Dance and drama are not a mere cliche. Music, dance and drama are all closely related in Bali; in fact drama and dance are synonymous. Dance and drama have historically played an important role in Balinese society. They are the main art form of Balinese Culture. Through these mediums, people learnt about the tales of the Ramayana, Mahabrata and other epic stories from Balinese history. Although traditional dramas cover a wide variety of themes, the most popular are stories taken from the Mahabarata. Kept and taught in the village, halls and palaces, dance and drama are performed at the main temple festivals and ceremonies of the cycle of life and death.

As Commonly known, dance is identical with art of body movement which specifically shows the artistic mission for other people in the great event. Sometimes it may happen on the drama’s activity. Anyway, ‘Drama’ has it’s own characteristics that store the daily of humans’ life and their environment by speak also supported by body movement. As dance, it has own mision to expose or even critic the real life of humanity. Such, tightly of governments’ roles, the power syndrome, the upper class, until humbler people. By the way, have you familiar with barong, kecak, legong dance or Drama Gong, and still many ? What and how are they ? The pleasure one will be on us if can be inform to you all ! Let’s check it up !

Tourists Attractions
The most important thing about Balinese dances, however, is that they’re fun and accessible. Balinese dances are not hard to find; there are dances virtually every night at all the tourist centers. The dances for tourist, now presented in hotels and specialized in stages, are but a small part of the dance scene, and most of the dancers anyway originate from village groups.

If you have any more than a passing interest in the traditional dance and music of Bali, then you should head for Ubud, where up to five different performances are staged every night of the week for the benefit of tourists. Ubud and its neighboring villages have long had a reputation for their superb dance troupes and gamelan orchestras, and villagers now supplement their incomes by doing regular shows in the traditional settings of temple courtyards and village compounds. None of these shows is exactly authentic, as most comprise a medley of extracts and highlights from the more dramatic temple dances, but the quality is generally high and spectators are given English-language synopses to help them fathom out what everything means. Ubud’s performers have by far the largest repertoire of dances, but you’ll also see reputable shows in Denpasar.

Less taxing performances are put on for dinners at numerous Sanur restaurants and in Nusa Dua. If you go to an Ubud or Denpasar show, expect to pay Rp5.000-6000, though be warned that tours to the same events booked through agents in Kuta and Sanur will cost around Rp20.000, including return transport. Whatever show you attend, you might want to take a cushion and mosquito repellent, and it’s generally worth turning up early as there are no seat reservations. If you’re keen to see wholly authentic performances, then you’ll need to find out about imminent temple festivals, and, if you can’t get to the festival itself, at least hang around at the rehearsals. Most rehearsals take place in the local banjar after sundown and you’ll probably be welcome to watch so long as you don’t distract the players. (See Dance Performances Schedule)

History of Balinese Dance
After the Majapahit warriors subdued Bali in the 14th century, Javanese mini-principalities and courts soon appeared everywhere, creating that unique blend of court and peasant culture, which is Bali – highly sophisticated, dynamic and lively. The accompanying narrative for dance and drama is to a large extent based on court stories from pre-Majapahit Java. Even the Indian epics, another favorite of the stage, especially the wayang, use Javanese, complete with long quotes from the ancient Javanese Kakawin poetry. So Javanese culture, which disappeared from Java following Islamization in the 16th century, still survived in Bali in a Balinese form, which became classical Balinese culture.

However, colonization brought about the fall of classical Bali. With the rural courts defeated and with new lords of the land, the center of creativity shifted to village associations, and to the development of tourism. The 30′s and 50′s were particularly fertile decades; while the old narrative-led theater survived, lively solo dances appeared everywhere, accompanied by a new, dynamic kind of music called gong kebyar. This trend continued in the 60′s and 70′s with the creation of colossal sendratari ballets, representing ancient Indian and Javanese stories adapted to the needs of modern audiences.

Dance and Religion
Balinese dance is inseparable from religion. A small offering of food and flowers must precede even dances for tourists. Before performing many dancers pray at their family shrines, appealing for holy “taksu” (inspiration) from the gods.

In this rural tradition, the people say that peace and harmony depend on protection by the gods and ancestors. Dance in this context may fulfil a number of specific functions: as a channel for visiting gods or demonic; the dancers acting as a sort of living repository. These trance dances include the Sang Hyang Deda with little girls in trance, and the Sang Hyang Jaran, the fire dance; oas a welcome for visiting gods, such as the pendet rejang and sutri dances; oas entertainment for visiting gods, such as the tope and the wayang.

In some of these dances, the role of dancing is important that it is actually the key to any meaning to found in the ritual. In wayang performances, the puppet is often seen as the priest sanctifying the holy water.

As well as their use in religious ceremonies, dance and drama also have a strong religious content. It is often such that drama is the preferred medium through which the Balinese cultural tradition is transmitted. The episode performed is usually related to the rites taking place; during a wedding one performs a wedding story; at a dead ritual there is a visit to hell by the heroes. Clown (penasar) comment in Balinese, peppering their jokes with religious and moral comments on stories whose narrative use Kawi (Old-Javanese).

Dance Study
To seriously study dance, inquire at one of the institutes in or near Denpasar which have been set up to teach, preserve, and promote Balinese artistic traditions: SMKI (Sekolah Menengah Karawitan Indonesia) in Batubulan; KOKAR (High School of Performing Arts); STSI (Sekolah Tinggi Seni Indonesia).

For long-term study, you have to have a permit from LIPI in Jakarta as a “guest student” because you can’t learn much with a 60-day entry visa. Wayan, the proprietor of Siti Homestay (Br. Kalah, tel. 62361-975.599) in Peliatan (near Ubud), can help you obtain a long-term study visa.

For the short term, it’s more rewarding to take up study on an informal basis in one of the villages for several weeks. A great number of Westerners study in the Ubud/Peliatan area. Saba and Batuan (Gianyar Regency) also have very strong dance traditions.

The best way to find a dance teacher is to first find a style you like by watching performances, then approach the dancer directly for lessons. Or ask your hotel or homestay proprietor if they know of any dance teachers who take Western students. The excellent teachers tend to get overrun with Westerners.

To hire an older teacher, you’ll need to know Indonesian. Be sure to see one of these mature teachers in action as they lead five-year-olds through intricate stances and postures, thrusting their bodies and arms doggedly and relentlessly into position until the complicated movements are letter-perfect. You can see these seasoned taskmasters at work every Sunday and Thursday 1400-1600 in front of the Tanjung Sari Hotel in Sanur.

The average dance course lasts one to two years, and it takes at least three years more to become proficient. SMKI will charge foreigners around Rp5000 an hour, but it’s negotiable. They can perhaps arrange for you to participate in a dance lesson on a trial basis. Dance accoutrements, costumes, and paraphernalia are available from two roadside shops outside Pasar Seni in Sukawati.

At STSI, along with traditional classical Balinese dance, there are sometimes classes in Javanese dance, Indian dance, and American modern dance, ballet, and choreography. With its 30 masters-traditional dancers, musicians, and puppeteers-this school is beginning to make headway in its effort to create new choreography. Yayasan Siddha Mahan, in Sideman (Karangasem), is another center for dance and music.

Dance Festivals
SMKI often holds dance festivals, as does the Galleria in Nusa Dua; ask the tourist office. But the biggest dance event is the Bali Arts Festival (Pesta Kesenian Bali), held from June to July each year. Launched in 1979 to foster Balinese artistic creativity while at the same time stimulating tourism, this monumental, five-week-long series of presentations draws huge crowds to the 5,000-seat Werdi Budaya Art Center of Denpasar (Jl. Nusa Indah) almost nightly.

The atmosphere is similar to the bustle of a big odalan-like a three-ring circus of the arts! The Balinese themselves make up the main part of the audience. Sellout audiences are the rule at the island-wide gamelan competitions and elaborately staged new sendratari productions put on by teams of Bali’s top musicians and dancers. The wide variety of programs includes ancient court dramas and dances that have been revived. Unusual offerings at the 1995 festival included bumbung gebyog, tektekan, and joged. Programs are available from Denpasar’s tourist office.

Dance and Drama Forms

Arja
This Balinese folk-opera, accompanied by flutes and metallophones, has been compared to Western-style musical comedy with overtones of grand opera. Lines are both spoken and sung, and there’s a good deal of improvisation to suit the mood of the audience. Arja’s basically tragic themes are derived from the classical romances of the medieval kingdoms of East Java, as well as from Chinese love plays.

Developed around 1880 as an all-male dance drama, with homely middle-aged actors taking on female roles, today the leading players are royalty such as the prince (ratu), important members of the court such as the prime minister (patih), plus their attendants (condong). A performance of arja, which seldom begins before midnight, is a momentous occasion in a village.

Being a story about the jaded nobility, the movements and steps are very stylized and courtly. The character Galuh is impeccably solemn and dull, Limbur is silly, and the Desak is an outrageous comic. Arja drips with moaning, syrupy melodrama and sorrow. Its plots often are difficult to follow because the dialogue and songs are chiefly in Kawi.

The lovers – in spite of all the misery – are always reunited in the end and live happily evermore. The clowns punctuate the drama with their off-color jokes and slapstick comedy and translate the classical Kawi into Low Balinese for the benefit of the unlearned crowd.

Barong
The barong is a dance pantomime of a fantastic dragon-like holy animal, the barong, in pitched battle against the machinations of the menacing witch Rangda. Charged with magic, the drama functions as a spiritual purgative for a village, but it has been mostly preempted by the tourist industry.

Today at least 20 barong groups perform on Bali, and the dragon’s appearance can vary radically from one to the next. The barong, a beast of unknown origin, manifests itself in many forms: as a tiger, it is barong macan; as a lion, barong singha; as a wild boar, barong bangkal; as an elephant, barong gajah; as a cow, barong limbu.

On the surface, the dance-drama seems to be about the momentous confrontation between good and evil. But, as de Zoete and Spies pointed out, “to express the fight between Barong and Rangda in terms of good and evil is to miss the point.” The function of each character is morally ambiguous, not as clear-cut as in the Judeo-Christian world. One cannot project an ethical interpretation on the play. On Bali, the actions of Barong and Rangda have cosmic repercussions that affect all Balinese, whose role is simply to help maintain balance.

In ritual life, the barong personifies the guardian spirit of the village, defending mankind with white magic. Belonging to the “right” side, he is the protector of humanity treated with the utmost respect and consideration. The most powerful of all is the famous “Black Barong” of Singgi – a kampung near Sanur – made from the black feathers of a rare bird.

By far the most popular and holiest form is the barong ket, a huge and frightening lion-like creature with feathers Bali a shortened, watered-down version of the “Barong and Kris Dance” is put on for tourists. The players in it are still in a trance, but not such a deep trance. With minimal dialogue and infused with slapstick humor, the dance is not as intense nor as long as sacral performances-lasting only an hour or so. See it in big performance halls in Batubulan where no less than three troupes present it simultaneously every morning at 09.00.

Calon Arang
Though it has many variations, this dance-drama is essentially an act of exorcism against leyak (witches). Calon arang combines acting, singing, comedy, tragedy, and classic theater, combined with elements of the wistful legong. It is backed by a full orchestra augmented with long bamboo flutes.

Only a few dalang are willing to perform the shadow puppet version as they fear the consequences of inviting leyak to the show, a gesture that is deemed necessary. The perfect setting for this magic play is on the night of the full moon casting shadows on the temple roofs, palm trees, and on the clearing where the drama takes place.

The main character is Rangda who takes the form of an old widow, Calon Arang. Rangda is the bloody-fanged Queen of the Underworld, whose power is an ever-present danger. She claws at the air with dreadful, knife-like fingernails, her voice alternating between a piteous mutter and a deep-voiced, moaning growl. Her sawdust-filled breasts sag, her pop-eyes stare, her flame-like tongue lolls wickedly beneath a row of sharp upper incisors, and a necklace of human entrails hangs around her neck. Brandishing a magic white cloth, she rushes at children in the audience, scattering them, and scowls at babies in mother’s arms.

Anthropologists see Rangda originally as a maternal figure; drama historians claim she is the personification of the witch par excellence; archaeologists contend that her origin is Shiva’s wife Durga in her evil aspect; historians claim she was the legendary Queen Mahendratta of King Airlangga’s 11th century East Javanese kingdom.

Rangda is not an entirely unsympathetic, evil figure, as she serves a very critical role protecting village temples from demons and helps recycle dead bodies into the Cosmos so that the dead’s spirits can be reborn. People worship her ardently because she can protect them against black magic. Margaret Mead saw Rangda as the dark side of the Balinese female archetype-the supple and alluring young dancing girl metamorphosed into the horrific, angry old witch.

Calon arang is a story of revenge and penitence. Long ago in the days of great King Airlangga, an old widow, Calon Arang, lived in the jungle with her beautiful daughter, Ratna Menggali. Calon Arang wanted her daughter to marry a prince from Airlangga’s court, but despite her beauty, no prince came. Becoming very angry, Calon Arang made offerings to Durga and learned the art of black magic. She sent Celuluk, the perfect manifestation of evil, to lay waste to the land and destroy the kingdom.

When Airlangga heard of the widespread epidemics and destruction, he beseeched his high priest, Mpu Paradah, to step in. The priest sent his son, Bahula, to ask for the hand of Ratna Menggali. This so pleased Calon Arang that she cured all the sick and brought the dead back to life. The plagues subsided.

But one day Calon Arang’s son-in-law found a lontar book of Calon Arang’s black magic. These he conveyed to his father, who deciphered its secret formulas. When Calon Arang discovered Mpu Paradah had learned her source of power, she became enraged and declared war upon him. Mpu Paradah was then forced to do battle with Calon Arang (Rangda). The eerie witch appears on stage amidst blood-curdling curses and descends howling and shrieking upon the priest.

In defense, Mpu Paradah unleashes a spell and vanquishes Calon Arang. Before she dies, Calon Arang asks forgiveness. Mpu Paradah absolves her deeds and she is allowed to enter heaven. However, the lesson is not lost to the Balinese. By dramatizing Rangda’s powers, it’s hoped that good favor will be gained with the ever-present witch, her appetite for destruction placated.

Cekepang
Pronounced “check-a-poong,” this dance is specifically eastern Balinese and rarely performed outside Karangasem Regency. Some regions of Lombok still perform it, a legacy of the days when Lombok was ruled by the rajas of Karangasem. The cekepang relates a story chosen from classical Hindu literature, the tale of Arjuna Wiwaha. The music, chanting, dance and costuming of cekepang are as spectacular as they are unusual. The best practitioners come from Dukuh village.

Cupak
An old Balinese dance drama, the cupak’s origins date back to East Java’s Kediri Kingdom. Although it has the earmarks of a comic opera, the cupak is really an epic tale of jealousy, heroic deeds, and treachery. There are many variations. The Cupak story is also performed as a shadow play.

The chief protagonists are a gluttonous villain named Cupak and his handsome younger brother, Grantang. One day it’s discovered that the beloved daughter of the king of Kediri, Mustikaning Daha, has been kidnapped. The king announces that whoever finds her may become king. Cupak and Grantang resolve to look for her, encountering many adventures along the way.

Drama Gong
This popular dance form was only created in the late 1960s. In drama gong, music and dance are downplayed, while acting is the most important medium. Actually no one seems to pay much attention to what’s going on up on the stage as this type of play is the occasion for the Balinese to socialize. For this reason, drama gong is becoming even more popular than arja.

Gambuh
Written records describing this semi-sacral dance go back 1,000 years, making it the oldest known dance on Bali. At that time these court stories were popular at all levels of society. The gambuh is closest in style to Javanese dance forms.

It’s said that the gambuh, which has undergone practically no development, is the mother of all Balinese dances-the classic technique to which all other dances owe their descent. It’s believed that if a dancer masters the gambuh, she is able to dance any Balinese dance. A number of Bali’s most popular dances – wayang wong, cupak, calon arang, joged, topeng, legong, and arja – have either been influenced by it or else are derived directly from it.

Although it’s required for certain ceremonies, performances of gambuh are not easy to find. Only two groups stage tourist gambuh in Batuan (Ubud area); STSI in Denpasar has another gambuh troupe, and there are three or so others scattered around. Kuta is reviving an old group.

Look in the most recent Calendar of Events or ask about upcoming performances at the Denpasar Tourist Office. The gambuh is also put on for such serious occasions as a temple’s odalan, which takes place every six months. It’s often staged in a temple’s middle courtyard.

The mysterious flute music, the strains of the rebab, the eerie singing, and the gambuh’s slow, stylized dance movements make it a hypnotic and dramatic dance to watch. The gambuh usually lasts three hours-traditional versions are even longer. The play is performed in episodes, which are usually comprehensible to Westerners.

The story frequently opens with a princess and a group of her attendants who perform a beautiful dance. There is the usual collection of Balinese kings and handsome princes who act out status rivalries. The dialog is spoken by attendant-comedians in the Balinese language of the 17th century, similar to Old Javanese.

Plots derive from the Malat tales, the Javanese equivalent of the Arabian Nights. Other dramas presented are the Panji and Ranggalawe-historical dramas imported from East Java.

Janger
The janger started suddenly in 1925 after a company of Malay opera mimes visited the island. With its two swaying rows of seated boys and girls, it appealed immediately to the Polynesian spirit of the Balinese. It was the first time that boys and girls danced together solely for enjoyment-Bali’s first social dance!

The Balinese never hesitate to introduce a new dance from such mongrel sources and soon every banjar strove to outfit a company of janger dancers, whose gay costuming and acrobatic posturing often approached farce. In one group the girls even wore shorts, a moral outrage in Bali at the time.

Janger was still the rage when Covarrubias wrote his Island of Bali in the 1930s. Within a few years, however, its popularity was utterly eclipsed by the arja opera form, and later by the ubiquitous drama gong which originated in the mid-1960s. Nowadays, janger is almost completely defunct, taking place perhaps only once or twice a year, and needs a major rescue effort to revive it.

Jauk
This very demanding classical solo dance of a demon-warrior dates from the 18th century. Jauk has its origins in a traditional play in which all the dancers, wearing fearsome raksasa masks, enact episodes from the Ramayana and Mahabharata epics in the old Kawi language.

This masked pantomime is danced in the legong technique, similar to the baris in style, but more flamboyant and violent. The troupe generally appears in a group of up to six dancers, sometimes together with Rangda. You often see the jauk precede the baris, followed by perhaps a topeng; these are all very commonly staged together.

The jauk dancer’s ghost-like mask is colored a violent red, or sometimes white, with thick black moustache, bulging zombie-like eyes, and an eerie smile. As his whole face is covered by a leering mask, the jauk dancer must convey his emotions solely through his movements and gestures.

Also characteristic of the costuming are gloves with long nails and high headdresses with colorful pompoms and tassels. The demon king’s long transparent fingernails flutter incessantly to a pelegongan orchestra. Though of sinister appearance, the raksasa are usually friendly and the dance is mischievous and high-spirited.

Joged
The popular flirtation dance, the joged is, except for the janger, the only Balinese social dance. Each of the many variations of this relatively new dance – joged bumbung, joged pingitan, joged gebyog, joged pudengan, and gandrung – has been created in different areas of Bali using various styles. All have a rather weak story line based on the legend of calon arang.

A woman, dressed in a costume similar to a legong dancers and performing traditional legong steps, enters a circle. After she dances for a while, she starts to make eyes at a particular boy among the onlookers, enticing him into the circle by tapping him with her fan. Some boys try to escape, but are dragged back by their friends.

Every five minutes or so she encourages a new boy and partners change, or a bolder one simply cuts in. The boy chosen must dance in his own improvised style, often quite artful and animated in itself. The object is to come as close as possible to the girl’s face to catch a whiff of her perfume-a Balinese kiss-while the girl plays hard to get. Sometimes the joged begins with two or more women dancers, ensuring more male spectators will get their moment in the circle.

Possibly a modernized, popularized version of an ancient mating rite, the joged today is a recreational dance, a sort of mixer-a way for teenagers to meet and get to know each other. It is especially entertaining when a French bank clerk or an Australian abalone fisherman is tapped on the shoulder, with all his mates egging him on.

Traditionally, only men were asked to dance, but now women may dance also. The joged is particularly popular after the harvest or after a great religious ceremony; it is a celebratory event for all levels of Balinese society. It’s an occasion when members of the community who are not usually dancers or performers may dance in public, show off, and have fun.

The joged is accompanied by the pedjogedan, a gamelan of the gandrung type. Its bamboo instruments give the dance a happy and melodious background.

Kebyar
The name of this dance means “lightening.” Like the baris, it is a male solo exhibition dance, often an interpretation of one of the epic poems (kekawin). The kebyar is unique, however, in that it is usually performed in the sitting position.

Kebyar originated in northern Bali in the 1920s, derived from certain movements of the delicate legong, the heroic postures of the masculine baris, and one of the most ancient of Balinese dances, the sanghyang.

The present kebyar cannot be separated from its greatest practitioner, I Mario, who was responsible for the perfection of the dance. A former jauk dancer, Mario rearranged the jauk and began performing the kebyar in 1915.

During a performance, Mario was completely taken over by the role he played; people who met the soft-spoken young man during the day would be amazed to find out that he was the brilliant virtuoso they had seen dancing the night before. Mario would not even recognize himself; when shown a photo of himself dancing the kebyar, he exclaimed, “That man is a good dancer!” At his peak, Mario was perhaps the greatest channel in the history of modern Balinese dance.

There are many different kebyar styles. The most popular form in south Bali is kebyar duduk, the “seated” kebyar, in which the dancer sits cross-legged through most of the dance. In kebyar trompong, the dancer joins the orchestra by playing a long instrument of inverted bronze bowls (trompong) as he dances and twirls the trompong sticks between his fingers.

As well as being the most strenuous of Balinese dances, it is said that no one can perform the kebyar without a profound knowledge of music. Frequently the kebyar’s solo male dancers can play every instrument in the orchestra.

To attain mastery, all the fluctuating moods of the orchestra must be mirrored in the body’s flexibility and in the dancer’s facial expressions-whether the tones be light and lyrical, somber, frantic surprise, or ominous sorrow. The dancer must in fact become a sensitive musical instrument. Seated in a small square bounded on all sides by gong kebyar instruments, he throws himself under the absolute influence of the music, being moved, drawn, swayed, and driven by it to the most minute details of nuance and rhythm.

Typically, the dancer dresses in a long brocaded kain worn as a skirt around his waist, one end trailing on the stage. A gilt cloth winds around his torso; a great hibiscus flutters in his ear; in his right hand is a fan. The dance is performed from the squatting position with only the knees changing position. Moving from just the waist up, the dancer focuses the audience’s attention on the agile movements of his torso and arms, and his powerful facial expressions. With darting glances, fan waving furiously, muscles tense and taut, torso languidly swaying then nervously rippling, the dancer’s body fills with the music-almost to the exclusion of the performer’s personality.

Good kebyar dancers are extremely difficult to find as they must possess mobile, supple facial features, a fine grace, plus a tremendous personal magnetism and charm.

Kecak
In this spine-tingling nocturnal choir dance, a large moving mass of bare-chested men simulates the sounds of a gamelan orchestra. A mesmerizing theatrical experience created by workers just in from the fields, the dance is named after the hypnotic and repetitive Chak-ka-chak-ka-chak! sounds the men make.

The kecak was initially choreographed by Walter Spies in 1931 while he was acting as a consultant for a German company making Baron von Plessen’s film Die Insel der Damonen (Isle of Demons) shot at Bedulu. It soon became known among tourists as the “Monkey Dance” which alluded to the singers sitting in concentric circles playing the part of monkey soldiers sent by Prince Rama to rescue his wife Sita. Spies took the male chorus from the exorcist sanghyang dedari and added a fragment from the Ramayana to create a new and vigorous art form. The dramatic kecak has also borrowed some typical kuntao movements, a secret fighting art imported from China.

The best performances today are of a hypnotic chorus of men chanting rhythmically in perfect unison-an exhilarating, unnerving, experience. Since the participants have to enter and be brought back from a trance state, the whole enactment can take several hours. The worst performances resemble the blase emotions of an Ivy League pep rally.

Now you have to pay Rp5000-7500 to see a watered-down “tourist” version of the kecak in 30 minutes flat, only one component in a medley of dances. This form of kecak is pure show, devoid of all religious significance, and caters to the short attention span of tourists.

With at least 30 kecak groups, the dance is performed throughout the year all over Bali. The Bualu troupe is said to be best, and the best venue is still Bona, though the dance was first developed in Bedulu over 50 years ago. The biggest kecak on the island takes place at the Peliatan Palace every Thursday at 1930-200 men instead of the usual hundred.

Since the kecak is usually performed just before sunset, with coconut palms and vegetation all around, the moon on the rise, and the crickets starting their chorus, you feel as if you’re in the countryside. It’s a magical experience. Eighty to 150 loinclothed men sit in five or six concentric circles, in the middle of which stands a torch defining the stage and casting flickering shadows on the courtyard or cleared arena. The members of this living theater, only partly visible, wait in silence as the audience is seated.

At a signal, the group begins to sway back and forth, circling and bending, their outstretched hands and torsos rising and falling in the shadows in wave-like motions. Suddenly they throw out their arms and shake their fingers wildly as erratic shadows form and flee in the lamplight. Gradually, the rhythm of the surging mass gains speeds. Arms flutter while dancers perform a fast interlocking vocal pattern of shouts, grunts, screeches, and hisses with remarkable precision and organ-like volume. At fixed times, half the circle falls backward together in a dramatic, unearthly swoon. The individual dancers are totally swallowed up by the power of the whole.

The kecak usually reenacts a short episode from the Ramayana when Rama, his brother, and his wife Sita are exiled to the dark forests of Sri Lanka. The dance tells of the kidnapping of Sita by the evil demon-king Rawana and of her rescue by her husband with the help of an army of monkeys-the male chorus-led by the monkey general, Hanuman.

Sita, with her winged golden headdress, moves delicately onto the “stage,” with wrists arched and fingers bent back. Rama and his brother Laksamana are more vigorous, stamping with flexed feet. When Rawana leaps to stage center, the vocal chorus simulates his flight with a long hissing sound. The moment Sita is abducted, the mass of men leap up as one. In one version, when Rama is shot with an arrow that magically turns into a snake, the circle becomes the snake surrounding him. The passion of the monkey men soars. Finally, in the battle in which good defeats evil, the grouped chorus divides in two to represent Hanuman defeating the powerful giant Rawana’s army. This part made this dance play very popular in Dutch times because it held out the hope that the downtrodden masses would eventually rise up to throw out their colonial masters.

Legong
Considered the most dazzling of all Balinese dances, the legong represents the archetype of femininity and grace, and is one of the most familiar of Indonesia’s dances outside Bali. Swathed in cocoons of gold-brocaded fabrics, with hands palpitating and eyes flashing, heavenly nymphs perform a highly abstract interpretation of a literary classic. Yet despite this superficial dramatic content, the legong exists almost purely for the sake of dancing. Again, the performances for tourists are far removed from the style, beauty, and technical perfection of a legong staged for private or religious functions.

Inquire at STSI (College of Performing Arts) where the most polished performances take place. The best exemplify Balinese classical dance par excellence; the worst offer little more than the dispassionate swaying of disinterested little girls marking time until the cameras stop flashing.

In his book, A House in Bali, Colin McPhee described the fragile, chalk-white faces of legong dancers as imbued with sexless calm – haunting, enigmatic, and mysterious. Aficionados vehemently discuss the merits of particular legong dancers for hours.

There are now at least 40 commercial legong troupes on Bali. Some say Peliatan is home to the finest group on the island, but only in Teges is the classical “antique” version still practiced. Probably the most beautiful presentation of the legong is on the grounds of Ubud’s royal palace. It’s very crowded, so get there early.

This dance-pantomime is so highly stylized that only the themes of the gamelan and the abstract movements and costumes of the dancers give a clue as to the scenes and actions taking place in the story. The legong is really an elaboration of the old wayang kulit shadow play in which humans simulate the movements and dramatic stories of marionettes. Since none of the historical records mention this form, legong is probably relatively modern.

The legong was at one time patronized by local princes and only held in the puri, the royal compound of a village. Prepubescent legong dancers were once a prince’s own private property, recruited from the most agile and attractive palace children. Originally, a narrator recited the literary text and chanted the dialogs and episodes in time with the orchestra while the dance was in progress, but this feature has disappeared.

The story is performed by three dancers: the condong, a female court attendant, and two identically dressed legong dancers who adopt the roles of royal persons. Although training actually begins at age five, for live performances a pair of girls from eight to 12 years old are chosen for their good looks and agile physiques. Lovely round faces is the ideal. If all three girls look alike and are the same size, all the better.

The girls are chosen before they begin menstruation because only then are they considered pure and limber enough to perform all the necessary movements. Extraordinary muscular control and great physical endurance are required. Sometimes the bodies of the little pupils have to be made supple by means of special massages. Dancers retire when their menstrual cycle begins.

When preparing for a performance, dancers are first dressed in gorgeous costumes: head to toe in silk and gold leaf with a headdress of fresh frangipani blossoms and enormous earplugs of gold. Their passionless, melancholy faces are heavily powdered, and a white dot (priasan), symbolizing beauty and innocence, is placed on their foreheads. Their eyebrows are shaved and replaced with a line of black paint. Their bodies are tightly girdled from chest to hips with many meters of heavy cloth and covered with rich beautiful silk bibs decorated with gold. These stiff layers of clothing help to support their backs and give them a graceful line. Although the legong is an erotic dance, visual sexuality must be suppressed. The purpose of the tight breast-bands is to flatten the figure. A sash of gilt cloth, a collar of bright stones and mirrors, a silver belt, and ornamental scarves complete the dancers’ extravagant costuming.

The drama begins with the more simply dressed condong taking her place alone in the middle of the dance floor. There is a pause; suddenly a cue from the gamelan and she comes alive, twirling in a circle in time with the music, her arms outstretched and fingers tense, her body rising and arching and her head held high. After this introduction, the music changes tempo, and the two legong enter the stage forming graceful patterns and sharp turns with the condong. After a short dance together, the condong hands the two dancers each a fan and retires. The accents of the orchestra then quicken and the legong dancers begin one of the most glittering and highly disciplined displays of body movements in the world of dance. They fly away from each other, waggling their hips and shivering their shoulders, each enacting a separate role, only to return after executing a perfectly synchronized circle.

According to her posture and the eyes, a legong can be a statue, a butterfly, or a flower. The legongs hand drops then suddenly flies up like a bird on the wing, her fan fluttering at almost blinding speed. Both dancers seem the double image of the other; their heads snap back and forth and even their eyes and hands flick in perfect accord.

In a love scene between Lasem and Rangkesari, the dancers come together and playfully rub noses (ngaras), followed by a flutter of the shoulders to signify a thrill of pleasure from a kiss. In the 1930s, Charlie Chaplin once sent a Balinese audience into paroxysms when he mimicked the elegant poses of a legong dancer.

There are at least eight different stories for legong and thus eight different dances, always consisting of an introduction, a drama, and a farewell. The repertoire includes legod bawa, a traditional form; abimanyu, a comparatively new (1982) creation; leko pertiwi accompanied by a gamelan tingklik; legong keraton kupu-kupu tarum depicting butterflies flitting from flower to flower and playing together.

In a newly resurrected form, legong prabangsa, Rangda the witch appears and self-stabbing may break out-very unusual for a legong performance! The plot most often acted out is the Lasem story from Malat, the Balinese Thousand and One Nights. Derived from a historical event that happened in East Java in the 12th century, this is a drama of a princess kidnapped by a despised royal suitor.

On a journey, the arrogant king of Lasem comes upon the maiden Rangkesari lost in the forest. He abducts her and locks her in his house of stone. Her anger rising, you can see Rangkesari repelling the evil king’s advances by beating him with her fan, then slapping her thigh in a gesture of grief. When Rangkesari’s brother, the prince of Daha, learns of her capture, he threatens to go to war unless she is freed. Rangkesari implores her abductor to free her and avoid war, but the king vows to fight to the death. On his way to do battle, a black bird of ill omen (a crow, played by the condong) intercepts the king and warns him of his imminent death. She beats the earth with her “wings” and swoops down upon the king to dissuade him from going to war. At this point, with the king’s decision made and his kris drawn, the ominous battle takes place and the king is killed.

Mask
In Bali, masks are considered sacred objects, and are revered as such. The best ones are traditionally carved on auspicious days, and the dancers who wear them are believed to be possessed by the spirits of the masks. Characters can be identified from the shape of the features; noble characters always wear full, refined masks; while evil is represented by bulging eyes and garish colors. A full collection of Topeng masks may number 30 or 40. The characters are silent, but communicate using complex gestures of the hand, head and body. The story lines usually follow popular myths or episodes from history.

Mendet
The mendet is a processional dance of married women winding in and out of temple grounds, carrying offerings of arak and holy water to sustain the gods on their journey back to their divine home.

Oleg Tambulilingan
A modern dance specifically designed for tourists in the early 1950s by the late I Mario of Tabanan, oleg is often chosen to supplement a performance of the legong. The word oleg means the “swaying of a dancer,” and tambulilingan means “bumblebee.”

Symbolizing a Balinese courtship, this flirtation dance depicts two bumblebees, a male and a female, happily sucking honey in a flower garden. The female bee enters the garden first, circling the stage in tight quick steps, trailing a long silk scarf. The dancer runs the full gamut of female emotions: seductiveness, scorn, teasing, moodiness, naughtiness and gay-heartedness. The female dancer first pretends to snub the male, but he is finally able to win her love by various devices. In one sequence the female may dance in the seated position while she sensuously sways and flutters her hands. The male circles her with a manly stride, his head cocked, feeling his power over her. They come close, only to swirl apart again. The oleg ends with a love dance of the two bees.

Pendet
This is the basic temple dance, a religious offering, usually performed by young girls at the beginning of any temple ceremony, ritual, wedding, or toothfiling to ensure the gods are made welcome. Whereas the exhibition dances such as legong and baris require years of rigorous training, the pendet is taught by imitation.

The dance is first done by a pemangku, followed by any who feel like it: old men and women are particularly inclined to join in. Since dancers bear holy offerings for the gods, Balinese tradition holds that pendet dancers be unmarried women, but this custom has fallen by the wayside.

Because of the risks of desecration when it’s performed out of context, pendet for tourists was forbidden in the ’70s, replaced by the similar but more secular penyembrama performed by girls. Now bare-shouldered young girls copy the movements of their grandmothers, the most accomplished dancers of pendet.

All dancers-whether young, middle-aged, or elderly-carry in their clasped hands palm-leaf and flower offerings, or in their right hands water vessels, incense, and cakes. With their offerings they dance from shrine to shrine within the temple complex. A man also joins the dance; his function is to burn incense.

There are a number of pendet forms: a slow-moving, welcoming dance; a collective dance performed by six, eight, or more dancers dressed in wraps of gold brocade in rows and files; or a procession by women dressed in everyday clothes. When its purpose is to open the legong, the dance movements are highly synchronized and precise. At the finish, the girls throw flowers to the audience in a gesture of welcome.

Sanghyang
The Balinese have an uncommon facility and susceptibility for falling into trance states. Sanghyang means “holiness” or “revered one,” referring to the divine spirit which temporarily inhabits the bodies of entranced dancers. The dancers, transfixed by their own movement, have entered a supernatural world where fatigue is unknown. This is why dancers, when they come out of this dissociated state after hours of exhaustive posturing, appear to have no knowledge of what has just happened to them.

Probably derived from rituals practiced in the distant past, the various sanghyang dances serve the religious function of protecting a community from the forces of black magic and other dangers. Sanghyang were staged in time of trouble to alleviate or divert epidemics or misfortune in a village. In the Kintamani area, you can still commission one.

Sanghyang is the source dance from which a number of modern-day dances derive. In its original form, offerings are made to placate the leyak (witches), and benign spirits are implored to come down to Earth where they reveal themselves to humankind through the medium of the sanghyang dancer.

There are a number of sanghyang forms. Sanghyang jaran features a pemangku or boy in trance either riding a hobbyhorse or imitating the movements of a horse. He prances around a bonfire of glowing coconut husks, trotting possessed through the red-hot embers. As the trance mediums are attracted to all kinds of fire, no one in the audience may smoke. This form, accompanied by only a male cak chorus, can be seen five times weekly at Bona.

Staged only around Lake Batur and other mountain villages, the sanghyang deling consists of dancing puppets suspended on strings between two poles, the strings manipulated by children. The accompanying music is starkly primitive, consisting of only suling, terbang, and kendang.

Sanghyang dedari is a trance dance performed by little girl mediums (dedari means “angel”) in a slow-motion version of the legong style, which serves as an exorcism of sickness and evil spirits. This celebrated shamanistic ritual performance is a way of contacting the gods.

Two little girls are selected from the community by the pemangku for their psychic abilities. Only virgin girls are considered pure enough. For weeks they are trained by means of rhythmical chanting, incense, and hypnosis to be able to fall into a deep trance. Once the two girls achieve this ability, the formal offering ceremony can begin. A child chosen to be a sanghyang dancer will fall into a trance in her mother’s arms when she hears music or smells incense.

Though the girls have never received dance lessons, when they fall into trance they are able to execute the most intricate dance movements, which ordinarily would take years of training. This fact is not a bit extraordinary to the Balinese, as they understand that it’s the spirits of the male dedara and the female dedari who dance in the bodies of the little girls. Their skilled dancing is proof that a god has entered them. They become temporarily divine.

While in the temple, swaying back and forth, the girls fall into a swoon. The small dancers’ limp bodies are straightened up and they are identically dressed in the costumes of legong dancers. Women place frangipani-flowered crowns on their heads, dress them in heavy silver anklets, bracelets, rings, and earplugs of gold.

As these deified dancers may not touch the impure earth, they are hoisted on top of the shoulders of the strongest men of the village and carried. They never open their eyes, as if asleep, yet their seated performances coincide perfectly. Balancing at first gracefully from the waist up, they soon bend and contort their bodies at unbelievable angles.

Hunting for leyak, a procession is formed which wends its way to a dance clearing nearby or to the death-temple where a high altar has been erected. The dancers are then set down between male and female choruses, before braziers smoking with incense. Employing the same dance movements as the legong, the girls sway dreamily to the inarticulate sounds of the mantras offered up to maintain the health and well-being of the village. They have also been known to recite remedies for ailing members of the community. Sometimes a full gamelan group accompanies the ritual.

When the chanting stops, the girls fall to the ground in a faint. The performance over, they are revived by a priest who brings them out of trance by means of incense, chants, and rhythmical movements, then blesses them with holy water. Once awake, the girls cannot remember any of the performance, nor are they able to repeat any of the motions they enacted while in trance. The sanghyang dancers become ordinary, giggling little girls again.

The true sanghyang dedari ritual dance is extremely rare; you’d be very fortunate to see one by chance. This is true even though the various genres of sanghyang were exempted from the governor’s decree prohibiting sacred dances from being staged at hotels and public theatres. Certain villages still look upon the ritual as extremely sacred.

The “virgin” or “trance dance” offered by tour agents is but a laughable, diluted version of the real thing. A tourist rendition of the sanghyang jaran, the “fire dance,” can be seen at Bona (near Gianyar) as part of the evening presentation. Though an intriguing and scary demonstration of fire-walking by a lone performer, the “angel dance” sequence is not a true trance-dance.

Miscellaneous Dances
In vogue currently are the new genres of dance, garle le pas or tari lepas (“free dance”) in Indonesian, which are non-dramatic, out-of-the-ordinary dances using new gestures and modern staging equipment. All of these new creations are presently coming out of the SMKI and STSI dance institutes.

Except for these modern dances, no attempt has been made to revamp the rather limited number of existing gestures in Balinese dance. New dances (kreasi baru) are being created all the time but when a new dance is created, it usually consists of a new combination of already existing gestures and movements fused with a few Western elements. There’s even a modern version of legong now.

Some have political origins, such as the weaving dance tari tenum, specially requested by President Suharto on his visit to the island in the late 1960s. Tari nelayan, depicting men fishing, is another typical example of a contemporary kebyar-style dance. Tari manuk rawa, “long-legged bird dance,” portrays the stylized mannerisms of a bird.

The genggong, or “frog dance,” originating in Batuan, is about the life of the kings Daha and Jenggala and features a wonderful jumping frog. Because it’s so unique and humorous, snippets of the genggong have found their way into many a hotel and restaurant program. Jaran Teji, choreographed by I Wayan Dibia, is a comic dance in which performers ride horses.

Be ready for such “tourist” innovations as the cendrawasih dance, which mimics birds of paradise, and tari kedis perit, which portrays sparrows. A troupe of child mock-warrior dancers accompanies Bali’s only all-women gamelan orchestra, gamelan ibu-ibu, in Peliatan.

Tektekan is not actually a dance but an exorcistic procession of men carrying bamboo slit drums and giant cowbells around their necks. This ceremony is found only in Krambitan District (Tabanan) and in only four villages – Krambitan, Kukuh, Baturiti, and Penarukan – most opulently at Krambitan’s Puri Anyar. For more info, refer to Krambitan. In times of crisis under the guidance of a pemangku, the tektekan can also serve as a wali or religious dance.

Large-scale sendratari dance-dramas, incorporating a mix of traditional and modern dance and music, are the rage at the Bali Art Festival in June and July each year. Stemming from Java, these galas are a Balinese attempt to imitate the movies. Painstakingly staged, yet with little actual dancing, the characters don’t speak but mime very theatrically. When these melodramas are shown in the villages, loudspeakers are used which sound terrible.

Dance Venue

In 1994, Dr. I Made Bandem, director of the STSI (formerly ASTI) dance and music academy in Denpasar, carried out a survey of the Balinese performing arts. He found and listed over 5,500 ‘sekaha’ music, dance, and theater clubs and organizations all over Bali, so you won’t have any trouble finding live dancing.

Restaurants and most hotels are not really sympathetic environments for Balinese dance. Before dances appeared in commercial venues, theater space as such did not exist in Bali; instead, anyplace was a potential theater. Even today you can find these authentic performances in villages. There will be a row of ‘warung’, a few glowing gas lamps, a mob of jostling, wild-eyed kids, and ‘kretek’ smoke thick in the air. If the village hall is too small for a masked dance-drama production, space will be cleared in a nearby field, in a dusty courtyard inside the temple, on a plastic tarp, on mats on the floor of a ‘wantilan’, or in the middle of a muddy crossroads with the open starry sky and the towering palm-trees as a roof. Locals erect the framework of a stage, hang a curtain backdrop, lay mats for the orchestra and the show is ready to begin.

At spontaneous dances put on out in the villages you are more apt to see old-style, uninhibited, undiluted dance forms-dances meant for the Balinese and their gods. It’s also fairly easy to view performances connected with a temple festival (odalan) or other local ritual event, since there are 10 per year for the average Balinese. One is going on somewhere on the island every day.

One way to find a performance is to just fall in behind one of the trucks loaded with musicians dressed in intense red, blue, or green costumes and head-cloths. You will start to see these trucks careening down Bali’s roads in the early evening, on the way to their engagements. Since the Balinese regard many of these events as sacred, inquire about conduct, dress, and custom beforehand.

The Audience
Balinese drama appeals to all age groups, from the tiny children lining the front rows to the wrinkled, white-haired grandmothers and haughty ‘pegawi’. Even the portly governor of Bali, Professor Ida Bagus Oka, has been known to don with gusto the full costume of the demon king Rawana. For teenagers, the occasion is an opportunity for flirting and mixing with the opposite sex, the boys and girls in separate knots of two or three.

The spectators themselves take part in the dramas since the stage is often the open street itself or a dirt clearing before a temple where gods and kings mingle with the commoners. Balinese spectators are extraordinarily well behaved, patient, and welcoming-the picture of polite social behavior. No one swears, shouts, or pushes.

No formal spatial separation exists between the audience and the players. Scabrous dogs stroll on and off the “stage” and small children run in and out of the legs of the actors, to no one’s chagrin. During improvisations a performer may touch members of the audience or refer to them by name.

Extravagant sets and props are only seen in lavish hotel performances. In the villages, the audience fills in the stage with its own imagination. Antonin Arthaud’s theory of modern theater derived from the traditional, open Balinese performing stage, modeling its negation of the spectator/actor separation.

Small children huddled together in the front row scurry away giggling and screaming as the Queen of the Witches, Rangda, and lunges at them. And when the king gestures for his clown/servant, with the whole audience waiting, the clown’s raspy, bawdy voice emanates from a nearby ‘warung’ where he is found drinking, completely ignoring the king, the dance, and the audience, which roars with laughter at such antics.

When the kendang players leave their instruments for a few moments, children scamper to take their places. No one shoos them away; the cacophony they produce is accepted as part of the densely textured celebration. By breaking the traditional barrier between performer and audience, the message is brought even closer to home.

The size of the crowd is the only sign of whether a drama is coming off successfully or not. Just as a choral performance in a Western church expects no response, a good dance performance will not provoke any applause because dance is looked upon more as an offering than as a performance. It’s believed that always present among the spectators – invisible but keenly attentive – are the ancestors, gods, and demons.

Rehearsals
Dance groups are organized by the villagers into an association along the same lines as a musical society. The community contributes money, trains dancers, and acquires instruments. Those who can’t dance or play music contribute in some other way, such as building dance platforms, taking tickets, or making costumes.

Banjar community halls are the scenes of gamelan and dance practice several nights a week. Dancing is also taught in the mud – walled courtyard of family compounds – the proprietor of your ‘losmen’ may even be a dance teacher-and in the forecourts of temples.

Tourist Performances
Tourism is a vigorous and generous patron of the performing arts. The income produced is a great incentive for ensembles and dance groups to preserve and expand, and the money earned keeps being recycled in ever larger and grander extravaganzas for the gods.

Currently, 18 different drama and/or dance performance genres are represented regularly for tourists; many other troupes perform on a less regular basis. Five villages present ‘barong’, four do ‘kecak’ (one with a “fire dance”), six show ‘legong’, one presents ‘wayang kulit’, one ‘tetekan’. Get the booklet published by Dinas Pariwisata from their office at Jl. Bakung Sari 1, Kuta, or in Denpasar, to learn about the times and places.

To accommodate the dances and dramas, about a dozen permanent venues have been established in the troupes’ home villages of Batubulan, Bona, Sanur, Kuta, Legian, Ubud, and Peliatan where tourists arrive by the busload. Most tourists seem to end up sooner or later in Bona, but there are excellent productions put on in Peliatan near Puri Agung, and Padangtegal in Ubud, three streets to the east of Jl. Tebesaya. Dance presentations are also put on in the big hotels of Sanur and Nusa Dua during dinner.

Just because dances are put on for tourists, it doesn’t mean that they’re not high quality. To the Balinese, paid dances are not “floor shows” but an integral part of their culture. This applies to performances deliberately designed to appeal to a foreign audience like the Ramayana and commercial spectacles derived from rites of exorcism like the so-called “Angel Dance” and “Fire Dance.”

In a number of instances, such as in performances of the ‘pendet’, Balinese ritual dances have been adapted to pure tourist entertainment. The Balinese feel an extreme embarrassment when they attempt to separate the sacral from the profane. They partially overcome this difficulty by making a distinction between those dances performed for the divine or supernatural (sakti) and those performed for demons (suci). But even in commercial presentations, the headdresses, masks and ‘kris’ are consecrated before a performance, rendering them “magic.” In other words, the Balinese do not differentiate between a commercial show and a rite of exorcism.

Some of the most accomplished dancers on the island take part in these tourist performances, their participation bringing them a reliable source of income-about Rp10,000 per performance. The Balinese also feel that the dances bestow magical/mystical benefits on their villages.

Some venues, such as in Denjalan just outside of Batubulan, have presented dances almost continuously since 1936. The performance halls are big, decorated, airy, thatched buildings with brick stages and row upon row of elevated bamboo seats. A split gateway usually towers over the stage.

Tables are set up outside with attendants and vendors selling tickets for Rp5000-7500 and audiotapes for Rp6000-10,000. Programs are available in numerous languages. As a rule, the productions are enthralling and absolutely professional. There is always a barong, an ambling, goofy monkey, pretty dancing girls, a king, a prince, a servant, a villain or two, and a trance fire dance. It’s customary to applaud after the show.

Although the movements are the same in secular tourist dances as they are in ritual dances, the dances are not complete. The stories have been modified, the action moves uninterruptedly, and the dances are abridged to adjust to the Western attention span-usually an hour to an hour and a half. This may be a bit long for very young children and, because the music is so loud, you may want to sit a few rows back.

Take a pillow as seating may be uncomfortable. Get there early so you can sit in one of the front rows. If you don’t, other tourists will stand up in front of you every few minutes to take pictures. Camera flashes during a performance are extremely distracting to other viewers, but expect a lot of them.

During the show, stroll backstage and see the actors dressing and going on and off stage. You might even be able to have your picture taken with the arch villain! After the show, you can meet and chat with the actors and musicians while they stop for a drink at an outside ‘warung’.

Wayang Kulit

One of the oldest forms of dramatic entertainment, ‘wayang kulit’ is a performance of flat leather puppets in the hands of a mystic storyteller, the dalang, who casts their shadows on a backlit screen. This ‘wayang’ form exerts a powerful magnetism over Balinese of all ages. For sheer enjoyment, it’s even preferred over the more spectacular ‘wayang topeng’, in which human beings act like puppets.

With its fluid, ethereal music and epic themes, its eerie shadows, its slapstick comedy, ‘wayang kulit’ is an extraordinary mixture of ribaldry and mysticism. It is at the same time a morality play, a religious experience, and pure entertainment.

For the Balinese, ‘wayang kulit’ also serves as a medium through which they learn about their classical literature, the Mahabharata and the Ramayana. Referred to as “Society’s Teacher,” the stories narrated are all important in Balinese education, its range of anecdotes covering all of life’s situations.

‘Wayang kulit’ was popular at the court of King Airlangga of East Java in the 11th century. Through the 11th to 14th centuries, it was used by Hindu teachers on Bali to propagate their religion. Though the chants relating the stories of Rama and Arjuna were sung in ancient Sanskrit, the texts were always interpreted by storytellers into everyday Balinese idiom. All the classics of Hindu mythology were eventually adapted into this theater so as to inculcate the masses. Even though the attractions of the electronic age-TV and video-have devastated this art form over the past decade, ‘wayang kulit’ can be seen at important stages in the life of a Balinese: weddings, toothfiling ceremonies, children’s birthdays, cremations, marriages, and temple feasts.

Performances are also put on by hotels as entertainment for guests. In the presentation put on at Denpasar’s Hotel Puri Pemecutan, the performance is shortened to cater to a Western audience. In the ‘wayang kulit’ staged at Sanur’s Mars Hotel, some of the characters speak English. The shadow puppet theater staged at Oka Kartini’s in Ubud is the medium’s only public performance; it’s also the most authentic because all the characters speak High Balinese. Be sure to take in a show if you hear of one, as they are becoming less common. Always announced in advance, shows start at around 2100. The traditional six- or seven-hour performance, which takes place out in the villages, is divided into three principal parts. The leading characters seldom appear before midnight, and the plot is resolved just as the sun comes up in the real world.

The Dalang
The mystic narrator of the ‘wayang kulit’, the dalang, is not only a skilled artist but also a great spiritual teacher and philosopher, a master of eloquence and poetic embellishment. He is the true star of this shadow theater that almost single-handedly directs the whole drama.

The ‘dalang’ must be a captivating juggler and have surpassing endurance; able to remain seated for more than six straight hours while deftly manipulating his puppets. Each puppet may weigh up to a kilo, and he may be required to handle as many as three or four at a time.

The ‘dalang’ is a refined classical orator and linguist who can sing episodes from the Mahabharata and Ramayana in as many as 47 different poetic measures, demonstrating an astonishing memory. He also conducts the gender ‘wayang’ orchestra with its drums and other percussion instruments, and he is also an accomplished musician who can play each one of the instruments if need be.

Years of training in the now-defunct Kawi language and a scholar’s knowledge of the rich fund of Balinese literature are also required of the ‘wayang kulit’ master. The ‘dalang’ is as well an ordained priest who can make offerings and divert evil, possessing a formidable sakti – magic power – with which he can move his audience to laughter or to tears.

‘Dalang’ are slowly becoming extinct. In the 1930s there were perhaps one thousand puppeteers on the island; now there are fewer than 20. The most famous are I Ketut Rupik of Lukluk, I Wayan Wija of Sukawati, I Wayan Dibia (a lecturer at STSI), and I Wayan Nartha.

The Staging
The translucent screen (kelir) is a rectangle of white cloth stretched on a bamboo frame and lit by an oil lamp (damar) hanging directly above the dalang’s head. The primitive coconut-oil or a gas-flare lamp, set behind the screen, is preferred over an electric bulb as its warm, flickering flame dramatizes, enlarges, and mystifies the motions of the puppets.

‘Wayang kulit’ can also be staged in the daytime when the usual screen is replaced by twine tied between two poles or the branches of a tree, allowing the audience to view the puppets directly. At the foot of the screen is the soft trunk of a banana tree where the pointed horn ends of the puppets are stuck when not in use. The ‘dalang’ sits cross-legged next to a long, coffin-shaped wooden chest (kropak) in which are stored his puppets. Between the toes of the dalang’s right foot is a buffalo horn taper with which he knocks out sharp raps on the kropak clapper, providing sound effects, punctuating the action, signaling starts and stops, changing the tempo and moods, and cueing the musicians.

Behind the ‘dalang’ sit the musicians, usually a virtuoso gender orchestra consisting of four xylophones in the case of the Mahabharata, plus a few ‘kendang’ and kettle gongs for excerpts from the Ramayana. The musicians must play specific music-such as martial music or love music-consistent with the scene so that the music and drama mesh perfectly. After offerings are made and all is ready, the ‘dalang’ strikes the wooden box containing the puppets, signaling the delicate tones of the ‘gamelan’ to begin. Suddenly, a leaf-shaped shadow (kayon) appears. This mysterious motif, a link between the various scenes and also used to mark the beginning and end, is thought to derive either from the holy mountain Meru or the Tree of Life. When in use, the cosmic kayon silhouette is placed always in the center of the screen, waving in and out of focus, seeming to tremble in time with the music.

By its movements or its angle, the kayon prepares the mood of the episode to follow, or may represent water, fire, or wind. When the kayon is removed, the show begins. The ‘dalang’ strikes the kropak three times in order to “awaken” the puppets. He then introduces the characters one at a time, the ‘wayang’ figures raised and pressed flat against the kelir.

Though both forms share the same repertory, the Balinese puppets have longer necks, smaller bodies, and are more naturalistically carved than Javanese wayang, which are made much more stylistically because Islam forbids realistic portrayal of the human or animal form.

Puppets are manipulated by three long stem-like supports of horn or bamboo; one for the body and one for each arm. With only their arms jointed, their acting consists of rhythmical fast arm gestures while the ‘dalang’ recites their lines. Small boys love to sit in back on the dalang’s side of the screen to marvel at his deft hands and to better appreciate the designs and colors of the puppets.

The puppets can tilt, advance, retreat, fall, pivot, dance, fight, rise, hover, come down from the sky, or fly up like a bird. For an otherworldly effect, the puppets are moved toward or away from the screen, the shadows themselves becoming sharp black outlines or blurry grays, always fading and wavering and mysterious.

Plots
On the framework of a scenario which would take only about five minutes to read in its entirety, the ‘dalang’ unfolds a six-hour drama in which he continuously narrates, chants poetry, sings, does sound effects, and simultaneously carries on many-sided dialogues.

Throughout the presentation the gamelan keeps up a steady accompaniment that echoes, evokes, and amplifies the intertwined themes and actions of the poetic drama. Since many of the characters and episodes are accompanied by their own appropriate musical theme and mode of articulation, the audience is able to imagine who is talking and exactly where in the story the event is taking place, even without following the dalang’s narration. The appearance of a certain puppet tells the audience immediately just what episode is about to be enacted.

The ‘dalang’ must have an encyclopedic knowledge of the Hindu epics; the Mahabharata alone has 90,000 couplets, seven times longer than Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey put together. Not that the whole poem needs to be presented, but he must vary the episodes enough to hold the interest of his very discerning audience.

The Mahabharata deals with the feud between two rival royal families, the Pandawas and the Korawas. It’s a story of treachery, jealousy, banishment, and a battle so awful that it made “the rivers stand still, the sun pale, and the mountains tremble.” In this classic, the mighty hero Bima unleashes a furious attack on the evil Korawas, who are finally exterminated.

Or the play could present the theme of the Ramayana in which Prince Rama tries to rescue his beloved Sita from the clutches of the monster-king, Rawana. Rama is helped by a great army of monkeys, led by their flamboyant and fearless leader, the white ape Hanuman. The two armies meet in a clash so terrible that millions die on both sides. The ranks of the clumsy ‘raksasa’ are swarmed over by biting, clawing, screaming monkeys and at last give way. As in the Mahabharata, absolute virtue in the end wins out over absolute evil, without which cosmic order would be unattainable.

Modern stories have started to make their appearance on the shadow puppet stage. An example is I Wayan Dibia’s experimental Balinization of Racine’s Phaedra, complete with raunchy dirty jokes and not-so-oblique jabs at political figures.

You’re also beginning to see performances in broken English, which often break up both the Westerners and the Balinese in the audience. These two-language presentations are still in their formative stages, but their supporters believe that they have the potential of becoming a cross-cultural experience for those who don’t understand Balinese. I, for one, believe they taint this theatrical form in the same way that foreign films are ruined when dubbed in English.

Characters
The heroes of these plays are the models after which the Balinese pattern their behavior and judge their neighbors and colleagues. Each character, whether a hero or a villain, is sharply defined by means of his headdress, color, garments, shape of eyes, and so on. The noble characters of the Right speak in Kawi, and the gruff ogres, raksasa, and demons of the Left speak in the Low Balinese tongue, or even in Indonesian. Whichever language is used, it’s always spoken in the appropriate speech level, style, and accent.

The comic retainers of the heroes remain the most popular and amusing of all the ‘wayang’ personalities. While the august figures of Hindu origin wear the Indian dhoti, hold themselves aloof, and speak with airs, these indigenous clowns, with no apparent counterpart in the Hindu pantheon, wear the Malayo-Polynesian sarong and behave ludicrously, yet possess great magic and power. Two righteous clowns and two wicked clowns are always pitted against one another in a jocular bawdy rivalry. Twalen and his son Merdah, on the side of truth and goodness, are in constant and hilarious conflict with their antagonists, Sangut and Delam, flying across the screen, jabbing and knocking into each other, alternating biting insults with riotous good-natured exchanges. They parody the poetic love scenes, employ spells on their foes, change into old women, and mutter cynical jokes, as spectators hold their sides in laughter. The clowns also play a useful dramatic role by translating from Kawi into the vernacular.

The Balinese say that Twalen is actually the son of the god Tintiya Himself, but since he liked his worldly pleasures so much he renounced his right to be deified in exchange for the freedom to eat, drink, and make merry as much as he wished. Beloved, impudent, and faithful Twalen is the Sancho Panza, the Poncho, and the Falstaff of Balinese Theater.

Wayang Topeng

A masked-dance theater, wayang topeng features a troupe of grand kings, ministers, and clowns depicting semi-historical, semi-legendary stories. Excerpts of this wayang form can be seen at most tourist performances. Each regency of Bali features a different style of costuming, dancing, and topeng, which also means “mask.”

As part of a large number of religious activities-processions, offerings, and prayers-topeng theater is most often staged during elaborate temple anniversary celebrations called ‘odalan’. Although the melodic accompaniment of the ‘gamelan’ is essential, in topeng the emphasis is on the unfolding of the plot.

Though it’s now rare on Java, wayang topeng stems from the ancient Javanese practice of masked dancers performing at primitive death rites. Its introduction on Bali dates from the 16th century. Today’s masked plays are usually derived from the historical romances, chivalrous military adventures, court intrigues, and passionate love stories of local Balinese kings and heroes. Topeng has even derived elements from the ancient pre-Hindu gambuh dance. The lines that separate fact, legend, and magic are fuzzy: mythic struggles and religious epics unravel side by side with common tales and topical problems.

Characters
You see the whole gamut-stoic, cowardly, and simple-minded characters alongside effeminate, sweet, and cruel ones. There are even parts for bulbous or long-nosed tourists, whom everybody guffaws at, and in historical dramas the conquering Dutch colonialists are portrayed as bumbling fools. During the Japanese occupation, the clowns acting in the periphery of the epic passed on covert Resistance information to the audience.

Female roles are always played by men. Although usually a mix, a topeng play almost always starts out with a petulant Prime Minister (patih) who can either be a refined or gruff character. Another popular character is the Prime Minister who has retired but is called back into active service by his king. These highborn characters do not condescend to speak their parts. Other stories recount the exploits of a humble frog that turns into a noble prince when he is very old.

The masks of the demons and the animals both share the same characteristics-flaring nostrils, bulging eyes, extended, elaborate fangs-reflective of all the base, animalistic traits which all of us have at least in part. On the other side are the heroes who are actually incarnations of gods and goddesses. With their beautiful, refined countenances, they represent spiritual perfection.

Invariably, there is always the dotting ‘orang tua’, a pale-faced old man. Back bent and moustache drooping, the ‘orang tua’ continually nods off to sleep, examines his white hair for lice, and stumbles weakly, almost falling into the audience from time to time. It’s an extremely poignant performance.

Stock characters also include nobility like kings who stride and dance in the refined court style with jeweled kris at their backs. Since the others cannot speak through their finely crafted masks, but only pantomime, the clowns provide a running narration, interpreting royalty’s gestures in Low Balinese so that the audience can follow the story.

Clumsy male clowns, Penasar and Kartala, are usually cast in the role of absurd body-servants to dignified masters. Often there are two clowns who take on opposing roles, copying their master, making jokes to the side, encouraging him in a servile manner. One, Penasar, is pompous and struts around the stage lording it over his half-witted younger brother, Kartala, who gets back at Penasar by sarcastically imitating his self-importance. The audience rolls as the two exchanges barbed witticisms and bawdy jokes.

One particularly adored clown routinely rushes into the audience at the end of a performance and abducts one of the children to the other side of the curtain, where he’s given cakes and sweetmeats to share with his friends. The comic character, Jero Dalam Pegek (literally, “end of the ceremony”), is an amalgam of madman, god, king-an embodiment of the sacred and the potentially subversive. His presence is associated with a myth that reminds the audience not to be deceived by appearances.

The clowns, equally at home in both the absurd and the sublime episodes, are known by the type of mask they wear. Whereas the masks of gods and kings are full and cover the entire face, the clowns wear only partial masks with their mouths and chins exposed, enabling them to sing and speak in three languages. Or they may wear no mask at all but just a painted face.

The Actors and Their Masks
In most topeng plays, three or four actors, normally men, take on the roles of all the characters, each with a sharply defined personality. Refined, noble characters wear full masks; clowns and servants wear half-masks allowing them to speak, narrate or expound morality.

A full set of 30-40 topeng masks might belong to a solitary star that could perform four or five successive dances with different masks in the topeng pajegan. Giving life to a grotesque, immobile face of wood requires great subtlety and skill. It is truly an inspiring spectacle to watch these actors make their masks cry, breathe, sweat, bellow, moan, bleat.

A powerful bond-taksu-exists between a sensitive actor and his masks. When the actor dons his mask, he is linked to the spiritual realm, blessed by the gods. His task is to transform himself, to change his voice to his character’s, to infuse his performance with its spirit. Sometimes you hear the comment “It was a technically superb performance, but there was no taksu.”

Just before each play the performer pauses for a moment unseen and attempts to enter into the archetypal character represented by each mask during this private moment he sprinkles holy water over himself and recites sacred mantras. This is the actor’s last conscious act, as the moment he comes on stage he is oblivious to all but the personality and energy of his character.

On stage, the shiny beautiful masks with big mysterious eyes seem as if suspended in air. Some kingly masks radiate such authority and power that villagers have been known to fall into a trance when seeing them for the first time, and it’s believed that certain masks can even induce trances from which actors never recover. Rare and prized masks are paid awesome reverence, and offerings of incense and flowers are regularly dedicated to them.

You will never be able to try on one of these sacred topengs, as it would offend its spirit to be taken up by a stranger. When not in use, masks are covered neatly with a white cloth, stored in a specially made basket, and kept high up in the temple where they must “sleep together” and not be separated. After a famous actor dies, his masks are never moved from the spot where they were at his death. The oldest surviving set of masks is kept in a temple in the village of Blahbatuh.