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Her-stories in Indonesian Dance Drama Kathy Foley This essay will focus on the female depiction in Southeast Asian traditional dance drama narratives, drawing its examples from primarily Indonesian forms, but arguing they are related to wider patterns in the classical dance dramas of the region. Gender and Genre Classical dance drama genres in Southeast Asia prior to the twentieth century included two major variants: all male and female troupes (with one or two male clowns sometimes added). Forms that were all male include wayang wong ('human' puppet-style theatre) in Java and Sunda (West Java); gambuh (a court genre telling stories of a prince of East Java), wayang wong (Ramayana masked performance), and calonargan (exorcistic story of a powerful witch) in Bali; lakhon nok (drama 'outside' [the palace]) and khon (aristocratic mask) dance theatre in Thailand; the corresponding lakhon khol (mask) genre in Cambodia, etc. These were traditionally all male genres and they presented the most important stories (local versions of the Ramayana, Mahbharata, or selected local tales). These male genres were—with the possible exception of gambuh and calonarang—related to and/or derived from the puppet genres in story, movement, and music.1 These male styles since at least the twentieth century have been performed by mixed-gender casts (both male and female), but the trace of their male roots may still remain. Stories tend to include greater focus on battle sequences (with men fighting over kidnapped wives, mystical power, or magic weapons) and deaths of kings. These stories, when associated with court ritual, were thought to enhance the power of the elite, especially when performers themselves were of noble blood or close retainers, which was often the case in courts. What is more, performance was often associated with festivals that honored the ruler.2 Forms that were done by female troupes included palace/aristocratic genres.3 These 'female' genres include forms like Javanese bedhaya and srimpi, which were traditionally performed by the consorts or female relatives of the ruler; the legong of Bali, done by young girls who were likely to be married to the members of the elite after pubescence and who danced in a style derived from the sanghyang dedari ('holy goddesses', young girls chosen to channel the divine in trance dances). Lakon nai (drama 'inside' the palace) was the dance of Thai palace ladies, while lakhon krabhac boran was the Khmer court equivalent. In Malaysia the major classical female dance drama was mak yong of Kelantan. These female genres ranged from dance shorter choreographies, which told no particular story but still had elements of character type (for example, refined princes and princesses), to dances with either an abstract or clear story. An example of abstract story in the iconic 'Legong Kerton' (Palace Female Dance) of Bali which references an episode from the Panji tales in which the King of Lasem bids his wife farewell, sees a bird of ill

omen, and is defeated in battle. However, one must know this plot well to know what is transpiring at any given moment since few costume changes indicate changes and their is no dialogue. In other performances, of course, full dance narratives would be mounted: for example, Javanese langandrian a sung dance drama which tells tales of Damar Wulan, a local hero who rises from stable boy to monarch, and which was developed by the Solonese prince Mangkunegoro IV (1853-1881). Another full narrative in the Thai lakon nai repertoire, featured stories from the Rama story (Ramakien) with the most important version in the refined klon verse written by Thailand's King Rama II (r. 1809–1824). The same ruler also wrote his version of the Javanese Panji cycle (called Inao in Thailand).4 Scenes, like the Mani Mekala episode in Cambodia (where a heavenly women beats out the demonic god of thunder for the diamond ball of lightening and brings rain) to full dance dramas on Reamker (Ramayana) themes, were part of the Khmer palace repertory. Episodes dramatized by the women might either deal with the same narrative as that of the men (for example, the Ramayana/Ramakien/Reamker is an important theme in Thailand/Cambodia for both male and female forms) but the choice of episodes might differ—kidnapped Sita/Sida languishing in the garden of the asoka tree rather than tales of monkeys in all-out war with demons. Ladies, married to a king (Menak Jingga) they did not love, might be helping out a handsome hero like Damar Wulan who could save them from their ogre-like husband. These episodes were popular parts of the women's repertoire in Central Java, as was the story of two princesses both in love with Amir Hamzah (a heroic uncle of the Prophet Mohammed) and fighting over who will get him (of course, they learn to share). In Kelantan (Malaysia) stories such as Dewa Muda, the story of a prince who climbs a kite string and falls in love with a beautiful princess whose family forbids their union is an important narrative: this tale is also used in the healing rituals of main putri ('playing the princess') when patients (often unhappy females) may be led through the role of Dewa Muda—a prince who suffers loves, dies, and resurrects. The female mak yong/main putri dancers lead this kind of indigenous drama therapy performance session. Panji, Damar Wulan, and other themes were popular tropes for 'female' forms in Java/Bali. Since the twentieth, as women have moved into the 'male' genres to play female and sometimes the refined male roles, we may see some attention to these stories of young lovers wandering in search of each other. Still these tales have generally not been looked at as the 'important' repertory which, I noted above, is more linked to male trauma. I suggest narratives favored in the female dance repertory display a female sensibility: the forms often featured delicate singing, ornate poetry (sometimes composed by the ruler or his surrogate), scenes of seduction wherein female desire was as likely to be at work as the male gaze. In sum, male genres give more space to rivalries (often highlighting disenfranchisement of noble rulers, killing ferocious demons/opponents, and dance battles in which local martial arts movement traditions (for example, pencak silat in the Indo-Malay world)

might be refigured into aesthetic dance. Female genres, by contrast, bend toward love and pathos, wherein heroines like Sita the wife of Rama may be warding off the unwanted advances of the demon King Rawana or defending herself against false accusations of infidelity and being pregnant by someone not her husband. While battles are part of the female genres, love affairs—between beautiful young people whose path to true love never does run smooth—are uniformly featured. Pure queens may be falsely accused (for example, Sita), the 'hussey' tempts the husband (for example, Sarpakanaka the sister of Rawana seducing Rama and his brother Laksmana), the newborn son does not meet the father's expectation (for example, Sang Thong in Thailand, where the mother gives birth to a snail and is banished—though in truth beneath that hard shell is a noble prince who is every mother's dream). These tales are women's stuff. The ideal male in these female dance dramas is a refined hero such as Rama (Ramayana) or Arjuna (Mahabharata). In both puppet and human versions, they must have slight bodies and speak in modulated tones. Such characters are, of course, easily presented with an all-female ensemble. Meanwhile beautiful ladies in these productions, crossed- dressed as men, are enticing to viewers—both male and female. Though some see the 'metrosexual' as a trope of modernity, in classical theatre and literature of Southeast Asia the androgynous s/he had been dancing for hundreds of years.5 Threatening imperial kings and ogre-fathers abound, but they merely form the 'obstacles' in the stories which lovers intrigues must and will overcome. The center of the story is the suffering heroine with a love-sick hero, and perhaps a spritely go-betweens—often clowns who were sometimes female but perhaps more often one or two males who could have ritual functions in palace ceremonies as in Central Java (see Sutterheim 1956). In the performance, clowns crack off-color jokes but, male or female, they know their task is to make sure lovers make the match. These court genres, male or female, were generally created for an ideologically male audience, although elite women were both performers and viewers. Additionally, more senior aristocratic females, including consorts were traditionally trainers and troupe leaders. Since Indonesian independence many of these training functions have shifted from aristocrats toward government arts academies, but, until recently, elite ladies might be the trainers. Thus, the ideal viewer or the author of the sung text might traditionally be male ruler, but the themes, as previously noted, were often sympathetic to female trials, frustrations, and dream—topics not essentially removed from contemporary romantic comedy tropes. I have linked male forms to political wrangling at the court level. When this male genre is moved back toward more local, village concerns, it can be linked to dealing with negative spirits and death rituals. For example, in Indonesian wayang a dalang (puppet master) was normally invited to do the besih desa (sweeping the village) to dissipate bad spirits/energy and honor ancestors. This male performer/genre was likewise associated with ruwatan (exorcistic performances) for those potentially threatened by negative forces (Foley 1982). By contrast, village level female arts, which include dance, poetry,

and comic banter between the sexes are correlated with rice, fertility, rain making, and good luck. In Indonesia, for example, pantun verses which accrue to the female singer/dancer have formal characteristics that are found in the light hearted rhyming of courting games between young males and females during village rice pounding and are linked to rice harvests—games of life, love, and the pursuit of prosperity (Foley 1989). There is a sexual division of performance labor at a village level: men get death and exorcism and women, ceremonies of life and birth. Thus, male genres with their traditionally all male cast are linked to puppet genres which themselves have historical links to rituals of safeguarding the community from negative forces of the spirit world. Arguably, from such plebian roots, mighty court arts grew. And at the same time, theatre efforts, in themselves could pragmatically help the monarch rule successfully: the male community was kept productively engaged in lauding the ideal prince-leader ( a new Rama/Arjuna) as the local ruler was seen as a living expression this heaven-sent hero. Such theatre activities kept male relatives and retainers of the ruler (in large families where an aristocrat might have many wives and dozens of offspring) busy. Putting on a show together is community building activity and diminishes time available for court intrigues, given demands for long practice in refining dance technique and a year or more of rehearsal or an individual performance (Kam 1987). Clifford Geertz in his 1980 book Negara on Bali coined the concept of 'theatre state', where performance ceremonies (including but not confined to actual theatre displays) were a political strategy whereby a ruler's cultural capital was both displayed and built. Geertz's idea regarding Bali has resonance with other areas of Southeast Asia. Putting on a good show in this area was important for a ruler and/or family. Of course, today, performances may no longer be traditional arts, but feature popular singers or comic presenters. But the same idea may still be at work. Three female types and sample stories While there are differences in the tone of the story (tragic/heroic male genres and romantic/pathetic female ones), the dancers traditionally were not defined by their biological sex but by their body type, movement, costume, and vocal contours in performance. Slight males/females were needed for most female roles as well as refined heroes. The character's gender was performed, not biologically determined by the body of the dancer. I will note the major female character types (which I see as refined and semi- refined) in Sunda (West Java) and add a discussion of the demonic female from Bali, as examples of major roles, but argue implications may extend to other Southeast Asian areas. For each type, sample stories will clarify how roles intertwined with character, framing female possibilities. Classical Southeast Asian dance drama forms generally have three female role types (refined, semi-refined, and ogress) in terms of movement and vocal parameters. Refined Female

The refined (lenyepan) female in Sundanese dance drama is associated with the slowest walk, the deepest plie, the most elaborate rotations of the wrists (ukel), and swivels of the head (godeg). Her diction is measured and her voice low and melodious. Her energy is largely re-circulated within her own kinesphere rather than moving beyond. Her eyes focus on the floor about one and a half body lengths in front of her. The character gives the impression of calm power and energy that is circling back into the self. She will not attack. Nothing—kidnapping, threats of violence, darkness of humanity—will cause her to move from graciousness that is her core. This female character, of course, has a male equivalent—the refined hero. I always tell my dance students the difference between male and female is about a foot and a three/quarters: refined men open their legs wider, while the refined female in her tightly wrapped skirt must keep her feet together in an alignment analogous to ballet's third position. The sample characters that I here relate to this lenyapan type are Sita and Sumbadra. Sita is the wife of Rama who fearlessly follows him into the forest when Rama is unjustly exiled by his father. Coveted and kidnapped by demonic King Rawana, Sita is ever pure and true. Her virtue is proven by a test of fire, but gossip persists. Banished and alone (for supposed adultery), she raises Rama's exemplary sons, Kusa and Lawa. For much of India and Southeast Asia, Sita is the ideal wife/mother/woman. In Indonesia, she is usually associated with Dewi Sri, the rice goddess. A corresponding character refined character in the Mahabharata is Sumbadra, the first wife of the iconic hero Arjuna. She is the sister of Kresna (an incarnation of the preserver god Wisnu [Vishnu]). Her second brother Baladewa wants her to marry into the powerful Kurawa clan (a hundred siblings known for their greed and injustice). But Sumbadra knows good when she sees it; she choses Arjuna, the hero of the Pandawa (five noble brothers who will win the "great" war [bharata yudha] against their evil Kurawa cousins). Sumbadra is a perfect wife and mother to her son Abhimanyu. Distraught after this son's death at the hands of his vicious Kurawa uncles, Sumbadra languishes. She, like Sita, is the perfect wife-mother. The refined character—Sita or Sumbadra—is danced with ultimate refinement. Whether the dancer is male or female, the body must be small and the energy relaxed and internal. Whatever the world throws at these women, they will never be thrown off balance and never raise their voices. While some of the lakon (plays) feature their wooings and weddings, the most performed episodes show them suffering: (Sita while kidnapped by Rawana or Sumbadra kidnapped and—temporarily— killed by the Kurawa henchman Burisrawa or morning her murdered son). This lenyapan type demands a technically perfect and subtle dancer, modulated voice, and ideal deportment. A true lenyapan lady can do no wrong. Semi-refined Female Semi-refined (ladak) women by contrast—while also svelte, beautiful, and smart—act up, act ou,t and sometimes make mistakes. They move faster in keupat 2 (a walk with a faster beat). They hold their head higher, looking straight ahead, and speak quickly on a

higher note than the refined type, (though as with refined characters, the ladak figure can be male or female). Indeed, some gender confusion adheres to this role. In dance gestures, ladak women spend more time doing the stylized movements that represent combing hair, adjusting earrings, putting on lipstick— showing their attachment to things of this world. They are flirtatious, daring and, unlike the refined female who is always inherently good, these women may be judged ambivalently. For example, Banowati, remains in love with Arjuna, the Pandawa hero, while married to Duryodhana, leader of the Kurawa, This is understandable—who would not prefer a handsome dreamboat over a coarse king? But, still, the affection is questionable. Sarpakanaka, the demon princess in the Ramayana who tries to win Rama away from Sita and later persuades brother Rawana that kidnapping Sita is a good idea, is an even more negative example. While Sapakanaka may sometimes be portrayed in her demonic body with an ugly face (in which case she is likely to be played by a male), she will more often be seen in dance dramas as having used her magic powers to transform into a ladak character when she tries to convince Rama and then his brother Laksmana to marry her. Of course, not all ladak characters are suspect like Banowati and Sarpakanaka. Srikandi and figures from the Panji cycle are positive, but they still more implicated in creating the story action than leyanpan ladies, who generally have things done to them. Ladak women do. Srikandi in Indian versions of the Mahabharata is a woman who turns into a man. By contrast, in Java she is all female, but a woman with male bravado and fighting skills. She learns archery from Arjuna and then becomes a co-wife with Sumbadra. At the time of the bharata yudha or great war with the Kurawa, none of the Pandawa heroes are strong to defend against the Kurawa general Bisma. Srikandi—who at the time of her birth was a reincarnation of Amba, a woman Bisma wronged—takes to the battlefield and eliminates him. In more everyday stories, Srikandi may complain Arjuna has been gone from their Princedom of Mandukara for too long and she talks Sumbadra into dressing as men to search for him. Sumbadra of course makes a girlish man, but Srikandi puts up a good fight: even Arjuna has trouble figuring out who s/he is until Kresna's magic cakra (discus) hits Srikandi, revealing her identity. In the Panji stories, women also portray this ladak character type, and, interestingly, the pattern of refined ladies transformed as men repeats. When temporarily jilted by a betrothed, seeking a missing sibling, or threatened by an unwanted marriage proposal, women in the Panji stories disguise themselves as men or, alternatively, sometimes the god Narada will effect an actual—if temporary— sex change. Females become males. The standard couples (most importantly, Prince Panji and his betrothed, Princess Candra Kirana; but also, Panji's sister [Ragil Kuning] and Candra Kirana's brother [Gunung Sari]) tend to fall in love with their missing partners—but often while the women are temporarily males. This has everyone confused and, therefore, makes for exciting theatre. Scholars and artist-activists have pointed out the gender bending nature of this repertory (Emigh and Hunt quoted in Diamond 2012: 109). The loose frame of beautiful young people in love, wandering the world in search of their beloveds but failing to recognize

them when they meeting, parallels gender confusion in the Orlando Furioso or Shakespearean plays. In mask dance of Java, which is often associated with these Panji stories, some of this gender confusion goes deep. The Pamindo (Second) character in the Cirebon topeng (mask dance) is usually thought of as a female, but the mask itself is often named Samba (a son of Kresna [Krishna]) and also analogous to Gunung Sari (the brother Princess Candra Kirana and a female-ish male). The interest of many of these stories and this character type is its gender slippage—male and female seem co-present. When dance troupes were all male, of course, having a woman who disguises as male works to the advantage of the young male dancer. But, perhaps even more the Panji story seems to have been of interest to palace women. Perhaps for women somewhat restricted in their movement and unable to seek a lover in disguise or punish a mate by disappearing when he took up with another, these stories of forthright women had appeal. With the demise of all female troupes in the twentieth century, the need for and perhaps appeal of Panji stories in Southeast Asia has faded. However, the ladak characters, male- ish females or female-ish males, of course, remain. Indonesian women choreographers of the 1970-80s often featured ladak women. In West Java Irawati Durban Arjo's dances like Jayeng Renggana (Brave Elaborations) showed strong female-warrior, tossing the long dance scarf (a feature of warrior dances) over their head with hand or a kick of the toe/foot. This repertoire of strong women, however, is since the 1990s somewhat in retreat, as the Islamic revival has promoted veiling in Muslim West Java and more feminized female representations advance. None-the-less, in Bali, Panji Semirang (Princess Candra Kirana as Prince Semirang, lord of Bali) is still going strong: it represents Candra Kirana at war with her beloved Panji. Of course not all ladak characters, male or female narratively go through gender changes/disguises. But in almost all stories, I contend these more androgynous women are more narratively dynamic than the perfect lenyapan ladies. The popularity of the stories that include such characters, for palace women, probably came from the more complex and strenuous dance movements they invited, the greater opportunity to use improvisational skills on stage, and the comedy possibilities. I suspect the narrative interest of heroines, seeking their own fates/lovers, might have made these stories/characters particularly appealing to women whose palace protocol until the twentieth century meant they were minor wives with other co-spouses. One imagines it was fun to play at getting out of the palace and fighting a battle where you could trounce and seduce your own destined mate. Demonic Female The final female role type is the ogress: Sarpakanaka the demoness of the Ramayana in her demonic form participates in this category, as does Permoni (Durga) who appears in various Mahabharata episodes, including the ruwatan ('making safe') performances. In Bali, of course, this character is seen most explosively presented in the calonarang dance drama. There she wears the sacred mask of Rangda (Widow-Witch) and represents the

angry mother of the beautiful Ratna Menggali, a girl whose hand in marriage is scorned, since what man wants a widow-witch for his mother-in -law? In terms of movement the demonic female characters (which I have rarely seen in West Java in dance dramas, but who do appear in puppet shows) walk in the same rhythm (kepat 2) as ladak characters. The voice is has more screeches and scale glides, but is still related to the fast and high-pitched tone of the ladak character. While the puppet iconography has pendulous breasts, a protruding nose, and criss-crossed-eyes (which connote meditation/sacred power), no female in West Java normally appears in such an outfit. In the Ramayana, Sapakanaka merely appears in her ladak disguise—the beautiful version but not the demon—and, in relatively circumspect way, she is rejected by Rama and Laksmana before the latter raises his kris against her. She raises her scarf (soder) to cover her face, letting us know her nose is sliced, and vanishes. Seeing the actual demon is elided, since we only see her as the beautiful. By contrast, calonarang in Bali presents the full female demonic. But here widow-witch Rangda/Calonarang/Durga—dressed as an old woman and later the monster, is played by a man. Only a male is considered powerful enough to portray her. Infuriated that her daughter is being passed over by suitors, Rangda sends her students (who since the mid twentieth century have been played by young girls, dancing in female semi-refined style) to wreak havoc. They leave the stage and are replaced by the leyak (witches) with fangs, shaggy hair, long claws, dancing. They represent females but are played by males in strong male style who steal a doll representing a still born child, and try to grab children from the audience. Laughter and screams fill the air. One of the leyaks, Celuluk, is a nymphomaniac and creeps up on sleeping village men who fondle her until their eyes open and they realize she is a leyak. Minister Bhardah arrives to defeat the widow witch and Rangda, with pendulous breasts, her magic mask, long nails, scarf with magic imagery, and billowing hair, will face off against Barong (the leonine incarnation of protective powers/Wisnu [Vishnu]). Groups of young men (kris dancers) bemused by the witch Rangda go into trance and start stabbing themselves. The village priest will weave in and out of this chaotic playing space set by the village death temple, bringing the kris dancers or other participants out of trance. The holy water is blessed when the beard of the 'male' Barong is dipped into the water. Positive male power trump's and contains (but does not end) the negative female power of the witch. Men onstage playing a female demon of course can be scary and salacious, making the scenes funny, fun, and dangerous. An actual woman yelling and 'coming on' to a man has shock value, but scares rather than empower male viewers. The body of this demonic female Rangda is larger than a normal human's, her breasts bigger, her spiritual power devouring. Though post-menopausal women potentially have some of the characteristics of the character (drooping breasts and perhaps openness to address sexual issues), they still lack the musculature and, people say, the spiritual power to wear the mask of Rangda (heavy both in physical weight and magic potential). To show the inner nature and sexual

power of the demonic female, who has both comic and terrifying dimensions, a male performer is a better. In the same way that female impersonator in the West often cultivates clothing, words, actions that out-female any females, this 'she' has little to do with an actual woman. She is a male imaginary. Conclusion In this final section I discuss two issues; first, some of the possible sources of the refined and androgynous categories which I link with earlier trance forms. Then, I will very briefly note how contemporary women are rethinking some of the female roles and what this might mean for her story. Sources In an earlier paper on performance in West Java, I contrasted the power of the dalang (puppet-master/narrator) and that of the dancer-actor. I noted the dalang is usually sitting somewhere in the orchestra and tapping the metal plates with patterns that correspond to the drum signals and sometimes doing all the dialogue while the dancer just mimes and argued the dalang holds more agency. The empowered narrator goes back to puppetry, of course, but also beyond that to trance performances, which while today vestigial, traditionally prevailed in many regions of Southeast Asia (Foley 1985). In these trance forms, as in puppetry, someone who is running the performance from the orchestra exerts the power controlling the performance. This person will often be called the dalang in Indonesia: he (usually not a she) might play the drums/metal plates/rebab (bowed lute), say the mantra, bring the performers in conventionalized ways into and out of trance by blowing on their forehead or sprinkling them with holy water. Forms like sintren/lais in Java, sanghyang, in Bali, main putri in Kelantan (Malaysia) and perhaps even phi (spirit) dances in Thailand/Laos, and natkadaw (spirit medium) dances in Burma may be related. The dancers in trance forms are often chosen for appropriate body type. Small bodies— females or slight, adolescent males—will be guided toward refined and floating trance manifestations as in Java's sintren (a girls trance game) or lais (a male version of the same), in which the trance dancer releases her/himself from bonds and puts on a costume of a' heavenly goddess' while trapped under a small cage, then dances with floating and somnambulant movements. This goddess dances in a style that reminds of the refined lenyapan dancer. Sintren forms traditionally have another interlude where the trance dancer goes back in the cage and redresses as the opposite gender: this section partakes of more spritely movement. The trance dancer might then actually dance with an audience member of the same or opposite sex. The behavior might remind of ladak figures. In the end of the performance, of course. the dancer returns to her/his normative gender. These trance forms are currently games that are associated with bringing, rain, luck, foretelling marriage partners and so on.

By contrast, larger male bodies will normally appear in heavier duty and more exciting trance forms with jumps and screams. For example, in Balinese sanghyang jaran (holy horse dance) and Javanese kuda kepang (woven bamboo horse dance)—males go into trance while riding hobby horses and become possessed 'horses' who do all kinds of antics including eating glass and walking on fiery coals. The calonarang performance via both its witch figures and kris dancers has traits of this more aggressive model associated with adult male trance dancers. These male trance dances tends to have a protective function—safeguarding against black magic, freeing the community from evil spirits, and responding to threats. For example, after the Bali Bomb set off by Islamic fundamentalist in 2002, exorcisms via calonarang performances were rather widespread in hopes that tourism, so vital to the economy, might return soon. Such village trance forms may have set the stage for the much more refined and elaborated palace genres, creating three significant types. High palace women if beautiful, young, refined, will be the correct body (puppet, if you will) for the ideal lenyapan. They dance, suffer, mother, and do not talk back. They are important in life and fiction, but rarely take control the story. They know tears, endure, and gain respect. Melodrama is her story. Women who were were spritely, forthright, and skill in improvisation might slide into the second role type and might allow a kind of drama therapy. Perhaps one cannot chose ones own marriage partner or firmly hold a spouse who is expected to marry other co-wives. One will probably not lead an army in real life: but on the stage all these things are/were possible. Stories such as Panji and Damar Wulan like contemporary romantic comedy have some travail, but the heroines take some action and laugh their way through, then revert to the good wife at the end. Comedy is her story. Demon roles were too powerful and in opposition to the fertility and good luck functions that women appropriately controlled. Men in masks could put on the hanging breasts, fangs, and the perceived spiritual power of such figures. The social liability of playing this character would slide off a male back—it allowed him to show spiritual potency by taking on the negative female role. Women often would not take this risk.

And yet a kind of irony inheres. His story tends to be the 'important stuff' of tragedy— politics, war, death and destruction. Her story may the leyapan's melodrama or the ladak's cross-dressed comedy. She gets life, luck, and children. But when the stakes gets high (as with Rangda) the woman disappears. Her stories are, by a sexual division of labor, 'lightweight.' When a women rises to tragic dimensions she has become a man. Contemporary Rethinking Of course we live in a contemporary moment. Many Southeast Asian artists both male and female question traditional narratives.7

I will choose tow examples from Bali where the calonarang narrative has been addressed in different ways. One I will call surrogacy, since the role of the Rangda has been danced not by a local but a foreigner. The other form I will call reenvisioning, where the character has been borrowed from the tradition but the interpretation has changed. In the first instance, a troupe under Luh Nyi Desak Nyoman Suwarti a noted artist, did an version of Calonarang in the early 2000s. To avoid problems that might be inherent in the full normative trance dance version where kris dancers stab themselves and often attack Rangda, measures were taken. Long time Balinese resident and American dancer-scholar Rucina Ballinger (who married into a princely family in Peliatan, Bali) danced the Rangda role with a mostly Balinese cast. Western women are of course already considered masculine in their behaviors and given latitude by locals beyond Balinese women This calongang was a step, but, perhaps a larger western woman dancing Rangda, in the eyes of the Balinese audience, is not quite the same as an ordinary woman attempting the role. A foreigner is already half a man. Writer-theatre artist Cok Sawitri and choreographer Bulan Trisna Jelantik may have moved the goal posts further. Cok Sawitri in her novel (2007) and solo women performances (see Diamond 2012: 108-111) envisioned Calonarang as a powerful witch, but one who is performing white- not traditions black-magic. Rangda's kingdom, in Cok Sawitri's version, is a Shangri-la where liberty, equality, and justice are universal. The patriarchy that surrounds her, therefore demands the destruction of this powerful woman who poses a threat to the 'male' Darwinian world. Cok Sawitri did this as a one women modern drama poetry performance pieces Pembelaan Dirah (In Defense of Dirah [Rangda's kingdom],1990), Namaku Dirah (My name is Dirah, l992), Kawean (Clearly Seen, 1999), and Badan Bahagia (Joyful Body, 2004). These pieces simultaneously critiqued the political situation of the late Suharto era and the government's suppression of Megawati Sukarnoputri's party. Megawati, of course would eventually become the first woman president of the country. Cok Sawitri's status as a Balinese woman of noble blood means she has the status and power to take on this potent character in readings and performance art. Her treatment, of course, removed the piece from its normal context. The performance was not at a death temple or in the graveyard. There is no consecrated mask endowed with taksu (divine energy/power) which is usually a hallmark of a Rangda mask. No one went into trance. The performance is in the safe confines of a contemporary secular theatre and the event not a reaction to a current local problem. Instead the interpretation is a contemporary writer-performer calling out of sexism she sees in the story and resultant impacts on female identity. This was an educated Balinese women performer remaking the calonarang story. Bulantrisna Jelantik, another member of the Balinese royalty, who teaches and choreographs in Jakarta in 2014 created a dance drama, inspired by Cok Sawitri's interpretations. Again the stage was a secular venue. This was in the Indonesian capital and the dancers were young urban Indonesians of Balinese and mixed Indonesian ethnicity presenting a concert. There was nothing to do with ritual or trance. Rangda, in this dance interpretation, was not the entranced male, jumping jerkily and threatening. There was none of the flailing and young males trying to stab themselves with knives. However, there was a new character dancing: an older woman versed in Siva-based

tantric thought. In the experiments of Cok Sawitri and Bulantrisna Jelantik, we see an attempt to push out the parameters of the female character and enlarge her story. Notes 1. For example, see discussion of the relation of Javanese wayang wong to wayang kulit (leather puppetry) (Soedarsono 1990, p. 1 ff). For Thai khon masking in relation to nang yai (large leather puppetry) see Dhaninivat (1975). When no puppet genre is a clear antecedent (as with Balinese gambuh and calonarang) puppet/mask forms may still be linked: gambuh is said to have come to Bali from Java and tells Panji tales, most heavily associated with puppet/mask theatre in Java. Calonarang uses body puppet for a lion figure (barong) and a mask of for Durga as widow-witch. This drama, believed to have become prominent in the nineteenth century, can also be done with wayang puppets and called wayang calonarang. It is not fully clear that this puppetry came first but may be more ritually potent (see Sumandhi 1979). Puppetry and masking are linked arts in the region. Due to lack of space, I will not in this chapter delve in detail into Laos, Burma which may have analogous forms, nor Vietnam or the Philippines which have different trajectories or the many archipelagic societies, which without such developed hierarchies lacked court theatre forms. My comments work best for countries where India culture had some impact on indigenous patterns, creating highly stratified societies where cults of the monarch as a sacred ruler developed. 2. See Holt's descriptions of dance drama in the central Javanese courts in the period leading us to WWII (1967: 155-166) as well as Soedarsono (1990: 90-108). Performances might coincide with anniversary of a coronation or other event. The preference of Javanese for Mahabharata tales is sometimes thought to derive from significance of the theme to local politics that meant relatives fighting. A house tragically divided against itself often reflected Javanese court life in the colonial period. For Thailand, see Rutnin (1993): there strong identification of the Thai ruler with Rama (Narai/Vihnsu) and praise of loyal siblings with the character of Rama's brother Laksmana was positive propaganda for the Chakri dynasty (all rulers from 1782 to the present take the name Rama on accession to the throne). The loyal sibling as helper supports the practice of the second king (usually a sibling/relative of the ruler) who takes on many practical functions of governing, while the first king maintains ritual/sacred supremacy. On Balinese forms see Bandem and deBoer (1981: 29-49 on gambuh court form telling Panji stories; 65-75 on wayang wong mask genre telling Ramayana; and 131-143 on calonarang, which tells of a widow-witch of East Java which will be discussed later in the article). 3. Due to space limitations, this discussion will focus on these court forms—for some discussion of courtesan traditions (ronggeng in the Indo-Malay region) see (Foley 2015). Additionally, here I will not here discuss the clown roles or their functions but note that traditionally clowns were usually played by men and other these clowns had ritual or shamanic dimensions.

4. For the relation of Javanese Panji and the Thai Inao see Robson (1996: 40) who notes: "the spirit of the stories is an optimistic, world affirming one, expressing and enjoyment of the arts, the love of beautiful ladies, valor in battle, fine clothes, and precious ornaments." Robeson traces borrowing to the Malay region of Southern Thailand (Patani) and notes the Dalang (an earlier version of the Panji story) is credited to Kuntol and Mongkut, two daughters of King Bokomakos (1732-1758) who reportedly heard the tale from their Malay maids (p. 44). 5. Piayura (2013) notes the male hero in Thai classical literature has characteristics that anticipate the modern metrosexual ideal. 6. I acknowledge that there are roles of evil queens and even ogresses that disguise themselves as beautiful ladies (Panji's mother for example orders Panji's commoner wife Angraeni killed; Sapakanaka for course pursues Rama and Laksmana, and Malay and Thai stories often have ogresses who conceive a love for the hero and may disguise themselves as the truly refined queens. My point is such scenes/characters are deemphasized or often played by males. 7. For Thai examples see Diamand (2012: 37-40) who discusses some reinterpretation of traditional characters by contemporary Thai choreographers, such as Pornrat Damrhung and Pinchet Kluncheun's Overcoming Fire (Lui Fai, 2000) in which they staged the scene from the Ramakien where Sida rather enter the flames for the Trial by Fire pauses. Diamond notes that Sida as 'ideal wife no longer serves for Bangkok's educated audience' (p. 38). Bibliography Bandem, I M. and F. deBoer. (1981). Kaja and Kelod: Balinese Dance in Transition. (Kuala Lumpur: Oxford Univ. Press). Dhaninivat, H. H. [Prince]. (1975). 'Shadow Play as a Possible Origin of the Masked Play'. In Siamese Theatre: Collection of Reprints from the Siam Society, ed. by Mattani Rutnin, 117-120. (Bangkok: Siam Society). Diamond, C. (2012). Communities of the Imagination:Contemporary Southeast Asian Theatres. (Honolulu: University of Hawai'i Press). Foley, K. (1982). 'Of Dalang and Dukun - Spirits and Men: Curing and Performance in the Wayang of West Java.' Asian Theatre Journal 1, 1: 52-75 ______. (1982). 'Dancer and the Danced: Trance Dance and Theatrical Performance in West Java.' Asian Theatre Journal 2, 1: 28-49

_____. (1989) 'Of Gender and Dance in Southeast Asia: From Goddess to Go-Go Girl.' Progress and Possibilities CORD 20th Anniversary. ______. (2015). “The Ronggeng, the Wayang, the Wali, and Islam: Female or Transvestite Male Dancers-Singers-Performers and Evolving Islam in West Java.” Women in Asian Theatre [special issue]. Asian Theatre Journal 32, 2: 356-387 Geertz, C. 1980. Negara: The Theatre State in 19th Century Bali. (Princeton; Princeton University Press). Holt, C. 1969. Art in Indonesia; Continuities and Change. (Ithaca: Cornell University Press). Kam, G. (1987). 'Wayang Wong in the Court of Yogyakarta: The Enduring Significance of Javanese Dance Drama.' Asian Theatre Journal 4, 1: 29-51. Piayura, P. (2013)."Metrosexual Men in Thai Classical Literature" International Journal of Social Sciences and Humanity 3, 3 [http://www.ijssh.org/papers/231-CH030.pdf, accessed 11 Sept 2017]. Sawiti, C. (2007). Widow of Jiah; A Historical Legend, trans by Suliatri Boentaran (Jakarta: Gramedia Pustaka Utama). Robeson, S. "Panji and Inao: Questions of Cultural and Textual History". Journal of the Siam Society 84, no 2: 39-53. Soedarsono, R. M. (1990). Wayang Wong. (Yogyakarta: Gajah Mada University). Rutnin, M. (1993). Dance, Drama, Theatre in Thailand: The Process of Development and Modernization. (Chaing Mai: Silkworm). Sumandhi, I N. (1979)A Performance of Wayang Kulit Calonarang (A Genre of Balinese Shadow Puppet Theater). MA, Wesleyan University. Sutterheim, W. (1956). " A Thousand Year Old Profession in the Princely Courts on Java." In Studies in Indonesian Archeology, 91-103 (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff). [https://link.springer.com/chapter/10.1007/978-94-017-5987-8_3, accessed 15 Sept. 2017]