending over practically ninety degrees to the audience before starting his show.
Zhou Libo, until recently an obscure comedian, has risen through the theatrical ranks in a career arc so steep that fills his peers with probably as much vertigo as envy. His brand of Shanghai-style stand-up comedy has become the talk of the town, as trendy as LV bags and haute couture, with many of his catchphrases seeping into street lingo.
Zhou's performance owes its appeal partly to his steady grasp of Shanghai's history. His anecdotes about being chastised as an urchin for tucking into spoonfuls of malt milk powder - back then only a luxurious few households could consume that without scrimping on the amount - come easily to a crowd that has lived through this particular era of austerity.
He mimicked to perfection the manners of Dang Zang Mu Zi, or scalpers of smuggled goods, who roamed the city's streets in the 1980s: Creepy eyes darting around, wary of police presence; hands casually and constantly lodged in pockets; scampering without bending the knees; speaking in a way that verged on stammering, with words sometimes tumbling over one another; and when not on the move, they assumed their signature stance, bouncing on tiptoes, as if to dispel fits of boredom - a motion akin to that of a working pile driver, from which they derived their moniker.
What differentiates Zhou from other comedians in his genre is his penchant for commenting on the news. He draws as much on news events as on personal observation as a source of inspiration. The habit of reading 14 newspapers every day has stayed with him for years, as he once told the Southern People Weekly magazine.
Unlike those who came before him in this profession, Zhou's hallmark as a blunt speaker who seldom tiptoes around sensitive social issues is something of an aberration. That doesn't mean, however, that interminable harangue is all he has to offer. Nor are his seemingly irreverent remarks about public figures necessarily driven by malicious intent.
That Zhou's wit and humor are occasionally barbed and sarcastic, and his tone shrill and strident in the heavy manner of a lampoonist, is bound to ruffle a few feathers. Despite his pretence of trying to straddle the cultural rifts that exist between the Shanghainese and the "provincial" Chinese, he's actually highlighting - if not deliberately widening - them through the comparisons of Shanghai's "civilized and polished denizens" and their "rustic and uncouth brethren"; of "a people who sip coffee and exhale whiffs of aroma" and "a multitude of garlic-smelling mouths to deodorize"; of "cohorts of gentlemen who pride themselves on respecting their spouses" and "macho husbands who deride 'hen-peckedness' and delight in beating up their wives to show impeccable masculinity."
Glib jester
Stark comparisons, indeed. But also annoying, as they are disturbingly holier-than-thou, although I have to concede that Zhou's demeanor is much less objectionable than that of a certain transvestite dressed in a loud Scottish kilt, giving coarse "masculinity" a rancid taste.
By betraying an irritating swagger, Zhou has laid himself - together with a people he supposedly speaks for - open to more acrimony.
He appears unruffled and unapologetic nonetheless. Why shouldn't he? After all, it is only to be expected that a glib jester like him would attract a huge following and in the meantime get readily dismissed by his detractors as a theatrical bete noire.
So all this watching, worshipping, imitating and rooting for Zhou goes well beyond mere new-found interest in the renewal of a time-honored art form. It is literally an act of defiance, a way of thumbing one's Shanghainese nose at the bigotry directed at him.
Open displays of such feelings used to be confined to small circles. Now they are given full vent in the soccer stadium where hisses and boos by local fans at visiting teams go hand in hand with collective chanting of Ne Yi Zu Te (Have him disposed of), one of Zhou's punchlines redolent of some Green Gang honchos overrunning Shanghai before its liberation in 1949.
Moreover, this "Zhou Libo-mania" is a cultural manifesto, proclaiming, via the sturdy symbol of resilience Zhou has come to represent, that Shanghai's culture remains quintessentially the way it was: at once eclectic and nativistic, inclusive and exclusive after enduring the onslaught of numerous cultural fads.
Having such a feisty person unfailingly stir up Shanghai's drowsy theatrical landscape is a spectacle to behold.
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