theater

Read the assignment 12 from Javanese Performances on an Indonesian Stage by Barbara Hatley and post your thoughts for the assigned reading and respond/comment on one other classmate’s posting.

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JAVANESE PERFORMANCES ON
AN INDONESIAN STAGE

Contesting Culture, Embracing Change

Barbara Hatley

Asian Studies Association of Australia

in association with

UNIVERSITY OF HAWAI’I PRESS

HONOLULU

First published by:

NUS Press
AS3-0 1-02, 3 Arts Link
Singapore 117569

Published in North America by:

University of Hawai’i Press
2840 Kolowalu Street
Honolulu, HI 96822
www.uhpress.hawaii.edu

(i’
I
J

All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in
any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying

recording or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be
invented, wi thout written permission from the Publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hatley, Barbara.
Javanese performances on an Indonesian stage: Contesting culture, embracing

change / Barbara Hatley.
p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-0-8248-3295-7 (pbk.)

1. Theater – Indonesia – Yogyakarta – History – 20th century. 2. Theater and
society – Indonesia – Yogyakarta – History – 20th century. 1. Title.

PN2906.Y64H38 2008
792.09598’2709 041 – dc22

2007052918

Cover: Bondan Nusantara introducing a community show held in the wake of

the devastating 28 May 2006 earthquake in Yogyakarta. Photo supplied
by Bondan Nusantara.

Printed in Singapore

To the performers~

who made it all possible

Introduction

This book explores 30 years of stage performances in Central Java in
a period of dramatic social change. It begins in the 1970s when the
structures and institutions of the powerful New Order State were being
established, moves through the monetary boom and cultural globalisation
of the 1980s and 1990s, then traces the times of economic hardship
and social conflict, political decentralisation and increased political
freedom that followed the New Order’s demise in 1998. By looking
at the way popular theatre developed in response to socio-po litical
circumstances, it illuminates both the workings of Javanese theatre and
the local impact of major social change.

The main site for this exploration is Yogyakarta. An o ld court centre
strongly invo lved in the national struggle for Indonesian Independence
and in ongoing national politics, and whose myriad educational institu-
tions draw staff and students from across the archipelago , Yogyakarta
is hardly a ‘typical’ Javanese city. Yet its national significance, diverse
population and rich cultura l history make Yogyakarta an ideal place to
examine how theatre gives expression to the social experience and sense
of identity of audience members who are both culturally Javanese and
modern Indonesian.

PERSONAL EXPERIENCES, 1970s-90s

My first encounter with theatre in Yogyakarta took place in the 1970s.
Then my focus was on ketoprak, a form of Javanese-language popular
melodrama with a repertoire drawn from Javanese history and legend,
which I was researching for my PhD. Watching the nightly perform-
ances of the five commercial troupes based in the city and a myriad of
amateur shows celebrating community events, I developed a sense of
how ketoprak’s tales of the past gave expression to contemporary social
concerns and cultural val u es for its wong ciiik, I lower-class participants.
In the 1980s and early 1990s I began to follow developments in teater,

2
Javanese Perfbrm ances on a n Indo nesian Stage

Indonesian-language , scripted plays. At this time of strong govern-
ment concrol, modern theatre provided room for its young, educated,
overwhelmingly male practitioners [0 indirectly critique contemporary
political authorities through satirical interpretations of Javanese his[Ory.
Both ketoprak and teater might be described as ‘popular’ in their dis-
tance from classical theatre traditions and their close connections with
particular social groups.

By the late 1990s, social changes in Yogyakarta and elsewhere in
Indonesia seemed to challenge this picture of close integration between
theatre and local social life. The forces of capitalist development and

globalisation were physically transforming the city and having a major
impact on theatre and the media. Multi-storied international hotels
and sumptuous bank buildings were being erected along the main
thoroughfares; middle-class housing complexes were spreading out into
the rice fields that once marked the city’s perimeter. In 1992 on the

historic main street of Malioboro there appeared the amazing appari-
tion of the Malioboro Mall- gleaming, multi-levelled, with escalators ,
designer clothing boutiques and a McDonald’s restaurant. In the field
of arts and media, four new commercial television channels had been
established alongside the single government station, which until this
time had enjoyed a monopoly over television broadcasting. Troupes
performing traditional theatre lost audiences and disbanded; modern
theatre groups suffered a haemorrhage of performers [0 sinetron, tele-
movies produced to provide a modicum of local content alongside a
Aood of imported programmes.

In August-September 1997 I went to Java for two months to

investigate these changes, to explore whether and in what ways local
performances still conveyed social meaning in an age of commoditisa-
tion and globalisation. June-September had been the big months for
performances for weddings and circumcisions, anniversaries of organisa-

tion s and for celebrations of 17 August, Indonesian Independence day.
During the 1970s and 1980s, community concerts (ma/am kesenian)
held to mark Independence Day had conveyed a sense of neighbour-
hood identity as residents of all ages and interests, from tiny preschool

dancers to teenage rock bands [0 middle-aged lady choirs, contributed
to the show. A ketoprak performance often constituted the final, star
attraction of the event; a common theme of villager hero defending his
kingdom might be seen to express a kind of local, grass roots “nation-
alism” (Hatley, 1982). To what extent were performances of this kind

still prevalent in the late 1990s? What did their content and mode of

In troduction 3

. . A t about the contemporary functions and perceived organisation re ec
meanings of local theacre?

SEPTEMBER 1997 – A NIGHT ON THE TOWN

Two months in Yogyakarta to catch up on developments in t.he p~rform
. arts seems but the blink of an eye in light of all that IS g01l1g on,
1l1g . h· . I
but I try. With three separate performances to take 111 on t IS parrlCu ar

. ht my video batteries charged and notebook at the ready, the first I1lg , .
I·S dinner to fortify myself for the task. The place I head for IS stop’ . . .

hardly a quiet spot, situated next to a sports stadium, fac1l1g the ma1l

telephone office, at the junction of several busy roads, wI~h .thelr streams
of roaring motorbikes and exhaust-belching buses. But It IS near where
I am staying, on the way to my first destination, and serves a good
gado-gado (vegetables with spicy peanut sauce) very fast.

Tonight, as I approach, the small restaurant seems to be at the hub

of a maelstrom of people, noise and entertainment. From the stadium
comes a noise like an earthquake or impending revolution, amplified

rock music assaulting the feet via the shuddering earth and the ears
in waves of distorted sound. Huge numbers of young men in their
late teens, with jeans, black T-shirts and long , dishevelled hair, stream
through the gates . Right across the road, at the prestigious state senior

high school, similar waves of amplified music and thronging crowds
indicate a major “happening”. Traffic has been partially blocked off and
stalls set up along the street. Inside the school complex, a huge screen
and stage mark the site of a performance later that night of wayang
kulit shadow puppet theacre by the famous and highly paid puppeteer,
Anom SurO[O. All this is taking place as parr of several days of lustrum

celebrations, five yearly events organised by school alumni.
Eating at that spot, between the two crowds and the dual walls

of sound while the traffic roars relentlessly by, I experience an intense ,

embodied sense of Yogyakarta in the late 1990s, in all its rush and

noise, its teeming life and cacophonous voices. Setting out to locate
and analyse such voices as they are expressed in performance events, for
a moment I am no longer the detached researcher but a helpless, in-

voluntary participant, engulfed and overwhelmed by aggressive noise.
But the dismay is momentary and the search goes on. The rock

concert, of course, is off-limits to me , and anyone of my advanced years,
local or foreign. Later that night I will return to watch the wayang, to
gaze from afar for a time until summoned by a batik-shirred official to

4
Javanese PeifOrmances on an Indonesian Stage

a front seat alongside similarly clad dignitaries, prominent alumni of
the school who constitute the organising committee for the festivities
and their honoured guests. But first there are two other shows to take
in. Less than 200 metres from the rock concert and the wayang, in the
Bentara Budaya cultural centre attached to the offices of the Kompas
newspaper, a mime performance is taking place. Cemek, a diminutive
Yogyakarta actor and mime artist, with a colourful past as a thief and
standover man, is playing out a meditation on power and oppression
entitled Kuasa Mahakuasa (Power and Omnipotence) . A youthful crowd
of university students, journalists and artists watch as Cemek, Marcel
Marceau-like in white face, mimes subservience to, then rebellion against,
a peremptory, remote-controlled rocking chair symbolising tyrannical,
unseen authority. Next he and several fellow actors whisper and shout
in parody of the confused, contradictory accounts of witnesses in a then
current court case over the murder of a crusading journalist.

Just as the show ends, I race out to hail a pedicab for the short
ride to my next destination , the sumptuous princely home of a brother
of the reigning sultan, not far from the palace itself. The head of the
classical dance group who invited me to watch his group perform
here , an uncle of the host and the Sultan, has made no mention of
the nature of the occasion being celebrated. So the guests and I are
equally disconcerted as I bumble incongruously into an elegant private
party, where aristocratic relatives of the host and moguls of the tourist
industry are dining at white-clothed tables set up around the edges of
a beautiful pavilion (pendopo) , in which the dance is being presented.
Nevertheless, after a moment’s confusion, I am graciously received
and seated at a table as the dancers perform an excerpt of court dance
drama. The host explains that this performance is being held to mark
the commencement in a few weeks’ time of a new venture, his pre-
sentation of dinner and classical dance shows for tourists on the model
of existing programmes in other aristocratic homes. But while these
other shows all play out the Ramayana legend as a simple love story
with a dramatic climax, seen as unfailingly attractive to tourists, his
focus will be the other epic of the Javanese dance drama repertoire,
the Mahabharata.

Then back to the wayang. While delighting in Anom’s sonorous
singing and the witty repartee of his puppet characters, I chat politely
about the Australian educational system with my distinguished, ba-
tik-shirted neighbour. Awestruck acquaintances, watching from afar,
report later that my companion has been none other than the head of

Introduction 5

the Department of Education and Culture for the whole Yogyakarta
district! I start with surprise at unexpected additions to wayang as I
have known it , such as nude puppets with movable penises , Muslim
music played on tambourines and a solo pop song by an audience
member, who turns out to be the wife of a well-placed military man.
Finally, around 3 o’clock, when the waves of tiredness become too
much , I walk home to bed , to drift off to sleep with the amplified

sound of Anom’s glorious voice still filling my ears.

***
Three performances within a few hundred metres and a fourth close by,
each with their own form , their own purpose, their distinct audiences.
No doubt other shows were staged that night in different parts of the
city to mark other events. A rock co ncert, a shadow puppet play, clas-
sical court dance and politically oriented mime illustrate only a few of
the types of performance on view. On other occasions I saw or heard
about scores of productions of ketoprak; several concerts of dangdut,
a hybrid Middle Eastern/Indian/Malay musical form, with a pulsing
beat, gyrating, scantily clad female singers and huge male audiences;
jathilan, hobby horse trance dance, performed by itinerant buskers and
by a group of teenage boys and girls to mark a village celebration of
Independence Day; experimental Western-style theatre, classical music
recitals and performances of Islamic music and Arabic chanting to celeb-
rate Muslim religious holidays. Neighbourhood concerts celebrating
Independence Day also abounded. The first of my research questions
was emphatically answered. Local performances were thriving in the
Yogyakarta of the late 1990s, despite the hubbub of globalised media

culture.

MILIEU AND MEANING

Along with the overall vitality of performance aCtiVity, the above
descriptions also illustrate connections between theatrical events and
particular social groups. The rock concert and the mime presentation,
as modern forms influenced by Western models, were staged com-
mercially, for a paying public. The wayang and classical dance had
been organised by the alumni committee and the Sultan’s brother in
the context of specific celebrations. As regional, ‘traditional’ art forms
they would more rarely be performed as a paying show.

2
But in each

6 Javanese Performances on a n Indo n esian Stage

case the show was observed by people from a particular social milieu
rather than an amorphous ‘general public’. 3

Differences in social status and education clearly playa key role
in this process: attendance at particular kinds of performance marks the
lifestyle of a specific social group. Here are examples, one might sug-
gest, of the kind of choices described by Pierre Bourdieu as he traced
links between social class groupings and their members’ tastes in art

and ent~rtainment (Bourdieu, 1984) . University students , through their
academIC and recreational activities , have acquired enouah contact with
foreign cultures to appreciate the conventions of Weste~1 mime and to
defin~ themselves as part of a modern-minded, cultured, socially criti-
cal elIte who watch modern theatre in a theatre building. Government

officials and prominent professionals watching a wayang performance,
r~nowned as the ‘ highest’ of Javanese art forms, are accumulating a
sIzeable store of cultural capital as they sit resplendent in the VIP seats

with their colleagues and other dignitaries. Contemporary aristocrats,
observing an excerpt, tailored for tourists, of the court dance drama

~nce presented with spectacular grandeur in the sultan’s palace, are liv-
mg out and capitalising upon their elite heritage. And the middle-class
youth at the rock concert are expressing their rejection of local social
hierarchy and hypocrisy through images and expressions drawn from
a global culture of youth rebellion .

Yet the Yogyakarta scene differs in important ways from the
European model of a leisure and culture marketplace, ordered by
personal taste as a reAection of class status. Government officials do not

at.tend j~st any wayang but the one being organised by the organisation
w~th whIch t~ey are associated. Also present at the show are not just
elIte figures lIke themselves but a crowd of ordinary citi zen s, who are
being provided with entertainment through the largesse of their social
betters, acting out their m a rginal social status as they stand packed

~oget?er, ~atching behind th e roped-off seating area. Factors of group
Id~ntIficatIon , patronage and noblesse oblige are s till very much in
eVIdence. Even at modern, commercial performances, audiences tend

to be not only drawn from similar social circles but to have many
common cOI1I:ections. After the mime presentation, for example, virtually
no other audIence members left straight away as I did; the others all
stayed back in the theatre building to chat with friends.

What is taking place here is arguably an adaptation to new settings
and purpos.es of the. long-esta blished Javanese practice of nduwe gawe,
the celebratIOn of an ImpOrtant event in the life of a family or community.

i ntroductio n 7

The marriage of a d a ughter, the circumcision of a son – these were
the kinds of events that a famil y of some standing in the community
was expected to celebrate with a wayang perform a nce , confirming and
displaying the wealth and position of the hosts , as w ell as providing
entertainment and an opportunity for sociability for their neighbours.
For those of lesser means several nights of chatting and card playing
(jagongan) at the tim e of such events provided a more modes t equivalent.
Now it is the wealthiest, most prestigious educational institutions
whose alumni hold lustrum celebrations and m a rk the occasion with
a wayang performance by one of Java’s best puppeteers (dalaniJ. For
years the Yogyakarta chapter of the government political party, Golkar,
would celebrate its election s uccess with a w ayang; in 1997 during my
stay the local newspaper, Kedaulatan Rakyat, on the 50th anniversary
of its founding, outshone all others with a glittering event involving
no less than three top dalang, each operating a separate screen and

accompanied by his own gamelan orchestra.
But at the same time , every day in towns , villages and across the

city, often dutifully documented in the local press, myriad more modest

performances mark significant occasions in the life of local organisa-
tions – satirical skits at a university graduation , a karaoke competition
for the anniversary of a youth group, a women’s gamelan concert at a

celebration by a neighbourhood wives’ organisation to mark the end of
the fasting month . In many cases , the institution and even the event
itself is a modern one modelled after a Western practice – a univer-

sity graduation or school alumni gathering. The mode of celebration,
however, draws on and perpetuates local practice through the staging of
a theatrical performance. As global cultutal inAuence pours in through
modern economic and political s tructures and the mass media , local

performances may take on a radically altered form . Yet their symbolic
function in celebrating group membership for particula r social groups is
not necessarily diminished. Indeed, such events may assume enhanced

importance, as assertions of an ongoing local identity, adapting to but
not swamped by international inAuences and practices .

INTEGRATION AND CONTESTATION

Symbolic anthropologists underline the significance of theatrical per-
formances and other ritual events as encapsulations of the perceived
meaning of experience for members of a particular culture. 4 Clifford
Geertz’s article on the Balinese cockfight, for example, is widely cited

8
Ja vanese Performa nces on an Indo nesian Stage

for its analysis of the role of such entertainment as cultural text . The
fight, Geertz argues, mirrors issues of status difference and social
alliance in its betting structure, while its ferocious savagery gives a vivid,
experiential sense of the potential violence beneath the calm of daily
life, the utter seriousness of status rivalry (Geertz, 1990). Performances
and rituals as texts are seen to embody a shared social meaning for
their participants as members of a common culture.

In the performances described above, celebration of shared group
identity is clearly an important aspect of the experience of attendance.
At the same time, wider social and political forces combine with local
dynamics in giving meaning to these events, creating both integrative
and “combative” effects. In a later article Geertz reports on rituals and
performances he observed in 1986 in the town of Pare in East Java on
a return visit to the site of his research of the 1950s. Staged variously
for the graduation of students at state and religious schools, a Muslim
prayer meeting, a ritual celebration at a pilgrimage site and the 40th
anniversary of the state police, these events represent the interests of
differing ideological streams in contemporary Javanese society. These
include the middle-class “youth culture” associated with the burgeon-
ing education system, conservative and modernist Islam , the spiritual
renewal (“neo-Javanist”) movement and the institutions of the state,
the last two both mobilising “traditional” Javanese cultural symbols.
Geertz links the intense interest of these events for their participants,
along with their often bland or jarringly inconsistent imagery, with the
displacement under the New Order regime of expressions of ideological
difference to the cultural realm. Purportedly non-political organisations,
including schools, cultural associations and religious groups, stage rituals
and performances, the key symbolism of which is assertion of posi-
tion – “part of the struggle for power, status, wealth and recognition”
(Geertz, 1990: 94).

Other scholars have documented processes of active enforcement
by the state of this “culturalisation” of difference, analysed its effects
and documented instances of resistance. Mary Zurbuchen, for example,
deconstructs the rhetoric of New Order cultural policies, as wittily
and very accurately reproduced in the political satires of the Jakarta
theatre group Teater Kama (Zurbuchen, 1989). Anthropologists and
ethnomusicologists such as Greg Acciaioli , Michael Dove and Amrih
Widodo describe how state authorities have banned from performance
elements of regional dances and music judged “unseemly” or contentious,
promoting instead bland, sanitised versions of these forms (Acciaioli,

Introductio n 9

1985; Dove, 1988 ; Widodo , 1995). Yet such actiVity creates its own

cultural politics. In the context of appropriation b~ the state o~ t~e

E
t Javanese horse dance pageant reyog, the cultivation of reyog 111 ItS as .

original form, with all its rough , aggressiv~ vigour, by local commUJ1i-
ties in dispute with the government proVides a strengthened sense of

identity and a vital symbo l of resistance (Wilson, 1999).

POLITICS, CHANGE AND JAVANESE THEATRE TRADITION

Combative, political roles of performance surely did not originate with
New Order culturalisation policies, displacing politics to culture. In
Java, and in Indonesia more generally, display of power and exertion

of political influence through theatrical , ritu~l events has. a l~ng and
well-charted history. It constitutes a key theme 111 the extenSive literature
on wayang shadow theatre, illustrating its status as the most iconic
of Javanese art forms. Drawing on Javanese discourse , Western social
scientists view wayang as the embodiment of a hegemonic, aristocratic
ideology emphasising social hierarchy, refinement and concentration of
political and spiritual power (Geertz, 1960; Anderson, 1966). Ward
Keeler, analysing structural correspondences between wayang and the
overall experience of being Javanese, shows how wayang gives expres-
sion to the everyday ‘politics’ of authority relations in family and com-
munity (Keeler, 1987) . Laurie Sears challenges the notion of a single
hegemonic wayang tradition. She argues that Javanese aristocrats and
Dutch administrators/scholars promoted a construct of wayang as a
refined court art, imbued with Hindu-Buddhist philosophy, suppressing
Islamic-influenced elements and village variants (Sears , 1996). Sears’
picture of an alternate village tradition of wayang, distinct from that
of the courts , is echoed in Richard Curtis’ contemporary account of a
distinct wong cilik appreciation of wayang’s humorous clown interludes
and dramatic battles , as opposed to the aesthetic, philosophical and

ritual aspects of the performance (Curtis, 1997).
The mobilisation of wayang by political parties in the 1950s

and 1960s, and its use by the state to convey propaganda messages
both in Sukarno times and under the New Order, has been widely
documented (Mc Vey, 1986; Groenendael, 1985) . Late-1990s wayang
as described by Jan Mrazek – commoditised spectacles with coloured
lights, multiple screens and famous comedians and glamorous singers
sharing the limelight with puppeteers, who themselves sing, dance and
appear as “guest stars” on television (Mrazek 1999, 2000) – seems

10 Java n ese Performances on a n I ndo n esian Stage

more involved with global media trends than local social and political
conditions . Yet Mrazek’s recent (2002) edited volume of articles on
wayang abounds with cases of performances intimately connected
with their local context, asserting East Javanese cultural identiry vis-

a-vis hon:~genising Ce~tral ~avanese models, for example, or bringing
communltJes together 111 SOCIal healing after the 1998 Solo riots. 5

Such studies provide ample evidence of wayang engaging with is-
sues of p.ower an~ other aspects o.f its current social context, and playing
an ongoll1g role 111 the constrUctIOn of social meaning through theatre.
However, partly because wayang has been so widely investigated by
others, I have chosen to explore this phenomenon through two other

theatre genres, ketoprak popular melodrama and modern Indonesian-

lan?uage t~eatre (teat~r). My choice has been motivated, moreover, by
an Interest 111 the particular ways in which ketoprak and teater relate to
Javanese th.eatre tradition. Both their collaborative, group-based mode

of prod~ctlon and their approach in interpreting Javanese theatrical
co~ventl~ns and symbols connect these forms particularly closely with
theIr SOCIal Contexts and with wider processes of change.

J~va~ese theatre forms, I suggest, draw on a shared store of
dramatic Images – character rypes, interactions, settings _ which
are ~resented and perceived in accordance with the conventions of the
speCIfic g~nre, the circumstances of production of particular performances
and ~he II1terests ~f certain. groups . Such imagery has an ambiguous,
multl-fac.eted qUallry, allowlOg for varied interpretation and potential

contestation of the ‘world ~iew’ expressed there . Rather than separate
sryl~s of performance cultIvated by different social constituencies I
POSIt a mor~ fluid picture. To view ‘normative’ wayang as the creati~n
of court anstocrats and Dutch officials and, similarly, to see this

froc~s.s re~roduced in the domination by New Order bureaucrats of
tradltlonal Javanese cultural practices (Pemberton 1994) .

, , overestimates
the hegemonic ro~e of elite grou~s, denying agency to others. Village
and kampung audIence members , 111 my experience, appreciate far more
of wayang performances than simply the spectacular fighting sequences

an~ clown humour. Ma~lY are deeply knowledgeable about wayang’s
phIlosophlc~ and aesthetic aspects, understood in spiritual terms rather
than connectIo~ with ari stocratic values and practices . Theatrical symbols
can convey a dIverse range of meanings. A telling example is cited by

Marc. Perlman, the case. of a C~urt dance drama devised in the early
r:ventleth.c:nt~ry by radICal natlonalistTjipto Mangunkusumo with the
aIm of cntlqull1g the policies of the Solo COUrt. As Perlman observes

Introduction II

“the tradition provides rhetorical resources for criticism of authoriry as
well as reinforcement” (Perlman , 1999: 25) .

New genres define their mode of social reference in di stinction

to that of older thea tre forms. Ketoprak and tea tel’ both appeared in
the early twentieth century as part of the transformative changes taking
place in Indonesi a at that time – intensified urbanisation , European
influence and emergent nationalist politics – and are marked by that
history. Ketoprak is characterised by its practitioners as straightforward
in expression, referring literally to the here- and-now, in contrast to the
figurative, allusive (pasemon) nature of wayang. Its language is seen as
direct, not complex and circuitous . It is also described as “about gover-
nance” (pemerintahan) – its stories of conflict between historical
kingdoms are seen to have explicit political meaning rather than
symbolising moral and spiritual struggles or cosmic principles like
the battles of wayang. Ketoprak conveyed populist political ideology

in the 1950s and early 1960s when many groups were aligned with
the Communist movement . After the transition to the New Order
its political connections and reference dramatically changed. Teater,

originating from contact with Western drama and using the national
language, Indonesian, belongs to the domain of modern Indonesian
culture, not the tradition of Javanese theatre. Teater is therefore able to
draw on the familiar images of Javanese theatre free of the constraints

of traditional theatrical convention. Blatant satirising of this imagery
along with subversion of the ideological concepts it encodes has been
one of the chief attractions for politically critical modern theatre actors
and their audiences.

Both ketoprak and teater engage with Javanese tradition with an
explicitly contemporary focus. The way performances are organised
and staged likewise connects them closely with their social environ-

ment. In ketoprak performances, often celebrating a communiry social
event, actors improvise dialogue reflecting on shared social experience

and mentioning topical local issues. Modern theatre groups employing
written scripts have less opportuniry for improvisation; however, in or-
ganising their own largely amateur activities rather than depending on
elite patrons, they can refer more boldly to current political issues.

The following account of theatre and change in Yogyakarta begins with

ketoprak in the 1970s . Opening chapters describe how ketoprak was

12 Javan ese Perfo rmances on an I ndo nesian Stage

appropriated by and accommodated ro the New Order governm ent, while
continuing to give expression to the experiences and perspectives of its
lower-class, village and kampung participants . Chapter Four traces the
development, from the late 1970s onwards, of a new style of theatre,
performed and watched largely by students and other educated youth .
Modern Indonesian-language plays drawing on Javanese “tradition” are
seen to provide an outlet for the critical political views of its participants
to reflect on their mixed Javanese/Indonesian sense of self.

In the 1990s the forces of commercialisation and globalisation ,
combining with ongoing authoritarian political control, presented both

challenges and new opportunities for theatre. As performance genres
blended in commoditised spectacles, practitioners ofketoprak and

teater

collaborated to stage huge stage events combining global cultural imagery
with local political reference. Chapter Five explores the resonance of these
shows for their largely young, urban, middle-class audiences. In the late

1990s, as the opposition towards the Suharto regime grew, performance
activities thrived in the atmosphere of heightened politicisation.

The post-New Order period, covered in the final three chapters,
presents many uncertainties. In the immediate post-Suharto years,
performance activity declined under the combined impact of economic
crisis and political instability. Identity and ideology could now be

expressed directly rather than being displaced to the field of cultural

display. Theatre’s role in voicing shared political critique faded with the
dispersal of the anti-Suharto opposition movement. Yet since 2003 the

Yogyakarta theatre scene has become livelier, as performances engage
with the politics of regional autonomy and democratisation and con-
vey varying reassessments of “Javanese tradition” . Diversity thrives, in

theatre as elsewhere in contemporary Indonesian society, resisting the
notion of general trends. But one possibility is a degree of re-creation
of ketoprak as a populist, participatory form, encouraged by democratic
ideology and devolved administrative structures. Another is the spread,
albeit contested, of more inclusive gender attitudes, and the participa-
tion of strong, talented women.

Yogyakarta in the 1970s –
Communities, Performances,

History

Yogyakarta in the mid- to late 1970s was a diverse, dynamic city. A
court centre steeped in tradition, it was also thoroughly wired into the
modern nation through its history as the centre of nationalist struggle
in the war of independence of the late 1940s and its current role as
educational capital of the nation. Its distinctive spatial formation,
with particular areas associated with specific social groups and cultural
activities, gave expression to this rich history and contemporary diver-

sity. This chapter outlines the physical and socio-cultural landscape of
Yogyakarta in the 1970s and locates the popular melodrama ketoprak
as a cultural form explicitly associated with the inhabitants of the

kampung, the crowded neighbourhoods between the city streets, defined
by themselves and others as wong cilik or underclass. It explores the
origins and meanings of the identification between ketoprak and the

wong cilik social group by giving an overview of ketoprak’s history of
development and mode of practice in the 1970s.

SPACE AND PLACE IN THE 1970s

area in the southern part of the city taken up by the palace (kraton)
and its surrounds. Within the remains of palace walls were the former
residences of retainers and troops, also workshops making batik cloth

294

sinetron

slametan

stamboel

sumpah palapa

tayuban

teater

TIM
warok
wayang kulitlwayang
wayang wong

wong cilik

Glossary

movie produced for television, usually in

serialised form

ritual gathering marking significant events

in family and community life

hybrid Malay/Middle Eastern/European

theatre form very popular in Indonesia in

late 19th and early 20th centuries

oath supposedly sworn by Gajah Mada,

prime minister of the fourteenth- to

fifteenth-century kingdom of Majapahit,

that he would not eat the palapa fruit

until the whole of the Malay-Indonesian

archipelago was unified

dance party in which male guests dance

with female professional dancer/singer

theatre derived from the model of European

drama, using written script

Taman Ismail Marzuki, Jakarta Arts Centre

rural strong man

shadow puppet theatre

dance drama with the same repertoire and

characters as wayang kulit

commoner, lower-class/underclass person.

Notes

Introduction

The term wong cilik or ‘l ittl e people’, ‘commoners’ historically indicated
the lower end of a divide berween ordinary people and the aristocracy
(priyayi). In recent times, occupation and place of residence, along with
income, have been the chief markers of membership of this social group
– smal l farmers and farm labourers, urban workers, street-stall owners
and pedicab drivers, for example, regard themselves and are thought of
by others as wong cilik.
Yet no absolute divide separates ‘traditional/indigenous’ from ‘modern/
Western’ performance in this regard. Popularised variants of traditional
court dance drama and other regional performance are staged in public
theatres as commercial entertainment; modern, Indonesian-language plays
or modern music/dance presentations often celebrate occasions (religious
events, schoo l anniversaries, national days) organised by a specific social
group.
Goenawan Mohamad observed several decades ago that the audiences for
modern performing arts, like those of traditional, regional theatre genres,
are not composed of an anonymous ‘general public’ but very distinct social
groupings with a particular interest in the form in question (Goenawan
Mohamad, 1980) .
“Cultures ,” writes Victor Turner “are better compared through their rituals ,
theaters, tales, ballads, epics, operas than through their habits. For the
former are the ways in which they try to articulate their meanings . .. ”
(Turner, personal communication , as quoted by Edward Bruner, 1986: 13).
Ward Keeler’s article in this vo lu me, “Wayang Kulit in the Political
Margin”, argues persuasively against attempts to apply to wayang misplaced
expectations of political critique and activism. However, involvement of
a diffuse kind in the ebb and flow of local “politics” broadly understood,
is clearly a longstanding aspect of wayang’s operation.

Chapter 1

See Sullivan (1992: 20-30) and Setiawan (1998: 59-65) for discussion
of the comp lexities of the term kampung, including its frequently quoted

295

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JAVANESE PERFORMANCES ON
AN INDONESIAN STAGE

Contesting Culture, Embracing Change

Barbara Hatley

Asian Studies Association of Australia

in association with

UNIVERSITY OF HAWAI’I PRESS

HONOLULU

First published by:

NUS Press
AS3-01-02, 3 Arts Link
Singapore 11756

Published in North America by:

University of Hawai ‘ i Press
2840 Kolowalu Street
Honolulu, HI 9682

www.uhpress.hawaii.edu

I
I

“”) J’
~ .’ .

‘T,h” ~ ~ .-I\IJ”‘”

All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in
any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be
invented, without written permission from the Publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hatley, Barbara.
Javanese performances on an Indonesian stage: Contesting culture, embracing

change / Barbara Hatley.
p. cm .

Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-0-8248-3295-7 (pbk.)

1. Theater – Indonesia – Yogyakarta – History – 20th century. 2. Theater and
society – Indonesia – Yogyakarta – History – 20th century. I. Title.

PN2906.Y64H38 2008
792.09598’2709041 – dc22

20070529

Cover: Bondan Nusantara introducing a community show held in the wake of

the devastating 28 May 2006 earthquake in Yogyakarta. Photo supplied
by Bondan Nusantara.

Printed in Singapore

To the performers~

who made it all possible

12 Javanese Performances on an Indonesian Stage

appropriated by and accommodated to the New Order government, while
continuing to give expression to the experiences and perspectives of its
lower-class, village and kampung participants. Chapter Four traces the
development, from the late 1970s onwards, of a new style of theatre,
performed and watched largely by students and other educated youth.
Modern Indonesian-language plays drawing on Javanese “tradition” are
seen to provide an outlet for the critical political views of its participants
to reflect on their mixed Javanese/Indonesian sense of self.

In the 1990s the forces of commercialisation and globalisation,
combining with ongoing authoritarian political control, presented both
challenges and new opportunities for theatre. As performance genres

blended in commoditised spectacles, practitioners ofketoprak and

teater

c~lIaborated t.o.stage huge stage events combining global cultural imagery
WIth local polltlcal reference. Chapter Five explores the resonance of these
shows for their largely young, urban, middle-class audiences. In the late
1990s, as the opposition towards the Suharto regime grew, performance
activities thrived in the atmosphere of heightened politicisation.

expressed directly rather than being displaced to the field of cultural

display. Theatre’s role in voicing shared political critique faded with the
dispersal of the anti-Suharto opposition movement. Yet since 2003 the

Y~gyakarta theatre scene has become livelier, as performances engage
WIth the politics of regional autonomy and democratisation and con-
vey varying reassessments of “Javanese tradition”. Diversity thrives, in

theatre as elsewhere in contemporary Indonesian society, resisting the
notIOn of general trends. But one possibility is a degree of re-creation
of ketoprak as a populist, participatory form, encouraged by democratic

ideo.logy and devolved administrative structures. Another is the spread,
albeIt contested, of more inclusive gender attitudes, and the participa-
tion of strong, talented women.

Yogyakarta in the 1970s –
Communities, Performances,

History

Yogyakarta in the mid- to late 1970s was a diverse, dyn~mic. city. A
court centre steeped in tradition, it was also thoroughly WIred 111to the
modern nation through its history as the centre of nationalist struggle
in the war of independence of the late 1940s and its current role as

educational capital of the nation. Its distinctive spatial formation,

with particular areas associated with specific social groups and cul~ural
activities, gave expression to this rich history and contemporary diver-
sity. This chapter outlines the physical and socio-cultural landscape of
Yogyakarta in the 1970s and locates the popular melodrama ketoprak
as a cultural form explicitly associated with the inhabitants of the
kampung, the crowded neighbourhoods between the city streets, defined

by themselves and others as wong ciLik or underclass . It explores the
origins and meanings of the identification between ketoprak and the

wong cilik social group by giving an overview of ketoprak’s history of
development and mode of practice in the 1970s.

SPACE AND PLACE IN THE 19705

The legacy of Yogya’s founding as the royal capital of the kingdom of
Ngayogyakarta by Sultan Hamengkubuwono I in 1756, and its func-
tioning as a powerful court centre, lived on in the 1970s in the large
area in the southern part of the city taken up by the palace (kraton)
and its surrounds. Within the remains of palace walls were the former

residences of retainers and troops, also workshops making batik cloth

Javanese PerfOrmances on an Indonesian Stage

and other traditional crafts. Nearby stood the grand houses (dalem) of
princely families . The power of the court, located on the north-south
axis between the volcano Mt Merapi and the southern ocean, suppos-
edly harnessing the energies of both, was recalled in periodic ceremonies
such as Sekaten – when the sultan’s largesse was distributed to the
people in the form of a giant rice cone – and the yearly cleansing
in the ocean of the court regalia. The great square (alun-alun) outside
the northern gates of the kraton was the site of huge night fairs and
popular spectacles.

Just north of the alun-alun, the huge city market, Beringinharjo,
was the thriving hub of produce trade, while the main street, Malioboro,

lined with shops and pavement stalls and constantly thronging with
people, was a commercial centre, tourist attraction and late-night
bohemian hangout.

East of the Malioboro area, separated by the Code River, was
Kota Baru (literally ‘new city’), established as a residential area by the

Dutch colonisers during the nineteenth century. It became the site of
elite European-style houses and schools, a large Catholic church and
seminary, and modern facilities such as a sports ground and swimming

pool, the telephone company office, newspaper offices and the state
radio station, RRl. Government offices and a military complex were
located on the southern edges of this area. To the north, across Jalan

Solo, the main road leading east to the other court centre of Solo
(officially Surakarta), was a more recently settled and rapidly expanding
area, the main site of Yogyakarta’s burgeoning educational industry.

The prestigious Gadjah Mada University, founded within the palace
during the war of independence against the Dutch, had moved to the
Bulak Sumur area in the early 1950s. In the 1970s it underwent a

programme of construction and expansion that encompassed a post-
graduate school, new research institutes and a huge administration
complex modelled after a traditional Javanese pavilion (pendopo) with
its distinctive layered roof. Several other tertiary institutes – a state and

a Catholic teachers’ college, a performing arts institute – were located
in the same vicinity, with the lAIN (Institut Agama Islam Nasional
or National Institute of Islamic Studies) further east on Jalan Solo.

Students from all over Java and other islands clustered in this area,
although others lived scattered throughout the city, renting rooms in
private homes. Expanding into the farmland to the north of the city
were new suburbs inhabited by university teachers, other professionals
and student boarders.

Yogyakarta in the 1970s

Allover the city, in the areas between the m ain thoroughfares, were

karnpung, entities often described as village-like settlements within cities,
with narrow lanes and small, densely packed houses.! Some kampung,

particularly those in the southern and central p~rt of the city, were very old,
having first been established to house the soldiers of the kraton army and

provide services for the court. This history was marked by conte.m’p0r~ry
names such as Bugisan, Ketanggungan and PraWlrotaman ongmanng
from the names of particular military units designated by these terms;
Dagen, Jlagran and Siliran for settlements of woodworkers, stonemasons

and lamplighters respectively (Setiawan, 1998: 98). Other kampung took
their names from the grand compounds of aristocratic families around
which they were built – Wirogunan, Notoyudan, Pringgokusuman.

Newer settlements grew up on the urban fringes as the city expanded
outwards, absorbing formerly rural areas. In time, the distinctions
between these different types of kampung had blurred, as streams of

eople from the countryside moved in and the original functions in

~elation to the kraton were lost. Kampung took on the reputation and
sense of identity of concentrations of the commoner underclass. While

the occupational makeup of kampung was often quite mixed, including
considerable numbers of government employees (Setiawan, 1998: 142-3),
the majority of residents worked at humble jobs such as labouring and
petty trade, contrasting with the white-collar occupations and middle-

class status of the inhabitants of the brick and concrete houses (gedongan)
along the major streets. Most tellingly, for the people of the gedongan,
and for government authorities, the term kampung was generally equated
with “slum”, while to residents of these districts themselves it meant

something like “home community” (Sullivan, 1992: 25).

MAPPING CULTURAL AND RECREATIONAL PRACTICES

Broad connections can be traced between these spatial and social divi-

sions and the diverse cultural life ofYogyakarta in the 1970s. Although

individuals might engage in a range of activities across the city, clear
patterns of association linked particular cultural forms, geographic

locations and social groups.
The kraton and the aristocratic houses, long regarded as the pin-

nacle of cultivation of the traditional Javanese arts, remained centres

of such activity, although on a much reduced scale compared with the
heyday of court cultural life in the nineteenth and early twentieth cen-
turies. Descendants of noble families, many with influential positions

16 Javanese PerfOrmances on an Indonesian Stage

I al b ts passe
d on the heritaae of classical Yogyakarta as cu tur ureaucra, t>

d h ough amateur dance associations and private dance court ance t r
schools, rather than the institution of the court. The dance foundation
Siswo Among Beksa, led by Pak Dinusatama, aristocrat and official
of the state department of culture, rehearsed several times a week in
the pendopo of the Purwodiningratan house, while the Pujokusuman
dance school, headed by the famed performer and teacher Romo
Sasminto, held classes daily in the aristocratic house by that name. To
mark their yearly anniversaries and on other special occasions, both
groups held performances for the general public in their grand pendopo
buildings. In the kraton itself, special calendrical events were marked
by rehearsals and performances of the sacred srimpi and bedaya dances.
Siswo Among Beksa sometimes also performed outside of Yogyakarta,
for state celebrations in Jakarta. Occasional cultural missions would
take Yogyakarta court dance onto the national stage and into the wider,
international world.

Another site of transmission of court dance was the state aca-
demy of the performing arts, ASTI (Akademi Seni Tari Indonesia or
Academy of Indonesian Dance), where descendants of noble families
were well-represented among the teaching staff. Located in the north
of the city next to Gadjah Mada University in the 1970s, its status was
upgraded to that of Indonesian Institute of the Arts (Institut Kesenian
Indonesia, lSI) during the 1980s when it moved to a vast campus in

the far south of the city. The government secondary school for music
and performing arts SMKI (Sekolah Menengah Krawitan Indonesia,
Indonesian Fine Arts High School) staffed by many kraton-connected

musicians, was situated very close to the palace in the 1970s, then
moved further south.

The kraton precinct was also an important centre for the cultiva-
tion of the traditional Javanese orchestra music, the gamelan. A weekly
gamelan concert was held in the kraton and broadcast each week over
RRI radio station, gamelan music accompanied other performance

genres and former court performers tutored amateur gamelan groups
at their homes inside the palace walls. Performances of wayang kulit
shadow theatre, marking family, community and state events, took

place throughout the city, rather than being concentrated in a parti-
cular area. But it was in the Sasana Inggil pavilion of the palace that
wayang kulit was staged each month for the general public, while the

Habiranda School for puppeteers held its classes in a kraton building.
Many performers also lived nearby. Until today, the area south of the

Yogyakarta in the 1970s

kraton, extending beyond the city boundaries into the rural regency
of Bantu!’ is home to an especially large number of practitioners of

Javanese traditional arts.
The main site for modern, Western-derived cultural and recreational

activities was at the other end of the city. Sports fields, swimming pools
and movie theatres were concentrated in the area from Kota Baru to
the north and east, including the northern campus district. In colonial
times Dutch schools had introduced the study of Western music, visual
arts and theatre. These forms, and the modern Indonesian visual and
performing arts modelled on them, continued to be associated chiefly
with an educated elite. Practice of modern Indonesian arts was not
confined geographically to the north of the city – Akademi Teater
Nasional Indonesia (ATNI, Indonesian National Theatre Academy), for
example, was located in the kraton area. But these arts remained strongly
Western-influenced, academically connected and student-based.

During the 1970s, expansion of educational opportunities saw a
broadening of the social group identifYing as students and involved in
student culture. In addition, theatre practitioners consciously sought to
extend their outreach and audience base by emulating the lively style
and intimate connections with the audience of folk theatre. A model
was close at hand – the theatre form cultivated by the people of the

kampung of Yogyakarta, ketoprak.

KAMPUNG AND KETOPRAK

Kampung populations could be quite mixed and tastes in recreation
and cultural practice naturally varied. Clusters of youths often gathered
on a bench in front of someone’s house on Saturday nights to sing pop
songs and play guitar; primary students might learn “group dance” after
school from a local teacher; some neighbourhoods had a women’s choir
or gamelan group. The traditional Javanese arts were strongly supported.
Gamelan groups gathered to practise where a resident had sufficient
wealth and house space to maintain a gamelan orchestra. Wayang kulit
performances drew avid crowds, especially when the dalang was well-
known, and many older men, in particular, were very knowledgeable
about wayang lore. All-night radio broadcasts of wayang resonated
though the thin walls of kampung houses and from street stalls and
resting becak late at night. Kampung children, particularly girls, often
had some training in traditional Javanese dance. But classical Javanese
dance continued to have an aura of a connection with the court, a
revered status that set it at some remove from kampung folk.

18 Javanese Pelformances on an Indo nesian Stage

Ketoprak had no such courtly aura. It staged Javanese legends
and stories of past kingdoms as maintained in the o ral traditions of
ordinary people, with much comic reference to issues of everyday life.
Its top professional actors lived in kampung neighbourhoods and often
worked by day at humble occupations, such as labourer, seamstress or
petty trader. Certain neighbourhoods were the site of concentrations
of actors, often linked by complex family connections. The densely
populated inner-city neighbourhood of Patook, for example, was home
to many famous actors. Amateur groups thrived in similar locations.
Many Yogyakarta kampung had local amateur groups that “came out”

at the neighbourhood concert for Independence Day, while this was
not the practice in elite neighbourhoods such as Kota Baru or Bulak
Sumur. Young men in amateur groups reported that they gained their

knowledge of Javanese history and developed skills in Javanese language
and etiquette through participation in ketoprak performance. Asked
what attracted them about the form, some expressed an explicit sense
of ownership, describing it as “our own art” (kesen ian piyambak). Keto-
prak’s special resonance among kampung populations might be seen in

the fact that a ketoprak play constituted the main performance (puncak
acara) at the vast majority of community concerts.

POWER AND CHANGE

The above picture portrays two concentrations of power and social
capital in Yogya in the 1970s – the ongoing symbolic influence of the

royal court, drawn upon by its contemporary descendants in their high
positions in modern institutions, and the fast-growing material power
of modern education, communication and technology, controlled by

those by those with appropriate degrees and expertise. The two groups
together constituted a socially dominant elite vis-a.-vis a large substratum
of residents of urban kampung and villages on the fringes of the city,
who maintained a sense of identity as wong cilik.

What has not yet been included in the picture are the structures
and programmes of the national and provincial governments as powerful,
determining forces in these processes of change, for during the 1970s
the New Order state, which had seized power in Indonesia in the late

1960s from the populist, nationalist Sukarno regime, set about imple-
menting its wide-ranging agenda of development (pembangunan). In
Yogyakarta, government departments expanded and moved to new
buildings and ‘beautification’ programmes of city streets, kampung,

Yogyakarta in the 197 05

markets and riverbanks were carried out. State ideology was forcefully

promoted though government departments, educational institutions and
new community-level organisations. Government officials also became
actively involved in defining and promoting cultural forms.

A sense of the impact of such change for the people ofYogyakarta
can be gained from the theatre form representative of the mass population
of the city, ketoprak. In the following account, first comes the story of
ketoprak’s origins and growth, tracing the roots and ongoing meanings
of its connection with the lower class. One part of this history, that of
ketoprak’s socialisrlpopulist connections in the 1950s and 1960s, could
barely be mentioned in the 1970s. Following the disbanding of groups
and the imprisonment of many actors in the anti-Communist purges

of 1965-66, most troupes were now government- or army-controlled.
Under their new masters actors were necessarily silent about the past,
and in wider society the topic was too sensitive for discussion. But the
memory and influence of those times lingered on, forming a sub text

to contemporary practice. At the same time, ketoprak was rapidly
changing. It was adopting new techniques, appearing in new settings,
being documented, categorised and ‘upgraded’. How these divergent
influences interacted and how ketoprak in (he 197 0s reflected underclass

identity reacting to modernising trends is a subject reviewed below and
illustrated in detail in subsequent chapters.

KETOPRAK IN THE TIME OF MOTION

Village Origins

Ketoprak is generally believed to have emerged in the latter half of
the nineteenth century in the countryside around the court cities of

Surakarta (Solo) and Yogyakarta. 2 A 1977 account begins by describing
how ketoprak developed as an elaboration of a form of musical enter-
tainment long established in villages in Java, performed after harvesting
or for community celebrations .3 Gejog or kothekan music is produced
through the rhythmic striking of poles in the wooden trough used to
pound and husk rice (fesung) and the beating of smaller sticks against
the sides of the trough to supplement the main rhythm. A picture is
given of informal gatherings in the evenings, where one or two people

would beat the lesung, summoning a crowd; some people would join
in beating and others dance about in time to the rhythm . Sometime

in the late nineteenth century, a simple dramatic story came to be

20 Javanese PerfOrmances on an Indonesian Stage

performed and other musical instruments added – drum, flute and
tambourine. Whether performances of this type were already described
as ketOprak is said to be unknown, but development of the genre from
this kernel is clear (Wijaya and SutjiptO, 1977: 13) . Later the text
cites as authoritative the popularly accepted view of the origin of the
term ketOprak – that it derives onomatopoeically from the sound of
the pounding (kethok) of the large wooden poles on the floor of the
trough and the beating (prak, prak, prak) of the smaller sticks on the
side (Wijaya and SutjiptO, 1977: 61).

Elite Patronage in the City

The next stage in ketOprak’s development involved a move to the city
and cultivation by members of the aristOcracy. In 1908 the Solonese
aristOcrat, K.R.T. Wreksodiningrat is reported to have established a
ketOprak troupe in his home. Its simple, humorous style, using a lesung
plus drum, flute and tambourine as accompaniment, reputedly attracted
widespread attention when the group performed in public for events
such as a royal wedding in 1909 . After Wreksodiningrat died in 1914,
attempts by a former member of his group to establish ketOprak as a
commercial venture were unsuccessful. Solo people reportedly were not
used to paying for entertainment, since they could often watch without
charge performances staged in aristOcratic homes (Wijaya and Sutjipto,
1977: 22). Moreover there was strong competition from wayang wong,
a dance drama of court origin, which since the 1880s had been per-
formed outside the palace as a commercial show.

In the city of Yogyakarta, by contrast, ketOprak quickly achieved
immense popularity. Krida Madya Utama, a troupe led by an actOr from
one of Wreskosdiningrat’s offshoot groups, went on tour westward
from Solo in 1925 . It played in the towns of Klaten and Prambanan,
and finally the district of Demangan on the western edge ofYogyakarta.
Within weeks groups had sprung up all over the city: ketoprak became
a veritable craze. By 1928 , a contemporary newspaper account reports
that 300 groups were operating in Yogyakarta . One elderly court offi-
cial, Pak Probosoeprodjo, with whom I spoke in 1978, recalled that
in the 1920s and early 1930s there were often three or four ketOprak
groups in one kampung. Young men did not feel satisfied unless they
were involved in performing. People were so keen to participate that
when all the parts in a story had been assigned, those who had not been
given a role would plead, “Aku neng adegan taman ben dadi wit wai!”

Yogyakarta in the 1970s

2 1

(“In the garden scene, please let m e be just a tree! “). Pak Probosuprodjo
himself was actively involved, playing his first role as a devil (setan) at
the age of ten. 4 His older brother AtmosuriptO, later to become a very
famous figure in the ketoprak world, was at that time piously devoted
to his studies at the Muhammadiyah teacher training school. But just
as he was about to graduate AtmosuriptO got caught up in the ketOprak
craze, dropped his studies and took to the stage.

While most ketOprak participants were ordinary kampung folk,
members of the nobility were likewise fascinated by the new form .5

Beginning in 1925, ketOprak groups were formed in several of the great
houses ofYogyakarta, including the residences of four sons of the reigning
sultan, Tejakusuma, Adikusuma, Mangkukusuma and Suryodiningrat.
The groups were composed of sons of the princes themselves, along
with children of their retainers (abdi dalem) and some neighbourhood
boys. In another model , a kampung group was invited or permitted to
rehearse and perform in the house of a local court official, although the
nobleman was not directly involved. Each noble house specialised in a
particular lakon (stOry) or group of lakon taken from the repertoire of
shadow-puppet theatre and dance drama or from Javanese and Middle
Eastern legend. 6 Weeldy practices and performances would be held in
the large open at the front of the house, with invited guests seated
inside and hundreds of kampung people standing in the courtyard
outside to watch.

Court drama and dance started to influence the style of perform-
ance. The lesung was generally replaced by instruments of the game-
Ian orchestra. While the style of dance for men remained simple and
strong, with stiff arms and closed fists, that of female figures became
more refined, in imitation of court dances, even though all female roles
continued to be played by men. Performances became more structured,
modelled after dance drama, and a separation was introduced between
serious, heroic characters and comic roles. Very probably it was at this
period that palace scenes employing more elaborate language were first
introduced; however, ketoprak retained its naturalistic style of speech
and gesture in contrast to the stylised movement and vocal delivery of
court dance drama.

Numerous ketOprak greats of later years started performing in
these aristocratic groups . Brothers Cokrojiyo and Sudjati , famous
stars of rival troupes in the 1950s and early 1960s, began acting with
the Mangkukusuman group. Their father, like his father before him,
was a retainer in the Mangkukusuman house, a maker of coaches.

22 Javanese Performances on an Indonesian Stage

So Cokrojiyo, Sudjati and a third son, Pardi, joined the keto~r.ak acti-
vities and went on to illustrious careers. By the 1970s, only Pardi lived on,
performina the part of toothless clown with the Sapta Mandala troupe.

Seve~al of the old performers recalled their group being invited
to perform for the reigning sultan and his family.? The Sultan had
heard of this new thing called “ketoprak”, and wanted to see for him-
self what it was like. But it could only be staged in a side hall of the
palace rather than the main dance pavilion, for ketoprak was consi-
dered a lowly (rendah) form within the kraton and never performed by

palace dancers. 8

Cultivation of ketoprak by the nobiliry lasted for only a few

years. By 1930 or 1931 most of these groups had been disbanded.
Elderly aristocrats suggested various explanations, such as the expense
of rehearsals and boredom with the craze. Political factors may also

have had an influence. Ketoprak as a popular art form appears to have
been influenced in the early 1920s by the ferment of political activiry

taking place in Central Java at that time (Shiraishi, 1990). Jaap Kunst
writes, with particular reference to ketoprak in Solo , “politics took

possession of it … unmistakably forcing the performances in a commu-
nistic direction” (Kunst, 1973, vol 1: 288) . However, after attempted
communist rebellions in 1926-7, Dutch colonial authorities crushed
the political movement and in tensified surveillance of social and

cultural life. Fear of attracting adverse attention from the Dutch may
well have influenced the aristocrats in ending their direct involvement

in ketoprak activiry.

Taking the Show on the Road

After the disbanding of ketoprak actlvlry in the noble houses, many
performers joined commercial troupes, which performed intermittently
in Yogyakarta and went on tour to other cities. Here was a major shift
in the setting of performances, from outdoor locations or the pavilions

of royal houses to makeshift theatre buildings with proscenium stages,
scenic backdrops and paying audiences. There was also contact with
other theatre genres performed alongside ketoprak as neighbouring
attractions at night fairs. The lifesryle of actors changed dramatically,

from settled kampung and village life, with its set routines, rules and
responsibilities, to one of constant movement, living on the margins
of sociery, with connotations of wild , immoral behaviour, in cramped

temporary quarters, ever dependent on the fortunes of the troupe.

Yogyakarta in the 197 0s 2

In its development into a commercial show, ketoprak took on

aspects of the model of Western theatre, adopted via the medium of
Stamboel (from Istanbul, in reference to Stamboel ‘s core repertoire of
Arabian Nights tales). This hybrid Malay, Middle Eastern and Euro-
pean theatrical form had originated among the Eurasian communiry in
Surabaya in 1890-91 and toured Java frequently in the last decade of
the nineteenth century. After a spectacular first visit to Yogyakarta in
1892, three more very successful stays in the ciry soon followed (Cohen,
2006: 107-12, 155-6,235,280-1). By the 1920sand 1930s theoriginal
Stamboel troupe had long since disbanded but offshoot groups conti-
nued to emulate its sryle. In Yogyakarta these performances were popular

attractions at the yearly Sekaten festival and at night markets (Wijaya
and Sutjipto, 1977: 40). Here ketoprak played alongside Stamboel as
neighbouring shows. Many Stamboel stories were adopted into ketoprak
_ Arabian nights tales such as Aladdin’s Lamp, European classics like
Romeo and Juliet- along with its staging techniques, scenic decor and
costume sryle consisting ofloose satin pants, tunics, turbans and boleros.
An elderly actress speaking in 1977 recalled, for example, that in the
late 1920s the ketoprak group in which she was performing went on
tour as part of a “package” of stage attractions owned by a Jewish
entrepreneur, among which was also a Stamboel troupe. Her ketoprak
group, Budi Langen Winodya, performed mainly Middle Eastern stories,

using Arabian-sryle costumes and European musical accompaniment
using guitars, violins and drums. 9

The association with the exotic had at times a strategic dimen-
sion. When ketoprak actors, as commoners, wished to stage historical

stories involving kings and princes of the still-reigning Mataram dynasry,
palace authorities often forbade the use of traditional Javanese-sryle
(kejawen) clothing, in particular court ceremonial dress. So Middle
Eastern-sryle costumes, designated Mesiran (after Mesir, Egypt) had to
be worn instead. 10 The costume issue connected with deeper political

tensions over the representation of Javanese history in ketoprak. Some
older actors reported that in late colonial times the performance of
stories of the kingdoms of Demak and Mataram was banned by the

authorities, ostensibly to avoid offending living relatives of historical
figures but more likely for fear of allusion to the illegitimacy of the
Dutch presence in Java. Ketoprak’s negative political associations among
government officials often meant that, in order get permission to per-
form, troupes had to call their performances stamboel Jawa (Javanese
stamboel) (Kunst, 1973: 288). As in the case of the Mesiran costumes,

24 Javanese Performances on an Indonesian Stage

the distance of the ‘foreign’ apparently served as a strategy to neutralise
the threat of the familiar.

Not all attention to ketoprak by the colonial authorities was
negative. In 1935 the troupe Krido Raharjo was appointed to present a
weekly broadcast ofketoprak on the government radio station MAVRO
(Maatschappelijke Vereeniging voor Radio Omroep). Presumably the
popularity of the form made it appropriate for radio broadcast as a
medium for both entertaining listeners and controlling the content of
what was presented to them. The actors learned the performing skills
and disciplines required by the new medium and knowledge of and
interest in ketoprak was extended to new audiences. The results were
far-reaching. An officially sanctioned, government-supported radio
ketoprak group has continued to operate through all the subsequent
shifts of Indonesian history. After Independence, the ketoprak group
of the Yogyakarta station of RRI (Radio Republik Indonesia, Radio of
the Republic of Indonesia) became a revered institution, the pinnacle
of skill and artistry in performance. What the group also represented,
through its institutionalised status, was conservatism, official connection
and support for the status quo. During the 1950s and 1960s this was
expressed in political difference from more radical, leftist groups and
later in resistance to the innovations of style being introduced into the
ketoprak world. The troupe has continued its weekly broadcasts and
occasional live performances until today, albeit much reduced in size
and influence in these transformed times.

POLITICAL MOBILISATION

Duting the Japanese Occupation, ketoprak activity reportedly declined
drastically under the harsh conditions (Wijaya and Sutjipto, 1977: 41).
After the occupation ended, during the war of independence against
the returning Dutch, many ketoprak actors joined the troupe Sandiwara
Rakyat (People’s Theatre) formed by the Department of Information
of the fledgling Republic of Indonesia and a successor group created a
few years later. Yogyakarta, as capital of the Republican territories, was
an important site of nationalist-oriented entertainment. Shows were
organised by the entertainment section of the army and attended by
both soldiers and the general population. There were Javanese-language
comedy and Indonesian-language plays concerning contemporary
struggle performed by the Sandiwara Rakyat group. A Yogyakarta
resident who watched these performances as a boy dates the beginning
of his nationalist ideals from these stirring shows. II

Yogyakarta in the 1970s 25

After Independence, ketoprak in the 1950s and early 1960s, like
other aspects ofIndonesian life, became deeply involved in party politics.
Yet, for the reasons mentioned earlier, during the 1970s this involvement
went unmentioned or was spoken of only obliquely. The basic facts
were well known. Ketoprak in Yogya had been polarised between the
PNI (Partai Nasional Indonesia, Indonesian Nationalist Party) and the
PKI (Partai Komunis Indonesia, Indonesian Communist Party), each
with its own ketoprak organisation and representative troupe. The PNI-
affiliated Lembaga Ketoprak Nasional (LKN), the National Ketoprak
Institute, maintained as its principal troupe Ketoprak Mataram, the
troupe of the state radio station RRI . The Badan Koordinasi Ketoprak
Indonesia (BAKOKSI), the All-Indonesia Body for Coordination of
Ketoprak, was aligned, although not formally affiliated, with the PKI.
Founded and represented by the star Yogyakarta professional troupe,
Krido Mardi, it had member groups in most areas of Central and East
Java. 12 The political parties staged ketoprak performances to celebrate
special events and as entertainment at political rallies. Student groups
affiliated with the parties also appeared at this time; the young actors
would often invite a few professional performers to take the starring
roles while playing the other parts themselves.

These were the main facts: how they were interpreted and explained
and what impact political connections had on the nature of ketoprak as
a form remain questions. In my experience of chatting with groups of
actors, ketoprak in Old Order times never arose as a topic of discussion
and I was wary of raising the issue in private conversations for fear
of embarrassing or endangering performers; now and then, however,
an actor would volunteer information on a particular point. An actor
formerly affiliated with the PNI, now a member of the Sapta Mandala
troupe, observed that the repertoire of ketoprak before 1965 was not
much different from the present. Each period has its patrons or sponsors,
whose interests are reflected in performances. Political ideology in the
time of the parties was incorporated into ketoprak shows in about the
same proportions as the promotion of jamu (patent medicine) in
shows sponsored by jamu factories in the 1970s. He went on to cite
the example of performances by communist-affiliated groups of the
s~ory of Ki Ageng Mangir, a heroic village leader unjustly killed by the
king of Mataram, in which Mangir’s supporters shouted sloaans of the B . b

ansan Tani Indonesia, the communist-linked agricultural labourers’
organisation.

On the other hand, the former director of the communist-linked
Krido Mardi troupe and current director of Sapta Mandala had very

26 Javanese Perfo rmances on an Indonesian Stage

different recollections of performances of this lakon. This man described
deeply moving scenes as Mangir travelled through the countryside to
the Mataram court and his fatefu l encoumer with the king. Residems of
villages along the way would plead with the revered leader to (Urn back,
but he continued steadfastly on his doomed journey. In his account,
a sense of the righteousness of Mangir’s stance and the tragedy of his
death had been built up gradually through the dramatic developmem of
the performance, rather than a political message being crudely “tacked
on” through political slogans. T here was gen eral agreement, however,
that certain stories fitted the ideologies of particular political parties

and became their trademark lakon. Ki Ageng Mangir, with its damning
p icture of oppress ive feudal authoriry and positive portrayal of a heroic
village leader, was particularly popular with communist groups. T h e
folk legend Roro Mendut, in which a noble official takes an unwilling
village gi rl as his concubine and later kills h er commoner sweetheart ,

was likewise performed with anti-feudal, populist implications. Topeng
Mas, a story with a Middle Eastern setting concerning treacherous
military officers, was used to reflect negatively on the Indonesian mili-

tary, the main rivals of the Communist Parry. The Chinese lakon Sam
Pek Eng Tay, in which a young girl disguises herself as a boy in order
to be able to go to school, was performed by communist-linked groups

to convey a progressive message about women’s rights and to counter
negative stereorypes of the Chinese. The lakon Banteng Mataram, literally
“Bull of Mataram”, about a village youth who heroically defends his
king and the kingdom of Mataram, was a favourite of troupes affili ated

with the PNI, whose parry symbol is a bull.
At routine commercial performances, the aim was above all to

present a dramatic, engaging show and attract audiences . The Sapta

Mandala and former Krido Mardi director observed that many of the
stories performed today by Sapta Mandala were lakon he h ad first learnt
while with Krido Mardi. With minor adaptation they had been made

acceptable to a very different patron.

ORGANISATIONAL CONNECTIONS

Written sources, statements by bureaucrats and conversation with actors

and other Yogyakarta residents confirm that during the 1950s and
1960s, it was groups associa ted with the Communist Parry that had
the most active ti es with the ketoprak world. Reviewing the organisa-

tion of theatre troupes in Indonesia in the early 1960s, James Brandon

Yogyakarta in the 197 0s 27

suggests that membership of the communist-linked ketop rak organisa-
tion BAKOKSI was about four times greater than that of the LKN,
the equivalent organisation associated with the PNI nationalist parry
(Brandon, 1967 : 216) . He describes the aims of BAKOKSI , “a potent

organisation whose influence stems less from its size than its activist
tactics”, as those of recruiting members and insti lling government policy
and Communist Parry ideology. Among its member groups, however,
political awareness was patchy. For this reason, groups were offered
“inducements” such as “free acting lessons, an invitation to join a local

theatre festival, assistance to an amateur group trying to set up its own
theatre program” (Brandon, 1967: 215-18).

Wijaya and Sutjip to’s text, in a spare, two-paragraph account of
this period, describes BAKOKSI “as a child (anak kandung) of the people’s
cultural organisation LEKRA, under the protection of the Indon esian
Communist Parry, the PKI , as an attempt to use ketoprak perfor-

mances as a tool for spreading parry propaganda by drawing ketoprak
groups in the regions to join it” (Wijaya and Sucipto, 1977: 42). This

picture of the purposeful use of ketoprak by the Communist Parry and
LEKRA for the spread of parry propaganda was also cited on occa-
sion by government officials and other figures of authoriry during

the 1970s. They decried the involvement of political organisations in
theatre activities during this period as detrimental to artistic standards
and the welfare of actors.

During the 1970s, it was too difficult and dangerous to ac-
cess the views of those who had been involved in communist- linked

ketoprak activiry, so as to compare with the accounts of New Order
bureaucrats and James Brandon as an American scho lar wri ting at a
time of intense Cold War anti-communism. However, in later years ,

I was able to speak at length to Hersri Setiawan, who was a regional
head of LEKRA, the communist-associated cultural institute, during
the 1950s, first in Yogyakarta and later Central Java. Hersri confirmed

the strong ideological commitment to socialism/communism of key
ketoprak acto rs in Yogyakarta, who were members of the star troupe
Krido Mardi, which formed the basis of BAKOKSI. He mentions
Rukiman, Sudjati (Jati), Sasmito and Rukinah as active members of

LEKRA. These were all seasoned performers, veterans of the prewar
group Warga Wandawa and of army-organised nationalist plays staged
by the Sandiwara Rakyat group during the Revolution. Numerous
Krido Mardi actors were members of the PKI parry, whi le Pak Jati

and Pak Sasmito also represented the PKI in the provincial parliament.

28 Javanese PerfOrmances on an Indonesian Stage

Similarly, the head of the RRI trOUp, the legendary Cokrojiyo, and a
number of his colleagues were members of the PNI Nationalist Party.

The PKI maintained a party cell, a ftaksi in each organisation.
The Krido Mardi fraksi head, Pak Rukiman, would consult both the
head of the PKI and LEKRA before the troupe went on tour. The
PKI provided information about the national political situation and
the party’s current ideological priorities: from LEKRA the actors learnt
about local politics and cultural conditions in the areas to be visited.
It was up to the troupe to draw on this information in devising a
programme of performances for the tour. Actors often consulted Hersri,

who had been appointed as special advisor to BAKOKSI, regarding such
matters as historical accuracy in srories and costuming, correct language
and the kind of message appropriate to particular geographic areas .

Hersri described his main mission in LEKRA not as spreading

political ideas but as fostering local cultural development, giving atten-
tion to cultural forms which were not being valued – “to give people’s
art its rightful place, so it wouldn’t be looked down on, treated like a
pariah. ” 14 The concern was a longstanding one. During his high school

years Hersri, a keen fan of ketoprak like his kampung neighbours, had
bristled at the disdainful attitudes of elite classmates, who played hockey
for recreation and saw ketoprak as a lowly pursuit of common kampung

folk. When, as an adult, he got the chance to support and promote
ketoprak through his LEKRA work, he delighted in doing SO.1 5

In terms of ideological understanding and practical commitment

to advancement for the people, Hersi described the main performers in
the Krido Mardi troupe as in no sense dictated to or manipulated by
the party or LEKRA. Their ideas had developed from social experience

and contact with nationalist thinking, especially during the Revolution.
Two actors he mentioned specifically in this regard were Pak Sasmito
and his wife Bu Rukinah, whom I managed to meet briefly after their
release from prison in the mid-1980s. In spite of their straightened

circumstances and the ill health which caused their deaths a few years
later, they spoke glowingly about their experiences performing ketoprak
in the 1950s and 1960s. Bu Rukinah expressed particular pride in the

ketoprak school run by Krido Mardi. Wherever the troupe went on
tour, they would give lessons during the day to local young people in
history and ideology and practicals skills, while at night staging routine

commercial performances.
From the accounts of practitioners and the few written accounts

still extant, there emerges a picture of sincere ideological belief in

Yogyakarta in the 197 0s 29

socialist/communist ideas among keroprak activists such as the leading
figures in Krido Mardi, combined with a commitment to the advance-
ment of ketoprak as an art and the welfare of its players. A magazine,
Ketoprak, published by BAKOKSI, which appeared briefly in 1959-60,
includes articles about ketoprak history, language, music and organi-
sational practice; expressions of concern at the lowly social reputation
of the form; exhortations to practitioners ro work hard to improve
artistic standards, recruit young players and keep up with changes in
society; and protests at a crippling entertainment tax that caused great
hardship to troupes (Ketoprak 1 st edition, 1960). Articles are written
from the perspective of ketoprak practitioners, with the apparent aim of
increasing their knowledge and skills, and encouraging and motivating
them. Activities such as those described by Brandon as mere “induce-
ments” to attract BAKOKSI members – the acting lessons, competi-
tions and training school – seemed in fact ro have been highly valued.
Presumably these performers saw communist ideology and LEKRA
activities as providing support for ketoprak as the artistic expression
of the ordinary people, the rakyat or wong cilik, and themselves as
its practitioners.

PEOPLE’S ART AND ITS PATRONS

In some ways the connection between keroprak groups and political
parties during the 195 Os and 1960s exemplified an ongoing pattern, the
cultivation of this underclass art form by more prominent, influential
social groups . From its origins as a simple rural entertainment form, to
the Stamboel-influenced touring shows of the 1930s, to patriotic ren-
derings of Javanese history tales in radio broadcasts and neighbourhood
concerts after Independence, ketoprak retained its close identification
with village and kampung folk and their culture. The label it acquired
as ordinair (vulgar, common) in palace circles in the late 1920s, the
disparagement expressed by elite school boys in the 1950s, and con-
cern expressed by ketoprak practioners in the 1960s at the low social
reputation of their art are all easily explained. Yet a key factor in the
process of ketoprak’s development had been the involvement of figures
from outside the ketoprak world – the nobleman Wreksodiningrat
in Solo, Yogyakarta aristocrats maintaining ketoprak groups in their
grand homes in the 1920s, the business bosses of touring groups in
the 1930s, nationalist groups and fledging government departments
in the late 1940s and political parties in the 1950s and 1960s. These
groups directed attention and resources towards ketoprak for their own

30 Javanese Performances on an Indonesian Stage

reasons. Ketoprak actors as ‘little people’ at the bottom of the Javanese
class system became part of processes of transformation and promo-
tion of their form through alliances with those of greater status, wealth
and influence. Developments during the New Order period, when the
government became extensively involved in ketoprak activities, can be

seen as an extension of this pattern.
In one respect, however, what happened in the 1950s and early

1960s differed from the general pattern of elite cultivation of ketoprak.
Official populist/nationalist political ideology during those years
valorised the rakyat, the ordinary people, as the core of the nation. The
communist movement promoted peasants and workers as a distinct
class group, while LEKRA supported cultural forms defined as ‘people’s
art’. Ketoprak performers and enthusiasts were thus encouraged to

identifY explicitly and positively as wong cilik and to stage performances
embodying this class identity. In aesthetic terms there was no shaping
by external models, such as that of court dance drama or hybrid,
Malay/Middle Eastern Stamboel. Meanwhile, political indoctrination

promoting concepts such as class struggle and anti-colonialism/
imperialism, was vigorously pursued. Many performers, particularly in
small rural troupes, would have had only a vague understanding of these

ideas. But the politically committed, like the leaders of Krido Mardi,
joined enthusiastically in a political movement they saw as validating
and promoting their own interests . And performers generally would have

experienced a strengthened sense of pride in their lower-class Javanese
cultural identity, which arguably lingered on into New Order times,
even after the momentous political shifts of the late 1960s.

AFTER THE STORM – MILITARY MASTERS

The alleged communist coup of September 1965 was followed by a

wave of reprisals against Communist Party members and sympathisers,
which hit the ketoprak world hard. The association in public perception
between ketoprak and Communism was very strong. As the military
and local community groups mobilised in the months after the coup,

and the killings and disappearances began, many actors were rounded
up and imprisoned or killed. In Yogyakarta the lead actor of Krido
Mardi , Pak Jati, is known to have been killed, while many others were
imprisoned. 16 All ketoprak activity, professional and amateur, ceased in

the weeks after the coup and did not resume for some years . In this
traumatized atmosphere people did not dare to hold performances for

Yogyakarta in the 1970s 3 1

fear of violent disruption nor to attend public gatherings after dark.
In Yogyakarta it was only in 1968 that two new troupes were formed:
Budi Rahayu was established by a Chinese financier; Dahono Mataram
was army-backed and used costumes and properties taken over from
the former Krido Mardi troupe, with veteran performer and director
Atmosuripto appointed as leader. After a year, however, Atmosuripto,
reacting against criticism that he had benefited from the misfortune of
his fellow performers, gave up the position and moved to Jakarta.

The New Order military now moved in as the new patron of

Javanese popular theatre. They took over the roles previously occupied
by the political parties in relation to theatre, eliminating any lingering
socialist/populist connections as they imposed their own ideological
control. In East Java the focus was fudruk, the local form, which, like
ketoprak in Central Java, had been strongly associated with the com-
munist movement prior to 1965 (Peacock, 1968: 28). The Brawijaya
regiment established six ludruk troupes, while the local military and

police force also founded groups. In Yogyakarta in September 1971 the
Central Javanese Diponegoro regiment formally established a large, well-

equipped and supported ketoprak troupe Sapta Mandala, comprising
actors from Budi Rahayu plus others invited to join. Meanwhile the
Dahono Mataram group, now named Wringin Dahono, was supported
by the military district command, Kodim 0374.

The founding of Sapta Mandala as a joint undertaking of the
Yogyakarta military, government and arts establishments represented
a major cultural initiative of the new regime. A well-known dancer,
choreographer and cultural figure of aristocratic background, Bagong
Kussudiarjo was appointed titular head while his younger brother, the

writer and journalist Handung Kussudiarsono, actively managed and
led the troupe. Sapta Mandala’s founders defined ketoprak as “people’s
art” (kesenian rakyat) in the sense of an art form appealing to the entire
people, the society as a whole, rather than any particular group. This

description denied the notion of a specific identification between ketoprak
and the underclass masses (Wijaya and Sujipto, 1977: 43). To satisfY the
tastes of a diverse public, containing many high-ranking, educated people

as well as low status groups, the artistic standards and historical and
cultural accuracy of performances had to be raised. Hence in addition
to performing routinely, Sapta Mandala actors were given instruction

by experts in Javanese history, language, dress and etiquette as well as
modern dramaturgy. They were frequently involved in performances
for state events, in television broadcasts and in experiments with novel

32 Javanese Performances on an Indonesian Stage

h . h s written scripts and Indonesian-language dialogue, tec niques suc a
requiring intensive rehearsal. . . . . .

They . were also provided wIth facilities not available to other
One notable feature was transport between their homes in troupes . .. .

the city and the site of nighdy commercIal performances 111 vIllages
outside of town. Where members of other troupes had to sleep on
site in the theatre building, Sapta Mandala actors were driven back to
town by panel van. This arrangement, allowing actors to remain with
their families and maintain a normal domestic and work life, was much
appreciated by Sapta Mandala members and envied by other groups.
Its central aim, one actor reported later, was prevention of the sexual
impropriety and other unruliness associated with touring troupes. Such

behaviour would undermine Sapta Mandala’s image of respectability
and social responsibility within the broader framework of the ordered,
family-like New Order state. I ?

KETOPRAK TROUPES IN THE 19705 – SAPTA AND

THE REST

Sapta Mandala included a number oHormer members of the Krido Mardi
troupe. As former political prisoners with communist connections, they
were not permitted to work elsewhere but could perform with Sapta
Mandala, which had military patrons as sponsors and guarantors. The

new troupe benefited from their expertise, while the actors, grateful for
any work at all, had litde choice. The group included, as mentioned
earlier, the former director of Krido Mardi, Pak Mujiharjo. Pak Muji

acted as director for routine, nighdy performances, while troupe leader
Pak Handung took charge of preparation for special, experimental shows.
Pak Rukiman, by then bent and shrivelled, played the roles of wise

old advisors, teachers and sages, and Pak Pardi appeared as a toothless
clown. By day Pak Pardi and Pak Rukiman were also employed to do
general labouring tasks in the large house compound and batik busi-

ness of the troupe’s titular leader, Pak Bagong. Considering their lives
a few years earlier, particularly that of Pak Rukiman, as Krido Mardi
fraction head and active LEKRA member, this situation must have
been very difficult. In a sense the actors’ lives had come full circle. As
children of servants to aristocratic families they had been introduced

to ketoprak, become prominent performers, toured the country, learnt
about the world, and experienced some degree of social equality. Now,
in old age, they were once more reduced to menial work in an aristocratic

Yogyakarta in the 19705 33

household, not as trusted retainers like their fathers but stained by

political disgrace.
None of these actors lived long. By the early 1980s Pak Muji ,

Pak Rukiman and Pak Pardi had all died. Bu Rukinah, by then newly

released from prison, performed with Sapta Mandala briefly, but soon she
toO, along with her husband Pak Sasmito, passed away. Bu Kadariyah,
the famed prima donna of Krido Mardi, lived on, performing small
roles in films and telemovies as well as ketoprak, surviving into the post-
Suharto era. But for her generation as whole, the ketoprak world was no
longer theirs. The baton had passed to another younger generation.

Among the younger members of Sa pta Mandala was a star husband-
and-wife pair, Widayat and Marsidah. As university students in the

early 1960s they had begun performing ketoprak in groups linked
with student political organisations. Such activities had brought into
ketoprak people of more educated and affluent background than the
norm for performers . Widayat had reputedly been very active in the
nationalist, Sukarnoist student organisation GMNI (Gerakan Maha-
siswa Nasional Indonesia – Indonesian National Student Movement).

Perhaps his impressive skills in onstage political debate were a legacy of
that experience. By day Widayat had a position with the radio troupe

RRI and, after a time, moved to work exclusively with RRI’ Marsidah
remained with Sapta Mandala as the hugely popular, vivacious and
loquacious female star of the troupe, while working by day with the

Department of Information, performing humorous skits conveying
government information .

Two other members of the troupe were schoolteachers. One,
Pak Wahono, related that he had become involved in ketoprak inad-
vertendy, as a result of following a pretty actress, now his wife, from

performance to performance. Invited to join in acting, he displayed a
fluent delivery and teacherly manner, which quickly earned him the
name Pak Guru (teacher). After Pak Rukiman’s death, Wahono took

over his position in the troupe, playing the parts of teacher, wise man
and sage. The remaining members of Sapta Mandala came from the
usual class background of ketoprak performers, often following on the
occupation of their parents.

By the mid-1970s four other professional troupes besides Sapta
Mandala were performing nighdy in and around Yogyakarta. One was
based at the Taman Hiburan Rakyat, the People’s Amusement Park, in

the centre of the city. The others, Wringin Dahono, Sinar Mataram and
Wargo Mulyo, moved around, spending about two months at a time

34 Javanese Pelformances on an Indonesian Stage

in villages and towns in the Yogyakarta area. Their members inclu~ed
some veteran performers who had survived the upheavals of the mld-
1960s and many younger people learning the ropes.

From the late 1960s onwards many amateur and semi-professional
groups regrouped or were newly founded , often with encouragement
from local government officials. Some groups held regular rehearsals in
their kampung neighbourhoods and performed occasionally for events
such as weddings. The two amateur radio stations, Reco Buntung and
Armasebelas, each had associated ketoprak groups that m ade weeldy
broadcasts. Government departments, including the Department of

Social Welfare and the Department of Education, and the local
newspaper Kedaulatan Rakyat formed groups among their employees.
Many more groups came together only in the months leading up to
the major annual occasion for ketoprak performance, the community
concert for 17 August, Independence Day. An accurate estimate of the
total number is not possible; however, my own observations together

with information from Wijaya and Sucipto (1977) suggest around 200
groups in Yogyakarta and the surrounding villages. I S

New Order officials sought both to replace ketoprak’s previous
populist/socialist image with a more “progressive” one and to make use
of its communicative power for their own ends. At the yearly ketoprak
competitions, held first among subdistricts (kecamatan), then at district
(kabupaten) level, government representatives spoke of ketoprak as a
“mass media”, very popular with the people and thus suited for commu-
nication of educative information. 19 Participating troupes were instructed
to insert in their performances ‘messages’ endorsing the state ideology

Pancasila, economic development, family planning, transmigration and
Dwifongsi ABRJ, the role of the armed forces in civilian life. Seminars
and workshops brought ordinary actors together with elite cultural
experts and officials, who gave them lectures on improving “dialogue,
language and etiquette” and “characterisation, acting, improvisation and
stagecraft” to bring their performances into line with contemporary con-

ditions and “the tastes of the majority of society” (Wijaya and Sutjipto,
1977: 62).

OFFICIAL AGENDAS, POPULAR TASTES,
LOCAL CONDITIONS

For the most part actors accepted these measures . They dutifully
incorporated propaganda messages into competition performances and

Yogyakarta in the 19705 35

listened silently to lectures on aspects of theatrical production they had
been practising routinely for decades. Some topics , particularly those
involving correct Javanese-language expression, could give rise to lively
debate. However, there was only one occasion when I heard actors
publicly express resistance to a government-promoted model ofketoprak
practice. A Department of Education and Culture workshop held
in the Kulon Progo regency of Yogyakarta in 1978 highlighted the
theme of outmoded, stereotyped characterisation requiring revision in
accordance with modern concepts of dramatic realism and psychological
development. The main figures in the well-known lakon Roro Mendut
were pinpointed as examples and excerpts from the story were staged so
as to present alternate character portrayals. The noble official Wiroguno,
usually pictured as a doddering, vindictive geriatric, was portrayed here

as middle-aged but strong and active, in keeping with his position as a
military commander. Roro Mendut, Wiroguno’s intended concubine, and
Pronocitro her commoner lover, were portrayed as less than innocent,

veterans of a number of previous love affairs. Moreover, Wiroguno
killed Pronocitro in a fair fight rather than, as in routine performances,
cruelly torturing his unarmed opponent before stabbing him.

Several members of the audience found this portrayal unacceptable.

In the session for commentary after the presentations, they rejected the
idea that Roro Mendut, as a long established and well-known ketoprak
lakon, could be presented in a way that deviated so fundamentally from
its standard understanding. This was not just an experiment with char-

acter presentation but a radical reshaping of the lakon as a whole. On
the grounds of continuity of cultural tradition and aesthetic form, they
rejected this new interpretation. In fact their objection may have been

more political than aesthetic. As mentioned earlier, in pre-1965 times
the Roro Mendut lakon had been performed so as to convey critique
of feudal power and support of populist sentiment. Even in the N ew
Order era that legacy lingered on. 20 Such considerations had arguably

influenced the authorities in their choice of story for character illustration
and reinterpretation. They were attempting to undermine the populist
resonance of the story by presenting the image of the aristocratic official

more positively, while tarnishing the innocence of village heroes. This
was clearly how many actors perceived what was happening, but they
could not confront their powerful masters by combating this interpreta-
tion on political grounds. Instead they expressed resistance on the safer

grounds of aesthetics and tradition. The fact that they risked speaking
up at all was perhaps a measure of their depth of feeling. Otherwise,

Javanese Performances on an Indonesian Stage

whatever grumbling comments that m ay have been made in response
to such sessions took place away from the public arena, out of earshot

of the authorities.
Such earnest modernizing instruction appeared to have a relatively

minor impact on routine ketoprak performances. Commercial groups,
constantly on tour, their meagre livelihoods crucially dependent on at-
tracting viewers, tailored their performances above all to perceptions of
what audience wanted. Asked to specify the key elements of ketoprak,
actors and directors in these troupes replied succinctly: perang, cinta,
fucu (fighting, romance and humour), all of which make a perform-
ance sell. Certainly these ingredients were much in evidence in their
shows: long, acrobatic battle sequences, combining traditional Indo-

nesian martial arts moves with new techniques adopted from kungfu
movies; intimate love scenes, with the handsome male lead serenading
the glamorous, richly costumed female star to whoops of delight and
encouragement from the crowd; extended sessions of verbal banter and

slapstick horseplay between pairs of odd-looking clowns, one hugely fat,
the other skinny and short, or one toothless, the other bandy-legged.

Other means of attracting audiences were spectacle and novelty,
supplied by elaborate stage effects and strategic choice of story. Flashing
lights and exploding fireworks emphasized the violence of battle and
heralded dramatic, unexpected events. Variety was provided by the stories
chosen each night from ketoprak’s vast repertoire of tales, set in specific

geographic locales with matching costume styles. Bare torsos, elaborate
headdresses and jewelled accessories like those of court dance drama
(wayang won~ characterised Javanese stories of the fourteenth-century
Majapahit kingdom or earlier; contemporary formal Javanese dress was
used for tales from more recent history; satin pants, fezes and turbans
marked Middle Eastern stories; and pig tails and high-collared jackets
Chinese stories. 21 Another strategy for sustaining audience interest was

to present a single story over a number of nights in serial form (seri),
ending each night’s action on a note of such tingling suspense that
audience members were drawn back irresistibly the following night to
see what would happen next.

Of a different nature was the kind of ketoprak performed in the
open, on a temporarily erected public stage before a huge, densely packed
crowd to mark a special occasion. This could be a group of professional

or semi-professional actors engaged by a family to celebrate an event
such as a wedding or circumcision, or a professional troupe hired by
a government body on the occasion of a state holiday. Community

Yogyakarta in the J 970s 37

events, particularly celebration of Independence Day, provided the
opportunity for performances by local amateurs. The usual choice for
such performances was a well-known Javanese historical or legendary
tale, for which costumes were easy to find and which provided a large
number of roles for the many people eager to take part. Such shows
were expected to last most of the night, providing generous, extended
entertainment. Tight dramatic structure was not a priority – as king
and courtiers debated affairs of state, clowns carried out their banter

and slapstick turns, and sweethearts sang and pledged their love, hour

after hour after hour.

***
During the 1970s Yogyakarta had a sense of energy and expanding
activity, to which ketoprak contributed significantly. Commercial per-
formances were generally well attended and amateur activities thrived.
Actors and directors of necessity adjusted to ketoprak’s new situation
under the patronage and surveillance of the New Order state. They
attended ‘upgradings’ and seminars, participated in competitions and
included propaganda messages about family planning and the dual
role of the military amid the banter of the clowns at routine shows.
Earlier times of political mobilization and populist ideals were not

forgotten . Among ketoprak fans as well as actors, performances by
the great pre-1965 troupe Krido Mardi remained a vivid memory.
“They were the best ever,” one of my village neighbours confided, “the
groups now are nowhere near as good.” The star performers of Krido

Mardi, like others with perceived communist connections, lived lives
of ongoing stigma and hardship. III health, poverty and the burden of
constant humiliation probably combined in causing their early deaths.

For actors as a whole, the fact that ketoprak had at last revived after
its cessation in the traumatic post-1965 years, giving them the chance
to work again, was all-important. To maintain their jobs they had little

choice but to go along with what troupe regulations and government
officials required. Most were underclass ‘little people’ , like those who
had performed ketoprak from the beginning, whose social experience
was one of constant dependence on employers and patrons. Some

may have mistrusted their military masters and resented the superior
comments of aristocratic cultural officials, but they would hardly have
expected the freedom to express independent political views, nor dared

to resist the ideological system imposed by powerful patrons.

38 Javanese Pelformances on an Indonesian Stage

Performances staged routinely as commercial shows and for com-
munity entertainment continued to follow established patterns, reflecting
the social and theatrical influences that had shaped ketoprak’s develop-
ment and giving expression to the experiences and attitudes of actors
and viewers. Yet these familiar shows also contained novel elements,
suggesting the responses of ordinary citizens to their changing social
environment. To see how this process worked, and how reactions to
new influences blended with ongoing social reference, it is necessary
to look more closely at the way performances were constructed. The

next chapter shows how individual stories were played out through a
framework of stage conventions characteristic of ketoprak as a theatre
form and suggests how those conventions reflected aspects of the world

beyond the stage.

Theatre Conventions and
Social Meanings

At the upgradings , seminars and competitions of the 1970s, defining
the main features of ketoprak form was an issue of some contention.
‘Progressive’ bureaucrats and educationalists promoted their vision of

ketoprak as modern drama, characterised by linear plots and psycho-
logical realism, while experts in traditional music and classical dance
applied aesthetic concepts from older art forms. Active practitioners of

Its speech style was seen as direct and straightforward, as opposed to
the elaborate language of wayang, its reference ‘ realistic’ (reaListis) rather
than symbolic. I Its very lack of fixed form demanded considerable skill

from actors, who could not simply follow fixed patterns but had to be
capable of continuous improvisation.

Such comments are highly revealing of ketoprak’s self-image and

the way it was shaped by influences from various directions. Ketoprak
as a Yogyakarta-based form was identified with the hegemonic image
ofYogyakarta culture as Lugu, meaning ‘straightforward’ or ‘unaffected’ ,
as opposed to the showier, sophisticated cultural style of the rival court

city of Solo. By distancing ketoprak from the intricate patterns of court
art and asserting its directness and spontaneity, the actors may have
been asserting a pride in the plain strength of the ‘little man’, reflecting

the populist, socialist ideology that had previously been strong among
ketoprak troupes then. Talk of realism and spontaneity was reinforced
with statements about ketoprak’s reference to actual historical events,

294

sinetron

slametan

stamboel

sumpah palapa

tayuban

teater

TIM
warok
wayang kulitlwayang
wayang wong

wong cilik

GLossary

mOVIe produced for television, usually in

serialised form

ritual gathering marking sign ificant events

in family and communi ty life

hybrid Malay/Middle Eastern/European

theatre form very popular in Indonesia in

late 19th and early 20th centuries

oath supposedly sworn by Gajah Mada,

prime minister of the fourteenth- to

fifteenth-century kingdom of Majapahit,

that he would not eat the palapa fruit

until the whole of the Malay-Indonesian

archipelago was unified

dance party in which male guests dance

with female professional dancer/singer

theatre derived from the model of European

drama, using written script

Taman Ismail Marzuki, Jakarta Arts Centre

rural strong man

shadow puppet theatre

dance drama with the same repertoire and

characters as wayang kulit

common er, lower-class/underclass person.

Notes

Introduction

The term wong cilik or ‘ little people’, ‘commoners’ historically indicated
the lower end of a divide between ordinary people and the aristocracy
(priyayi). In recent times, occupation and place of residence, along with
income, have been the chief markers of membership of this social gro up
– small farmers and farm labourers, urban workers , street-stall owners
and pedicab drivers, for example, regard themselves and are thought of
by others as wong cilik.
Yet no absolute divide separates ‘traditional/indigenous’ from ‘modern/
Western’ performance in this regard. Popularised variants of traditional
court dance drama and other regional performance are staged in public
theatres as commercial entertainment; modern, Indonesian-language plays
or modern music/dance presentations often celebrate occasions (religious
events, school an niversaries, national days) organised by a specific social
group.
Goenawan Mohamad observed several decades ago that the audiences for
modern performing arts, like those of traditional, regional theatre genres,
are not composed of an anonymous ‘general public’ but very distinct social
group ings with a particular interest in the form in question (Goenawan
Mohamad, 1980).
“Cultures,” writes Victor Turner “are better compared through their rituals,
theaters, tales, ballads, epics, operas than through their habits. For the
former are the ways in which they try to articulate their meanings … ”
(Turner, personal communication, as quoted by Edward Bruner, 1986: 13).
Ward Keeler’s art icle in this vo lume, “Wayang Kulit in the Political
Margin”, argues persuasively against attempts to apply to wayang misplaced
expectations of political cri tique and activism. However, involvement of
a diffuse kind in the ebb and flow of local “politics” broadly understood,
is clearly a longstanding aspect of wayang’s operation.

Chapter 1

See Sullivan (1992: 20-30) and Setiawan (1998: 59-65) for discussion
of the complexities of the term kampung, including its frequently quoted

295

296

2
3
6

Notes to pp. 19-22

but not always accurare des ignation as a rural-sryle setrlemenr wirhin an
urban area.

Theodor Pigeaud cires ketoprak as one of a number of new dramatic forms
rhar began ro appear in Javanese villages rowards the end of rhe ninereen th
cenrury. Presumably changes in rural life – greater geographical and social
mobiliry and wider cultural exposure – stimulated a process whereby
certain fam ili ar, orally transmitted folktales were converted into dramaric
shows. Pigeaud lamenrs rhe facr that as keroprak and ludruk developed
inro fully fledged srage enrertainmenrs, other new shows faded inro minor
significance (Pigeaud, 1938: 63).
The rext in question, Wijaya and Surjipro (1977), written by officials of
the Departmenr of Educarion and Culture, was part of a wider project
of documenration, analysis and ‘upgrading’ of keroprak undertaken by
New Order bureaucrats, beginning in the early 1970s. It made reference
ro a documenrary film of rhe hisrory of keroprak recenrly made by the
Departmenr of Education and Culture and summarized the findings

of a 1974 seminar reviewing the hisrory and other aspects of the form.
The book, although part of this process, nevertheless portrays warmly
and posirively the populist character of keroprak in its original, village
form – its sponraneiry, humour and lively dialogue in low level ngoko
Javanese. The first named author, Wijaya, was a great ketoprak enrhusiast
and experienced practitioner, to whom I am indebted for many lively,
expansive talks.

Probosuprodjo reported that hi s sisters made him a beautiful satin
costume for the role, mainly so that they would be allowed to watch the
show, for it was normally nor considered proper for young girls to attend
performances.

The figures mentioned above, Probosoeprodjo and Atmosuripto, as sons
of an official of the Jogonegaraan house, could be regarded as minor
aristocrats.

Mangkukusuman played the wayang stories Sumbadra Larung, Pergiwa,
Pergiwati and Kangsa Adu Jago; Tejakusuman performed orher wayang
lakon, including Cipta Ning; Ngadikusuman specialised in the legend of
D amar Wulan, ser in the fourteenrh-cenrury Javanese empire of M ajapahit;
and Suryodiningratan performed stories with an Arabian background.
Pak Pardi described with pride the grand gamelan acco mpanimenr of

performances by the Mangkukusuman group, augmenred by special palace
instrumenrs such as trumpets. This and the skill of the dancers, most of
whom were the prince’s sons, distinguished the group from those of the
other houses and led ro an invitation to perform ar the Ambarrukmo
summer palace for Sui ran Hamengkubuwana VIII.

I asked Pak Kusumobroto of the Tejadiningrat royal house, who gave this
accounr of palace practice, what rendah implied, if it meant kasar (rough

13
14
15

Notes to pp. 23-28 297

and uncivilised)? No, not kasal’, he replied, ordinair (vu lgar, common).
The preceding accounr is based on talks with Pak Kusumobroto and
Tejadingrar ar the Tejakusuman complex in May 1978, also with Pak
Probosoeprodjo at his office and Pak Pardi backstage at Sapta Mandala
performances in rhe same year.
Ibu Sugiyem recalled that as a young teenager, she was permitted by her
parenrs to join Budi Langen Winodya along with two girlfriends, only
because it was all-female. When the rroupe wenr on rour, her brorher
would visit each location to check thar accommodation arrangemenrs were
appropriarely secure and circumspect. By 1977 Ibu Sugiyem was a widow
in her late sixties, a venerable and highly respected member of the state
radio group RRI . As she arrived at the RRI studios by becak (pedicab),
immaculately attired in traditional Javanese dress, accompanied by a young
niece for company, ir seemed clear her parenrs’ efforts had been rewarded.
Through a long and highly successful career in the tumultuous world of
keroprak performance, she had remained every inch a lady.
Wijaya and Sutjipro (I977: 25) cire as an example the occasion of a
presentation of the lakon Roro Mendut at the Kepatihan aristocratic
residence in 1936.
Hersri remembers in particular the acror Sasmito in heroic roles such as
the nationalist leader Bung Tomo in Pertempuran Surabaya (The Struggle
for Surabaya) about the November 1945 batrle to defend the ciry from
conquest by British allied forces (Hersri Setiawan, personal communica-
tion, 1987) .
James Brandon cires BAKOKSI’s reported membership figures in 1963-64 as
40 professional troupes and 760 amareur groups (Brandon, 1967: 215).
Anorher area in which Hersri found himself providing support to ketoprak
troupes concerned their monerary obligarions ro rhe Communisr Parry. The
Parry demanded contriburions from irs members, ofren a large proportion
of their earnings. Educared, inrellectual members could bargain wirh
officials, bur rradirional artisrs, ketoprak players and puppereers, rhe ‘ lirtle
people’ insrilled wirh awe for aurhoriry, did not dare to prorest. When
Hersri visired touring troupes, he often became rhe inrermediary in dealing
wirh local represenrarives of rhe Parry, negoriaring how much rhe troupe
would have ro pay.
Saya ingin mendudukkan kesenian rakyat pada tempatnya .. .. Jangan itu
dianggap kelas kambing, dianaktirikan (Hersri Seriawan, personal com-
munication, 1987).
Hersri recounrs, moreover, that the disdain expressed towards ketoprak by
the elite was less than genuine. He rode his bike one night around the
streets where his rich class mates lived with their families in big gedongan
houses and heard their radios tuned to ketoprak. He concluded that these
people were hypocrites, disparaging in public a people’s enrertainmenr
they actually enjoyed, so as ro keep upa fac;:ade of cultural superioriry.

298 Notes to pp. 30–40

17
18
19

2 1

T hose imprisoned incl uded Pak Sasmi to and Bu Rukiah, Pak Rukiman,
Pak Pardi and Ibu Kadariyah .

A central principle of N ew O rder politi cal ph ilosophy was azas kekeluargaan
(family principle), the no tion of the state as a fa m ily. State po li cy decreed

that “the fam ily ho usehold is the smallest unit of a nation” and that the

nation m ust be bu ilt up of st rong fa milies (Suryakus uma 2004: 194) .
To encourage stable m onogamous marriage, regulatio ns were int roduced

curbing polygam y and divorce among civil servants, w h ile the ideal of the

two-child nuclear family was relentlessly promoted through birth COntrol
propaganda.

W ijaya and Sucip to (1 977: 43) cite a figure of 99 for th ree of the five
~is tricts (kabupaten) of the Yogyakarta area in 1974, no t including the city
Itself, and speculate that the to tal fi gure would have been much higher.

In 1977 the bupati of Bantul spoke in this vein, using the English term,

in his speech at th e finals of the Bantul district ketoprak competition that
I attended.

For example, the story was performed with an explicitly populist , anti-

authority m essage at a PD I electoral rally that I attended in 197 1 (H atley,
1988: 18).

Stories from the M ajapah it era and earlier, termed gedhog, involved bare
to rsos, full o r knee-length pants d raped w ith batik clo ths (kain) , anklets,
bracelets and elaborate headdresses. Kejawen lako n (from jawa, ‘Javanese’)
set in the later M ataram dynasty employed batik skirts, high-collared

jackets (surjan) and moulded batik headdresses (blangkon) for men; batik
skirts and blo uses (kebaya) o r strapless bodices (kemben) fo r wo men.
M esiran style (from Mesir, ‘ Egypt’), wi th long satin trousers for both men
and women , boleros, tunics, cloaks and turbans, was used for Middle
Eastern tales.

Chapter 2

What this description indicates is ketoprak participants’ ow n perception

of their fo rm com pared with o ther theatre gen res. O utside observers,

particularly those unfamiliar with Javanese theatre conventions, are likely

to perceive ketoprak acting as highly stylised rather than ‘ realistic’ .

T hree o r four of the total of about ten scenes are circled to indicate that

they sh ould be introduced by a musical composition (gendhing) , suggestive
of a specific atmosphere, in place of the all-purpose acco mpaniment used

elsewhere. The ch oice of appropriate m usical exp ress ion for the designated

ambience is left to the gamelan leader. When no particular designation is
given , the gamelan plays a standard pattern such as srepegan and the loud
repetitious percussive piece sampak in the fight scenes.

J
9
10

I I

Notes to pp. 41- 69 299

In p ractice only b ig commercial troupes have the resources to fit O ut their
actors in th is way, amateur groups having to settle fo r much more modest
costuming, but all agree on the principle.
The h ierarch ical speech levels of Javanese language are all-impo rtant in
exp ressing and acknowledging status in social interaction . For a masterful
descriptio n of these p rocesses at work, see Keeler (1 987: 28- 38).
Some pairs fi ght with wooden poles, in a style said to have come into
ketoprak through the participation of C hinese actors and entrepreneurs
in the 1920s; o thers use weapons such as choppers or a m etal ball on a
chain , whirled menacingly at one’s opponen t.
In professional troupes, many of the young actors who perform the parts
of soldiers (bala) spend their days practising acrobatic routines and, w hen
they can affo rd it, attending silat and kungfu movies in o rder to pick up
new tricks. Amateurs, m eanwhile, are said to be sometimes so eager to
play the parts of bala in privately sponsored kampung and village shows
that they pay their own expenses – costume hi re, refreshments, transport
– instead of receiving a payment fo r their services.
A well-known Yogyakarta acto r, impress ively eloquent and charm ing
onstage b ur slight and boyish , ideally suited fo r the part of Arjuna o r Panji
in classical dance d rama, was explicitly criticised by his fe llow players for

h is lack of fighting skill and the fac t that jisiknya kurang (he is physically
undersized) .

T he Siswo Budoyo troupe, for example, had a very famous pair of clowns
– one slight, sprightly and rubber-faced w ith a C haplinesque moustache;
the o ther ro tund, moon-faced and more stolid.
T he formulaic greetings exchanged at the commencement of a ketoprak
palace scene, fo r example, d raw on stock phrases from court aud iences in

wayang kulit.
G iving a glimpse into ordinary ci tizens’ experience of such m obilisation ,

a kampung neighbour described the early 1960s as jaman rapat (the era
of meetings).
In Umar Kayam’s sh ort story Bawuk, set in the 1960s, non-Javanese students
are deliberately cast as kings and nobles in Javanese plays . T he incongrui ty
and awkwardness of their speech and dem eanour in these roles sati rises
the figures they are representing (Kayam , 1975).
At a performance I saw in the 1970s the clown servants ridiculed thei r
master mo re overtly. W hen the talented but arrogant and unpopular leader

of the group entered the stage, in glittering brocade jacket , multiple jewelled
necklaces and bright pink lipstick, one clown commented to the o ther,
” Priyayi kudu diajeni”. This statem ent wo uld normally be understood as
“priyayis must be respected”. Bur choosing the al ternate meanin g of ajeni,
“to value, give a p rice to”, the servants proceeded to assess their m aster’s

mo netary worth , walking around him, finge ring h is fin ery and suggesting

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Since 1979 the So uth east Asia Publications Series (SEAPS) has brought some of
the best of Australian scholarship on Southeas t Asia ro an international readership.
Ir seeks ro publish leading-edge research by both young and established sch o lars
on the countr ies and peoples of Southeast Asia across all disciplines of the
humani ties and social sciences with particular encouragement ro interdisciplinary
and compa rative research.

SEAPS is now published for the Asian Studies Association of Australia by NUS
Press, a unit of the National University of Singapore, in alliance with the University
of H awaii Press in North America and the Nordic Insti tute of Asian Studi es (NIAS)
[non-Indonesia titles] and the KITLV Press [Indonesia titles] in Europe.

Editorial Board

Professor Howard Dick (University of Melbourne) (Ediror)

Professor Barbara Andaya (Un iversity of Hawaii and University of Hawaii Press)
Professor Colin Brown (Curtin University of Technology)
Associate Professor John Butcher (Griffith University)
Professor Emeritus D avid Chandler (Mo nash University)
Associate Professor Helen Creese (University of Queensland)
Dr Robert Cribb (Australian National University)
Dr Jane Drakard (Monash University)
Dr Greg Fealy (Australian National University)
Professor Robert Elson (University of Queensland)
Professor Barbara Hadey (University of Tasmania)
Professor Kevin Hewison (University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill)
Professor Virginia H ooker (Australian National University)
Professor Rey Ilero (National University of Singapo re)
Gerald Jackson (NIAS – Nordic Institute of Asian Studies)
Associa te Professor Paul Kraroska (NUS Press, Na tional University of Singapore)
Professor Tim Lindsey (Un iversity of Melbourne)
Professor Andrew Macintyre (Aus tralian National University)
Emeritus Professor Camp bell Macknight (Australian National University)
Professor Anthony Milner (Australian National University)
Dr Harry Poeze (Director, KITLV Press, Leiden)
Professor Anthony Reid (National University of Singapore)
Associate Professor Craig Reynolds (Australian National University)
Professor Merle Ricklefs (National University of Singapore)
Professor Kathryn Robinson (Australian National U ni versity)
Dr Mina Roces (U ni versity of New South Wales)
P ro fessor Krishna Sen (Curtin University of Technology)
Associate Professor Maila St ivens (U ni versity of Melbourne)
Dr Philip Taylor (Australi an National University)
Professor Carl Thayer (University of New So uth Wales, ADFA)
Professor Adrian Vickers (Un ivers ity of Sydney)

Website: http:// iceaps.anu .edu.au/asaa_pu blicatio ns/so utheas casia.html

JAVANESE PERFORMANCES ON
AN INDONESIAN STAGE

Contesting Culture, Embracing Change

Barbara Hatley

Asian Studies Association of Australia

in association with

UNIVERSITY OF HAWAI’I PRESS

HONOLULU

First published by:

NUS Press
AS3-01-02, 3 Arts Link
Singapore 117569

Published in North America by:

University of Hawai ‘ i Press
2840 Kolowalu Street
Honolulu, HI 9682

www.uhpress.hawaii.edu

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hatley, Barbara.
Javanese performances on an Indonesian stage: Contesting culture, embracing

change / Barbara Hatley.
p. cm .

Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-0-8248-3295-7 (pbk.)

1. Theater – Indonesia – Yogyakarta – History – 20th century. 2. Theater and
society – Indonesia – Yogyakarta – History – 20th century. I. Title.

PN2906.Y64H38 2008
792.09598’2709041 – dc

20070529

Cover: Bondan Nusantara introducing a community show held in the wake of

the devastating 28 May 2006 earthquake in Yogyakarta. Photo supplied
by Bondan Nusantara.

Printed in Singapore

To the performers~

who made it all possible

38 Javanese PerfOrmances on an Indonesia n Stage

Performances staged rourinely as commercial shows and for com-
munity entertainment continued to follow established patterns, reflecting
the social and theatrical influences that had shaped ketoprak’s develop-
ment and giving expression to the experiences and attitudes of actors
and viewers. Yet these familiar shows also contained novel elements,
suggesting the responses of ordinary citizens to their changing social
environment. To see how this process worked, and how reactions to

new influences blended with ongoing social reference, it is necessary
to look more closely at the way performances were constructed. The
next chapter shows how individual stories were played out through a
framework of stage conventions characteristic of ketoprak as a theatre
form and suggests how those conventions reflected aspects of the world

beyond the stage .

Theatre Conventions and
Social Meanings

At the upgradings, seminars and competitions of the 1970s, defining
the main features of ketoprak form was an issue of some contention.
‘Progressive’ bureaucrats and educationalists promoted their vision of

ketoprak as modern drama , characterised by linear plots and psycho-
logical realism, while experts in traditional music and classical dance
applied aesthetic concepts from older art forms. Active practitioners of

ketoprak explicitly denied any fixed body of dramatic rules like those
governing other forms of Javanese theatre such as wayang and classical
dance, which are marked by stylised patterns of speech and characteri-
sation (pathokan) . Instead, they described ketoprak as ‘natural’ (wajar).
Its speech style was see n as direct and straightforward, as opposed to
the el a borate language of wayang, its reference ‘realistic’ (realistis) rather
than symbolic. I Its very lack of fixed form demanded considerable skill

from actors, who could not si mply follow fi xed patterns bur had to be
capable of continuous improvisation .

Such comments are highly revealing of ketoprak’s self-image and
the way it was shaped by influences from various directions . Ketoprak
as a Yogyakarta-based form was identified with the hegemonic image

of Yogyakarta culture as Lugu, meaning ‘s traightforward’ or ‘unaffected ‘,
as opposed to the showier, sophisticated cultural style of the rival court
city of Solo. By distancing ketoprak from the intricate patterns of court
art and asserting its directness and spontaneity, the actors may have

been asserting a pride in the plain strength of the ‘little man’, reflecting
the populist, socialist ideology that had previously been strong among
ketoprak troupes then. Talk of realism and spontaneity was reinforced
with statements about ketoprak’s reference to actual historical events ,

40 Javanese Perfo rmances on an In d onesia n Stage

in contrast to the mythological and symbolic resonance of wayang.
Developing along with and as part of the emerging modern Indonesian
state and society, ketoprak seems to have become associated with secular
modern perspectives rather than traditional spiritual symbolism.

The notion of ‘ realistic’ reference supports the suggestion of links

between the ketoprak stage and social experience. Ketoprak actors
did not explicitly discuss how such reference was conveyed through

performances, yet what they did in preparing for and staging a show
illustrated the operation of clear dramatic patterns. Such patterns con-
tinue to order conventional ketoprak performances and are invoked in
varying ways in experimental shows. Thus the following description is
expressed in the present rather than the past tense.

STAGING A KETOPRAK PERFORMANCE

As actors gather to prepare for a performance – just an hour or so
before the show for experienced professionals, at the first of several
rehearsals in the case of in experienced amateurs – the first step is

the choice of story (/akon). The next is the drawing up of a list of
scenes through which the particular lakon wi ll be played out. Scenes in
standard locations and marked by particular kinds of interaction form

a kind of grid through which every lakon is interpreted. The director
of the troupe often chalks the scene list on one half of a blackboard
and a list of characters and the actors allocated these parts on the other.

Then he runs through the scenes one by one, summarising t h e action
in each scene wh il e the assembled actors listen attentively. On the basis
of these instructions , often lasting on ly 15 or 20 minutes , experienced

actors draw on the standard patterns of interaction of each scene to
improvise an entire show. During the performance the scene list, placed
in the wings, is consulted frequently by actors confirming their times

of appearance and by stagehands in charge of setting up backdrops and
moving props. A copy is given to the leader of the gamelan orchestra,
seated at the front or side of the stage.2 The li st thus constitutes the
single common reference point for the show.

In each of these scenes, codes of theatrical representation – patterns
of dress, makeup, speech , gesture, spatial distance between characters,
scenery, musical accompaniment – work together to project familiar
images of character, interaction and location. Theatre semioticians have

illustrated the way in which stage codes and conventions are grounded
in and linked together by cultural codes and ideological conceptions

Theatre Conventions and S ocial M ean ings 41

pertaining to the world outside the theatre (Elam , 1980). General cul-
tural rules of dress, for example, allow audience members to interpret
stage costumes in terms of differences of status, age and personality
between characters . In each of the standard scene types of ketoprak,
stage codes and conventions can be seen to evoke particular areas of
social experience for their performers and audience members.

As mentioned in the preceding chapter, the repertoire of ketoprak
includes stories set in a wide range of geographical locations and
historical periods, signified by distinct modes of dress. In keeping with
ketoprak’s putatively ‘realistic’ quality and its capacity to embrace the

new, the authentic costume style of each story type should be reproduced
whenever possible, the unfamiliar and exotic marked and celebrated. 3

Yet as these stories from foreign sources are played out through the
pattern of standard scenes, a process of domestication and incorporation
within a recognised, familiar world takes place.

The scenes and their interactions show clear parallels with other

forms of Javanese theatre, particularly wayang. However, each ketoprak
performance contains a slightly different mix of scenes, their order

determined by the events of the particular story as well as concern
for dramatic effect, rather than by fixed rules as in the wayang tradi-
tion. A minimal group of scenes appears in every performance – two
types of palace audience , referred to on the scene list as “refined court”
([kra] ton alus) and “strong court” ( ‘ton gagah) , or by the names of spe-
cific kingdoms identified with these qualities; fight scenes; designated
battle (perang) or forest battle (alas perang) scenes; clowning interludes,
referred to as dalan gecul (literally ‘impudent, cheeky [scene on the]
road’); and garden (taman) scenes, the site of love scenes and other
male-female encounters.

1. Court Audience Type a) – the ‘Ton Alus

The standard opening for ketoprak performances is a gathering of officials
before their king in a palace audience scene (jejeran) , like the open-
ing scenes in wayang and other forms of Javanese theatre. Professional
troupes sometimes open with a brief, dramatic sequence anticipating
a thrilling incident in the action to come – a battle, a stealthy theft,
a dramatic murder – or recalling an exciting event of the previous

night’s performance. This theatrical device, modelled on the opening
credits in films and television shows, is immediately followed by the
standard commencement of performances in a royal audience hall.

Figure 1 Direcror o f W rin gin D aho no tro upe in stru crin g ac rors be fo re rh e sh ow,

LlS in g a bl ackb oa rd w irh a scen e lis e.

Figure 2 Pak Siswo ndho o f Siswo Budoyo w irh notepad briefin g perfo rme rs.

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Figure 3 Pak Sis givin g some additio n al instructions.

Figure 4 Pa k Muji , direcror o f Sa pra M a nd a la, pl ay in g th e ke pra k in th e
w ings.

44 Javanese Pelforman ces on an Indonesia I’! Stage

Its function is to excite the interest of the crowd and hopefully sustain
it through the slower-moving scene that follows. Most often the scene
takes place in a ‘ton a/us, a refined court.

Slow and stately music establishes the a/us and agung (exalted,
august) atmosphere of the scene. Other theatrical codes of costume,
speech, gesture and spatial arrangement reinforce this picture. Costumes
are imposing in their rich fabrics and glittering decoration and refined
in their fine patterns and subtle colours. Brown limbs and torsos are
coated with yellow makeup to produce a lighter skin colour considered
more refined; weather-darkened faces are powdered and rouged, eyes
outlined in black to create the glamorous and imposing visages of king
and courtier. The king and queen sit on thrones at th e right sid e of

the stage. The prime minister (patih), the highest-ranking official, sits
facing them at an extended distance, with courtiers and military officials
sitting cross-legged behind him. Those of lowest rank, the common
soldiers at the back, and the female servants at the foot of the thrones,

crowd close together. Ph ys ical distance, both vertical and horizontal,
signifies difference of social ra nk.

Gesture and speech mark th e difference of status between ruler
and ruled and the nature of the relat ionship between them. The lowered

gaze of the courtiers and their gestures of obeisance – sembah (head
bowed, palms together, thumbs against nose in a prayer-like pose)
– as they address their lord, signal both subordinate status and loyal

homage. The gestures of the monarch towards his officials suggest both
dominance and benevolence as he extends his right arm, held rigid in
a chopping motion or stretched out in an expansive, inclusive curve,

to add emphasis to his words of command, information or encourage-
ment. While the courtiers express their respec t and devotion in el eva ted
high Javanese (krama), the king speaks down to them in the familiar,
low-level register (ngoko). 4

In a formulaic exchange of greetings the monarch asks the officials
whether they have performed their duties properly and whether all is

well in the realm. They respond positively. Then the discussion takes
on a more specific focus. The Prime Minister may reveal that there is
a rebel who refuses to accept the king’s authority. The king may raise
a matter that has been troubling him, or a nnounce an intended course
of action. A messe nger may arrive with dramatic news. As the king

asks for explanation or advice concerning the issue in question, the
patih and other officials weigh in with their views. Such discussions
of affairs of state have a distinctive style. Speakers employ a serious,

Theatre Conventions and Social Mea nings 45

reasoning tone, with a n oddly chopped inton ation as individual phrases
are separated by brief pauses. It is as if interlocutors are being given
opportunity to take in the import of the speaker’s words, while he
himself draws breath to formulate his next utterance. While the style
of enunciation is general, differences of speech level continue to mark
the distinction between monarch and officials, ruler and ruled.

On th e basis of this discuss ion the king decides on the action
to be taken, often the dispatch of one or more envoys to convey a
mess age to a rebellious territory or hostile foreign state. Action now
moves away from the central kraton , which has be en defined by its
theatrical codes as a locus of calm, order and clearly defined social
hierarchy. Such codes have likewise built up conventional patterns of
characterisation – of benevolent, dignified lord a nd loyal , res pectful
officials and soldiers.

2. Court Audiences Type b) – the ‘Ton Gagah

The ‘ton gagah or strong, bold palace forms the mirror image of the
refined court just described. It is introduced by fast, lively gamelan
music with forceful drumming and hearty male singing, conveying a
suggestion of strength a nd masc ulin e vigour, which is reinforced by
visual and verbal markers as the action commences.

In stories se t in mythical, pre-Islamic times, the se tting is the
palace of a foreign king, ogre-like in appearance. He and his courtiers,
like demon figures in wayang wong dance drama, have bare torsos ,
red and black painted faces, fangs and long ta ngl ed hair, and speak
in roaring tones. The focus of the discussion is often the king’s desire
to marry the queen or princess of the alus kingdom. He may order a
party of envoys to depart immedi a tely with his proposa l of m ar ri age .
Alternatively, a delegation dispatched earlier with such a proposal
may return with news of its rejection. This provokes an outburst of
apoplectic fury, and the king rushes offstage, to do battle with those
who have insulted him and to take (he princess by force. The action
accords with codes of gesture and speech that signifY the king’s passion ,
ferocity and lack of self-contro!’

In stories of the time of Demak and Mataram , within the period
of ‘factual’, recorded history, the denizen of the ‘to n gagah is generally
the head of a territory on the periph e ry of the alus kingdom. This area
is considered by the central !

Figure 6 AJus king in a village

performance.

Figure 5 Pak Sis in hi s finery as

a lus king, juSt before th e

commencement of the Siswo

Budoyo show.
Figure 7 Co urtie r at a n Independ en ce Day show performs a se mbah gest ure to
a1us king.

Figure 8 AJus prince em phasises a point in addressing hi s co urt.

48 Ja van ese Pelforman ces on an Indonesian Stage

a b o ld , fo rthright gaze. Cod es of ges ture a nd ex pressio n de fin e h im as
ro u gh (b rasak) o r h o t- te mp ered , pass io n a te and brutal (brangasan). H is
m e n , tho u gh res p ectful, a re less fo r mal a nd res trai n ed in d e m ea n o ur th a n
th eir co unte rp a rts in the alus krato n . T h ey d o n o t s it in a hi e ra rc hi ca l
lin e but bunched to geth e r a t th eir lead e r’s fee t. Co d es of a pp ea ra n ce
su gges t rel a tive equali ty a nd b o ld vi go ur. Their faces a re rudd y red ,
w ith thi ck bl ack moustach es and eye brows.

As h e t alks , loudly a nd fo rcefully, the regio n al lord twi rl s his
m o ust ach e, turn s hi s h ead to loo k aro und the st age, oft en th row in g b ack
hi s h ead to laugh lo udl y a t so m e p a rti c ul a rl y pl eas in g re p o rt o r a t o n e
of his own j o k es. His foll owe rs sp eak so m ewhat m o re asse rtively tha n
th e alus co urti e rs o f the p rev io u s sce n e, w ith fewe r el a b o ra te co n struc-
tio n s. T h e chief issue is, o f co urse, th e dispu te w it h th e ce ntral kra t o n .
T h e regio n al leade r prese nts his case, a n alte rna te v iewp o int to tha t
of the alu s co urt. Hi s vo ice ofte n rises in a nger a t th e th o ught of th e
injustice o f the king’s d em a nds. T h e reaso n for refus ing to ackn owled ge
t h e a uth o ri ty o f th e ce ntre m ay b e th a t h e is of a n o lde r roya l lin e
th an th e upst a rt ce nt ral kin g, o r th at th e peo pl e o f hi s area sh o uld b e
allowed to u se th eir reso urces for th eir ow n n ee d s rath er th a n h aving
to pay t ribu te to th e ce n tra l co urt.

A p arty o f e n voys fro m th e ce ntral co urt arrives. Initi al gree tin gs
a re co rdi al, bur w h e n th e v is ito rs d el ive r the message th at the regio n al
leader mus t d e mon stra te his loya lty by a ppea rin g a t th e ce ntral p alace,
h e veh e m e ntly refu ses t o co mply. H e c h alle n ges th e e n voys to a fi ght
o utside o n the town squa re (alun-alun) . Eve n in a ‘ton gagah , phys ical
co mb a t sh o uld n eve r take pl ace ins ide a kra ton a udi e n ce h all wi th its
co nn o t a tio n s of order and s ta b ili ty. T h e e n voys accept th e c h all e n ge.
Eve ryo n e rush es from th e stage to fre n e t ic b eatin g o n th e woo d e n slit
drum (keprak), u sed to sig n al sce n e ch a n ges and m a rk dra m a ti c m o m e nts.
Lo ud ga mel a n music rei nforces th e m oo d o f m o untin g exc ite m e nt.

3 . Battle Scenes – Alas Perang

Ba ttl es are a n indi sp e n sa bl e in g redi e nt in a n y show, its chi ef a t t rac tion
fo r m a n y yo ung m ale p erfo rm e rs a nd a udi e n ce m emb ers . T h e two
sid es m ay h ave alread y m e t, as in the scene d escrib ed a b ove, o r th ey
m ay e n co unter o n e a n o th e r by accide nt on th eir travel s in a fo res t,
indi ca ted by a p ainted b ackdro p of d a rk trees a nd c urlin g vin es . In
th e case of accid e ntal e n co unter th e two p a rti es must first discove r
o n e a n o th e r’s id e ntity. Co d es of dress a nd d e m ea n o ur di st in g uish
th e alus krato n p a r ty fro m th e red- face d d e nize n s of th e ‘to n gagah .

Figure 9 D em o n king sends hi s me n off to d o ba rri e.

Fig ure 10 Demo n kin g, morta ll y wo u nd ed in bar ri e, surro u nded by h is men.

Figure 11 Brangasan leader ex plains reasons for his reb e llion agai nsr

rhe cenrral kingdom.

Figure 12 Two bold , mousrac hioed figures in a ‘[O n gagah sce ne .

Theatre Conventions a lld Social Meanings 5 1

The alus party may b e led by a particularly handso m e, sumpruously
dressed and beaurifully made-up yo ung man , the male star of the
trOUpe, referred to variously as the rol (from Dutch hoofdrolor “main
role” , seemingly borrowed from 5 tamboel) , peranan (from peranan
utama, Indonesian translation of the Dutch term) or bambangan, a
wayang term for the young knight who batrles demon s in th e forest
in a wayang performance.

Verbal codes reinforce visual ones as the prospective combatants
begin to converse. The regional lord and hi s so ldiers employ a gruffer
and more abrupt tone th an the party from the central kraton. When it
becomes clear that a fight is looming, they are the first to switch speech
levels , from polite krama to aggressive ngoko, signalling a change of
mood and intent. The two parties retreat to the wings at opposite sides
of the stage as the gamelan plays loudly and furiously. The actors then
reappear, pair by pair, in ascending order of military rank and fighting
skill, all engaging in the same basic combat style . They first circle one
another, knees bent, hands raised to deliver a chopping blow, then
leap and so mersa ult in th e air, utte ring stylis ed grunts with eac h strike ,
combining moveme nts of the indigenous MalaylIndonesian self-defence
form silat with tec hniques derived from other forms of Asian martial
arts .5 Yourhs who have already worked our a routine together wait in
lines in the wings on either side of the stage to come on as a pair. As
they wait, they s ignal moves to one another with their hands. 6 Last of
the series of combatants to appear are the s tar fighters of the troupe,
who put on a particularly impressive display. After this it is time for
the climax of the sce ne , the meeting of the two leaders.

Here the alus ” hero” confronts his opponent in a matched co ntest
of strength and vigour. There is no question here, as in wayang battles,
of the alus hero warding off brute force with deft , delicate gestures,
signifying superior spiritual strength. This fight, if not quite as skilled
and acrobatic as the expert display preceding it , should nevertheless
be hard-fought and e n e rgeti c, maintaining the momentum and excite-
ment of the battle. 50 the actor play ing the leading role , though clearly
defined as of a refined of character, should also be physically robust

and a good fighter.

4. The Clown Scene – Dalan Gecul

The scenes so far discussed, audiences in rival courts and battles between
them, emp loy theatrical codes gro unded in Javanese understandings
of political powe r and social order as well as contemporary im ages of

Figure 13 Alus king con fronts rural rebel. Figure 15 Indepe nd ence Day performance depicts nationa list s truggle.

Figure 14 King and co urti er from rival kingdoms battle. Figure 16 Fighting wit h luis an d swo rd .

54 Javanese PeljOrmrll’lces on al1 Indonesian Stage

manly s tren g th a nd valour. In the midst of th ese sce n es, h owever, r1.1 e re
occurs an e n counte r w h e re these co d es a nd the c ultural unde rsta ndll1gs
they draw upon a re pl ay fully subve rted – the cl own in g interlude .

Before th e c urtain ri ses, a bright a nd li ve ly c hildre n’s so n g (fagu
dofanan) signals the immin e nt arrival of the clowns an d a buzz of

exc ited a nti cipa tion runs through the a udience in res p o n se. The curtain
rises on a pl ain cloth b ackdrop o r occasionally on p ainted forest trees,
sce ni c markers indi ca tin g no particular location , m erely so m ewh e re
‘a lo n g th e way’. After a m o m ent two figures d a n ce in from o pposite
sides of th e stage. Their a ppea ra n ce is odd in so m e way – b o th are
g ross ly fat, o r one is fat , th e other skinn y and sli ght.8 They a re a ttired
in eith er a pl a in e r vers ion of the cos tum e style of the main ch a racters

in the lako n or contemporary vill age-style Java n ese dress. Their phys ical
c h a racte ri stics connote humorous ungainliness; their cos rum es signifY
low status a nd vill age connection. At the e nd of th e sce n e, when th eir
master a ppears, their identity is revealed as that of servants to the

h a ndsome, nobl e h ero. Up until thi s point they a re simpl y a n o n y mou s
j o k este rs.

Codes of m oveme nt , speech a nd ges ture in thi s sce n e unde rlin e
the m argi n a li ty of thes e two figures to th e soc ia l ord e r so fa r portrayed.

W h ereas in pal ace a udi e n ce sce n es spa ti al distance b etwee n co urti ers
indicates their differing ra nk, the constant bodily prox imi ty of the clowns
– a rms round one a noth er’s sh o ulde rs in camaraderie, o n e sla ppin g

th e other on the b ack or diggin g him in the ribs to emphas ise a point
– su gges t equality a nd intimacy. In sp eech, both u se b as ic, uninfl ec ted
ngo/eo, su gges tive of familiarity a nd equ ality of st a tus. T h ei r uttera nces

are m a rked by w ildly va ry in g intonation patterns, in co ntrast to the
eve n tones of refined figures – crow in g cackles of deli ght at o utwittin g
the o th e r ; aba ndon ed h owls of di sm ay w h e n a n gered o r upse t. And

there is mu ch phys ical roughhouse – pin ching, pun chin g a nd kicking
in re t ali a tion for a trick; re m ov in g th e p a rtn er’s h a t or pi cking his
pocket when h e is not lo okin g. The overall a mbi e n ce is one of eq u ality,

intimacy, ea rthy direc tness a nd crudity, lacking emotion al restraint.
Actors stress the sponta n e ity of th ese clown inte rludes, free of

stereotypical modes of inte raction a nd exch a n ges of di alo g u e. Yet amid
thi s freedom there a re ide ntifi abl e p a tterns. Almo st always th e re is

s in g in g a nd d a n cin g, often in response to audience requests. Little
parcels shower the st age – prese nts of cigarettes, swee ts, clothes,
so m e tim es mon ey, acco mp a ni ed b y le tte rs requ est in g songs. T h e clowns
duck to esca p e fl y in g mi ss il es, then o p en th ei r ar m s to so li cit m o re.

Theatre Conventions and SociaL Meanings 55

The le tters a re read in ga rbl ed fas hi o n a nd the co m e nts of th e packages
pocketed , s tacke d for late r di stributi o n or flun g into th e w in gs to other
performers. Very frequently th e cl ow n s stage so m e kind of sh ow, su c h
as a co mp e titi on, a n exce rpt from a n o th e r dramati c ge nre o r role-play.
Here their m a rg in ality to d o min a nt codes is ex tended into deliberate

parody.
Competitions u su ally ce ntre o n la n g u age, tests of skill in la n g u age

form s co n si d e red by vill age a nd kampung J ava n ese as prestigious bur dif-
ficult to reprod u ce. T h ese includ e hi gh J ava n ese, the n at io n al la n g u age
taught in schools, Ind ones ia n , a nd th e la n g u age of modernity a nd

global outreach , E n g li sh. O n e tricks th e o th e r by ask in g fo r hi g h Java-
nese equi vale nts of low-leve l words for w hi ch n o hi g h form ex ists.

The latter applies sta nd a rd rul es to concoct pre p ostero us invention s.
Javan eselIndon esian h o m o n ym s co nfu se b o th clowns h opeless ly; English
words a re mi spron o un ced in su ch a way as to resem bl e J ava n ese expres-
sions and inte rpreted acco rdin gly. The clow n s’ foo li sh bun g lin g evokes

laughte r. Yet th e re is also playful s u gges ti o n of th e ri c h n ess an d breadth
of ngoko Java n ese, the fam ili a r a nd co mfortab le everyday tongue of
p e rform e rs a nd the a udi e n ce. High Java n ese is revea led by co mp ar iso n
as limited in scope, s tiff and art ifi c ial, while the newfangled lang u ages

of Indon es ian a nd E n gli sh h ave see mingl y ad opted much of their
vocabulary from Java n ese.

The dra m a ti c exce rpt prese nted is ofte n a fragment of wayang
wong dan ce drama . Favourite sce n es a re th e formal co urt a udi en ce
and th e b a ttle b etwee n the refi n ed knight a nd his d e m o n o ppon e nt.
In each case farcical hum o ur d e rives from the in co n g rui ty of th e cast-

ing. Bumbling clowns in th eir humbl e v ill age a ttire act o ut the parts
of kin g a nd co urti e r; in th e ba ttle fragment a hu gely fat female clown
m ay d ance th e part of th e delicate an d refined sa tria , Arjuna , wh il e a

skinny, woebegone acto r plays the cr ud e a nd volatile fanged m o n ste r,
C akil. The ch a racter is ti cs of performers clash biza rrel y w ith the co d es
of phys ical app earance, ges ture, move m e nt a nd sp eech by which these

dramatic fi g ures a re u su all y p o rtrayed. T h e n , in a further assa ult on
thea trical co nve nti o n , the performers exc h a n ge ro les .

Acting our th e p a rts of kin g and co urti er provides pl enty of
opp o rtunity for shrewd subversion of th e co nve nti o n s of en co unter

betwee n ru le r a nd rul ed. ‘Accidental’ blunders, offensive to th e sup erio r
figure, are co mmon. In pl ace of the s tandard words of a co urtier to his
king asking for p a rdon for a n y unime nd ed e rrors of ex press ion , th e
clown pl ay in g th e unde rlin g m ay s t a te a iril y to his co mp a nion in an

56 Javanese Performa n ces on an Indonesia n Stage

imperso n ation of th e lord , “mena wi atur kula lepat panjenengan kula
paringi aksami” [If I should say some thing wrong, I ex tend to yo u m y
forgiveness.] Then the ‘ lord ‘ , h earing a so und b ehind him su ggestin g
that so m eo n e else has e nte red the stage, without turning aro und gives
the order ” BaLia! Aja nganggu suasana!” [Go away! Don’t disturb the
atmo sph e re!] The other clown , facing th e new arrival, sta res in horror
and m ak es fr antic warning sig n als. The a udi e n ce roars w ith mirth. But
his companion blithely co ntinues, until finally he turns and almo st
co ll apses w ith mortification. For the n ew a rrival is n o n e other than hi s
m aster, ca tching the clow n s in th e ac t of parodyin g the relationship of
master and servant – th eir relationship to him .

The prince, who until this p o int h as stoo d by, silently looki ng
on, m ay mildly re buke his serva nts for their cheekiness or, on occasion,
get ca u ght up in their b anter. Then h e informs them of th e miss ion
which he h as b ee n instr u c ted to carry out a nd ann o un ces tha t it is
time to depart. At the clo se of the sce n e the servants exit w ith their
lord in the m ann er o f th e clown/servants (punakawan) in wayang,
reap p earing frequently in th e co urse of s ubsequent eve nts. They ca use
disruption in palace audiences with their ignora n ce of court etiquette;
they participate with little military ski ll but much slaps ti ck hum o ur in
th eir m as te r’s b attl es; th ey parody hi s wooi ng of a royal lad y by m aking
lewd advances to the lady’s elephantine maidservant.

Aspects of the mode of inte raction of the clowns ap p ear in o th er
en co unters b etwee n low sta tus figures su ch as so ldie rs, bandits, s tudents
of a religious teacher and v illage rs. Here too, codes of gesture and
speech co nnote intim acy and eq u ality, as ch a racters sit ch attin g in low
J avan ese, or huddle , h ead s toge th er, sh aring a secret or co nsp iring over
a plan. One favourite location of direct, informal co mmuni cat ion is
the village home. Su ch h o m es co m e in two types – an omah bubrah
(literally “broken dow n home”), indicated by a backdrop of rattan
walls with a sin gle h a n ging cookin g pot, and a n omah perkutut, a
co mfo rta bl e house wi th the cages of perkutut, si n ging birds, visible
through a large window.

5. Love Scenes – Adegan Kaputren/Adegan Taman

Love e n co unters betwee n nobl e swee thearts usu a lly take pl ace in the
palace garden or wo m en ‘s apartments, a nd are la b ell ed accord in gly o n th e
sce n e list as adegan taman (garden sce ne) or adegan kaputren (scen e in
the women’s quarte rs). As th e scene co mmences , joyful flo w in g gamel a n
music s ignifies a romantic mood. A nobl e lad y is see n conversing with

Figure 17 The famed Siswo Budoyo clowns, Jo gelo a nd Jorono.

Figure 18 Comic maidse rvant p utS male clown in his place.

Figure 19 Serva nts m a inta in p eace 111 th e kin gd o m b y res rra inin g the ir m as te rs
fro m fi ghting. Figure 20 Anoth er scen e of servants resrraining their m as ters.

60 Javanese Perfo rmances on an Indonesian Stage

her maid , who later sings and dances to entertain her mi stress . C odes
of physical appearance, dress and speech style mark the character type
of the lady – either Luruh (refined and demure), with an even-toned,
somewhat plaintive voice and delicately coloured costume , or branyakl
kenes (spirited, assertive and flirtatious), with an animated manner and
sharp, staccato speech, dressed in brighter colours . Differences of rank
between the lady and her companion are signified spatially, visually and
verbally. The glamorous lady reclines on a chair or bench; the maid,
plain-faced and plainly dressed, often comically fat, kneels at her feet.
The maid addresses her mistress in respectful krama while the latter
speaks in ngoko.

Yet the tone of their exchange is warm and intimate, punctuated
by jokes and laughter, suggestive of a close, companionable relationship.
Gestural codes signify friendly intimacy: the lady gives the maid a

playful tap to emphasize a joking remark, or the maid places a consoling
arm about the lady’s shoulders when her mistress appears troubled.
Frequently the problem concerns a man – a husband , a lover, the
prince of a neighbouring kingdom. If the lady laments the long absence
of her husband or the lateness of a sweetheart in arriving for a tryst,
the maid often advises her to forget him – “men are all the saIne”,

she says, “always open to distraction by another pretty face.” At this
there may be derisive shouts from young men in the audience or

muttered grumbles of gombal (rubbish) . Eventually the man in question
arrives, announced by a burst of keprak beating. A husband or long-
term sweetheart is received warmly, intimately or sometimes with edgy
coldness; if, however, he is a new acquaintance, the pair first greet one

another in correct, formal fashion.
The smooth, soft tones and elevated speech levels of the two

figures suggest noble refinement and a polite mutual respect, which is
somewhat at odds with their physical demeanour. While their elegant
costumes indicate high status and refinement, the snug fit of their
clothes, outlining a manly torso and curvaceous female figure, together

with skillfully highlighted eyes and voluptuously drawn mouths, radiate
sexual allure. While they converse, codes of facial expression – the
dazzling smiles of the handsome hero, the shy blushes of the refined
lady or flirtatious glances and repartee of her assertive counterpart
– set up an undercurrent of sexual attraction beneath the surface of

their verbal pleasantries. E xcitement builds as a udience members wait
for the moment of acknowledgment, when the couple will declare their
love for one another.

Th eatre Conventio ns and So cial M eanings 61

When th e gamelan orches tra plays a few soft notes, a nd the
man begins to sing, the a udience whoops and whistles with delight,
for this song cons titutes the standard signifier in ketoprak of amorous

intent, leading on to intimate touching and declarations of affection.
Musical codes are redolent with sensuality. As the man advances with

extended arms in a gesture labelled gandrung (impassioned), and the
woman slowly retreats, the couple’s movements connote male sexual
initiative and female reticence. Yet eventually the woman begins to
sing in response. A change of speech codes, a shift by the man to the
intimate ngoko speech level, signals the couple’s newfound intimacy.

When the man decl a res his love for the lady, she may ask for
assurances of his serious intent: he responds with fervent pledges of
devotion. Sometimes one of them may assert that love and marriage
between them are impossible because of differences in their background

and status . There follows a standard response , expressed in very similar
wording in all performances: “Love does not depend on position and
status, wealth or poverty. What is important is that we love one another. ”

(Tresna menika mboten gumantung dhateng drajat La n pangkat, sugih
utawa miskin. lngkang baku menika tresna Lan tresna.) Soon the reluc-
tant lover is convinced. The couple then talks of their future life
together, of building a harmonious family and having children. The
rhetorical tone and formal construction of these statements convey a
sense of seriousness and virtuous intent. A s these words are spoken, the

sweethearts stand intimately close, holding hands and gazing into one
another’s eyes. Codes of gesture and facial expression signify warmth,
intimacy, sexual attraction and affection.

Before long the fond encounter is interrupted. The lady’s maid
may return from the kitchen where she had previously retired to make
tea, the prince’s servants may arrive making cheeky comments , or out-

raged parents burst in with demands for explanation . Or the sweethearts
themselves may bring the meeting to a close with tender farewells and
promises to meet again soon.

6. Constrasting Types of Male-Female Encounter

Amorous encounters can take other forms and in different locations,
in keeping with the events of the particular lakon. A common motif
is the attempted seduction of the woman by an unwelcome suitor.

An ogre king may attempt to abduc t from her bedroom the princess
of his crazed fancy; a royal minister may take advantage of the king’s

62 Javanese PerfO rmances on an Indonesian Stage

absence to make advances ro his queen; an old and trusted teacher

expresses his passion for a female pupil a fraction of his age. As the
pursuit commences, codes of gesture and facial expression signify the
man’s lecherous predation and the woman’s horrified recoil. The man

advances, knees bent, feet wide apart, arms outstretched and curved
in an arc, in an exaggerated and menacing version of the impassioned
gandrung gesture described earlier. He attempts ro encircle the lady,
leering suggestively in between phrases of his passionate love song,
sometimes breaking into a crazy cackle of anticiparory delight. The lady
backs away, her facial expression a picture of amazement and repugnance,
weaving about the stage in order to evade his grasp. A gentle, refined
figure will protest politely in krama that, “I don’t yet wish to marry
(literally ‘se rve’) any man.” [Kula dereng remen ngladosi satunggal ing
priya.] As her pursuer persists in his protestations of love , proposals of
marriage and attempts to grab her, she implores him to iling (literally
‘remember, be aware’), to recover his composure, remember his station.
An assertive heroine , after recovering from her initial shock, will roundly
chastise her would-be suitor for sullying the honour of his position and
presuming upon her womanly rights. As the man blusters about his
power, wealth and high station and may threaten ro use force, both

refined and assertive ladies are firm in their response: “Living together
in marriage is not something that can be forced. It must be based on
mutual love. ” [Tryang bebrayan menika mboten kinging dipun peksa.
Kedah lelandhesan tresna Ian tresna.]

For the audience there is great excitement in the sexual tension and
menace of such scenes. Young men respond with shouts and whistles
and occasional cries of “Pick her up! Carry her off!” [Dibopong waif]
Players, too, often treat such scenes as a pleasurably exciting game. A
middle-aged professional actor, appearing as a guest star in an amateur
performance, gleefully pursued the ‘princess’, acted by the teenage
daughter of his neighbour, to the girl’s quite genuine discomfiture and

alarm. A more experienced amateur actress, reporting ro a friend on
a performance she had recently been involved in, was heard to boast,
” I was digandrungi (passionately pursued) five times!” The frowning,
troubled expressions of women audience members and their clucks of
sympathetic concern for the beleaguered heroine, indicate a different
response. They react strongly to the codes of the scene, which mark
the male figure as lustful, selfish and cruel, while presenting his victim

as innocent and virtuous, voicing approved sentiments about love
and marriage.

Theatre Conventions and Social Mea nings 63

The lady is never act u ally forc ed to submit ro th e amoro us adva nces

of her pursuer but at the last moment is either rescued or manages to
escape, running off into the forest with th e man following. She may
appear in a following scene, alone against a backdrop of sinister dark
crees, kneeling with her head bowed, sometimes with her baby in her
arms, in tearful, plaintive tones lamenting her fate. The gamelan plays
melancholy music. Here th e stage se tting, plus codes of gesture, speech
and music, all work together to create a pitiful picture of wronged
and suffering womanhood. Apart from unwelcome male purs uit, other
causes of the lady’s lonely, frightening sojourn in the wilds might be

abandonment by a now wealthy and prominent husband, or a husband’s
belief in the evil sla nders of a rival wife.

On occasion the opposite situation occurs, when a virtuous man

or men suffer at the hands of a scheming and heartless woman. Such
figures represent a variant of the assertive character type described as
sarak (literally ‘wicked’, ‘evil-hearted’) . The physical appearance and
demeanour of such women – tall , of statuesque build, with a com-

manding manner and strong voice – signify formidable power. In
pursuit of a desired goal, however, they can be seductively feminine
and charming. The contrast between their us ual demeanour and th e
codes of gesture an d speech with which they entice and manipulate
men signals their deviousness and cold, callous determination .

Nevertheless it is the isolation and vulnerability of the wronged
female that emerges as the domin ant motif in the keroprak battle of
the sexes. Women in the audience are often emotionally moved by the

imagery of such scenes. One of my neighbours would occasionally report
having trouble sleeping at night, thinking about the terrible trials of
the heroine in the ketoprak radio broadcast she had been listening to
earlier in the evening.

***

KETOPRAK SCENE TYPES – INTERPRETATIONS OF
SOCIAL REFERENCE

Each of ketoprak’s scene types depicts a particular form of interaction
in its appropriate social setting. Palace audience halls display imagery
of political leadership and of social order. Battles, disruptive of social
order, take place outside these domains on an open square or in the
forest. Likewise, outside palace order, simply ‘along the way’, appear the

Figure 21 Princesses a nd the ir m a idse rva n (.

Figure 22 Lady and he r m aid

e nj oyin g a joke.

66 J avanese Pelformances on an Indonesian Stage

Figure 24 Teenage princess being advised by her father.

clown figures, servants – representatives of the underclass, humorously
flouting rules of social interaction. Village homes extend the picture
of the social and domestic world of the common people, while in the
gardens and female living areas of royal palaces occur love scenes between
‘hero’ and ‘heroine’ , as well as other male-female encounters.

Ketoprak’s scenic structure is strongly grounded in Javanese theatrical
tradition, exemplified most fully in wayang. Details of characterisation
and dialogue have clear wayang equivalents. 9 Like all forms of Javanese
theatre, ketoprak draws on a common store of images – dignified kings,
hot-tempered, red-faced foreign kings and ogres, refined knights and
humorous, earthy clown-servants. As it reworks and supplements Javanese
theatre conventions, it throws light on the understanding among actors
and audience members of longstanding hegemonic Javanese values and
on their response to other, newer ideological influences . References to
old and new blend throughout the show. However, the settings that

Theatre Conventions and S ocial M eanings 67

display the stronges t influence of Javanese theatrical tradition convey
most clearly ongoing concepts of political order and social hierarchy.
These include scenes in palace audi ence hall s and other loca tions where
political leaders and subordinates interact. Romantic encounters and
emotional, melodramatic events such as sorrowful partings, joyous
reunions and agonising deaths draw on models from modern media
such as film and television drama. Through new theatrical images such
scenes arguably connate changing values and standards of behaviour,
particularly in the domain of rom ance and gender relations. The fol-
lowing discussion looks first at ‘political’ sites such as palace audiences,
then at love scenes and other types of domestic encounter, as they
reflect on different strands of lower-class social values and experience

in the 1970s.

POLITICAL ORDER AND CLASS RELATIONS

In general terms, Yogyakarta ketoprak performances of the late 1970s
reproduced palace audience scenes depicting the interaction of the
‘good’ king with his court so as to endorse traditional understandings
of kingly power and social hierarchy. The ongoing aura of ari stocratic
title and connection , pride in Yogyakarta as a court centre and the
power of an authoritarian government system identified as ‘traditional’
by its leaders, combined to create this effect; however, the familiar
image of king and court also incorporated elements suggestive of more
‘modern’ notions of political order and state administration. As officials
and military leaders participated in the di scussion of strategies for
handling political problems, their exchanges had a formal , speech-like
quality, and sometimes escalated into heated debate. Actors spoke
of pemerintahan (governance) as a key area of meaning of ketoprak
performance. Perhaps at work here were traces of influence from the
mass political mobilisation of the 1950s and ea rly 1960s,1 0 along with
more contemporary notions of modern, ration al administration.

The circumstances of production naturally shape the image of the
king and the court projected in performance. Inexperienced amateurs
stumbling through their parts create a very different effect from a
skilled troupe performing for an official event; yet, in th e ketoprak
performances I observed in the 1970s, no deliberate satirising of kingly
power took place. Political play on the image of refined king may have
occurred in the p ast, 11 and was beginning to appear in Indonesian-
language theatre, but in the ketoprak of that time , tightly controlled

68 Javanese PerfOrmances on an Indo nesian Stage

by military patrons and government authorities, it remained only a

remote potential.
Images of e n em y figures embodied intriguing ideological sugges-

tion. Leaders of territories on the edges of the central Javanese cultural
area were depicted with the same theatrical markers as demonic foreign
kings – red faces, clumsy movements and lustful outbursts. Such
portrayal seemed to reinforce both centrist political ideology and regional
cultural prejudice. Mea nwhile, scenes in strong, rough establishments
(‘ton gagah) , always contained assertio ns by regional leaders of their
own version of the conflict with the central kraton . Their words

might be minimal and perfunctory, wildly ranting, or persuasive and
convincing. Such statements constitute a distinctive feature of ketoprak
not inherited from other theatrical forms. Just how they were used by
different troupes to contest contemporary political iss ues is illustrated

in the following chapter.

CLOWNS AND THE PEOPLE

While the doings of kings and rebels reverberate with state politics,
clown servants and their masters evoke the immediate , familiar politics

of hierarchical relations in everyday life. The signification of clowns , as
servants of the heroic characters and symbols of the mass of ordinary

people, has been much discussed in writing on J ava nese performing arts.
Observers debate their potentially critical, satirical function. Clifford
Geertz sees wayang clowns as conveying “a rather general criticism”
of the values of the dramas in which they appear, and reports that

in popular stage dramas of the 1950s clown figures “nearly swallow
the heroes entirely, leaving the latter rather as overbred fool s than the
descendants of satriyas (noble knights)” (Geertz, 1960: 290-3). By
contrast, Ward Keeler locates the key role of wayang clowns in their

freedom from the normal constraints of social interaction. Clowns
offer no alternative viewpoint to the “heroic ideals and structures”
that dominate their form. They are simply unfettered, because of their

rock-bottom social status and dependence on their master, by concern
with status, etiquette and proper speech. What appeals so much to
Javanese audiences, who are themselves constantly constrained by status
rules, is the clowns’ “relaxed, unself-conscious and spontaneous mode
of interaction” (Keeler, 1987: 210) .

Clara van Groenendael describes wayang kulit performances where
clowns and foot soldiers give expression to the views of lowly audience

Theatre Conventions and Socia! Meanings 69

members in ways that co ntras t with the dal ang’s instru c tion s from th e
elite sponsors of the show (Groenendael, 1985) . Richard Curtis co nfirms

this picture of th e dalang speaking through the clowns in voicing soc ial
critique from the masses but emphasises tha t the clowning segment of
a wayang performance has no inbuilt, invariable meaning. In particular

contexts it can b e approp ri ated by elite figures to convey propaganda
messages , or turned into sup erficial commercial entertainment (Curtis,
1997: 232-3).

Many of these o bservat ions m ay be applied to ketoprak. Variation
in clown sequences according to context was clearly evident during

the 1970s. In commercial shows government propaganda themes were
briefly mentioned ami d clown b anter, in keeping with the conditions
for obtaining performance permission . In government-sponsored compe-
titions the short clown segment was n ecessarily packed with ideological
messages, while in p erformances for village weddings, didac tic concerns
could be dispensed with and clowns and audiences simply had fun.

In ketoprak much of the banter of the clowns is indeed just
light-hearted play, their singing and dancing pure fun . Their appearance
represents an eagerly awaited theatrical break from the structured,
form al exchanges of the ‘se rious’ characters, co nstrained by theatrical

codes, which are in turn grounded in the dominant social rules of
Javanese life. Inasmuch as the clowns are styled unequivocally as village

figures, while the formal interaction they are defined agai n st tak es place
in noble courts, there is an inbuilt reference to distinctions of social
class. Refined formality is associated with th e social elite, earthy fun
and spontaneity with the little peo ple. The caricature b y the clowns

of high art forms and interaction between ruler and ruled reinforces
this suggestion.

Yet the clowns’ interaction is double-edged. Codes of gesture and
speech convey not only the intimacy and familiarity of their relation-
ship, but also its a brasive ness, venality and selfishness . When they make

ludicrous errors in reproducing high art form s and refined speech,
audience members la ugh both with them, as they expose the pompous
artificiality of the form s in ques tion , and at them as they di sp lay their
ignorance and incompetence. The routine where the master enters the
stage and watches, unnoticed, as his servants engage in a ludicrous
parody of their relationship with him never fails to evoke uproarious

laughter from the audience, despite or perhaps b ecause of its familiarity
and predictability. The priyayi master, the “overbred fool ” of Geertz’s

description, is a telling focus of derisive laughter. 12 But there is also

70 Javanese Performances on an Indonesian Stage

much to laugh at in the situation of the clown se rvant, unwittingly,
inattentively courting disaster. Audience members , along with the
smiling noble, are aware of what is happening while the servant is not;
they laugh together at the servant’s squirming embarrassment at being
caught out. Audience members seem likely to experience a mixture
of sentiments watching this scene: shudders of empathetic horror at
the thought of being caught out in this way by a superior; enormous
relief that this is happening to someone else rather than themselves;
satisfaction at the effrontery that the subordinate does , after all, manage

to get away with.
Javanese of all social levels are constantly engaged in hierarchical

social interactions and are constantly subject to concern with status,

etiquette and proper speech. However, members of the wong cilik
underclass arguably experience the pressures of hierarchy particularly
sharply in their daily encounters with people of higher status –

employers, kampung and village officials, richer neighbours – to whom
they must display appropriate subservience and respect. Hence they
identify with the clown figure, socially, emotionally and ‘politically’.
Class antagonism is clearly a strong potential reference of the codes of
representation of clown servants and noble Inasters; however, to what

extent are clown servants and other subordinate figures, with their
ambiguous suggestiveness, earthy humour and bumbling ignorance,
able to represent underclas s interests in a positive , tra nsformative way?

This is an issue addressed in the next chapter.

ROMANTIC LOVE AND OTHER MODERN EXPERIENCES

In the blend of old and new characteristic of ketoprak, different situa-

tions bring to the fore particular elements of the mix. Battle scenes,
as suggested earlier, introduce techniques from martial arts movies and
promote an active and robust image of the ‘hero’ in place of the ultra-

refined noble knight of Javanese performance tradition. In the palace
garden, the encounter of this Javanese version of the Hollywood hunk

and his alluring partner display various markers of modernity.
The experience of romantic love endorsed by ketoprak sweethearts

– an e motionally thrilling a nd deeply spiritual attachment that
outweighs all other ties of family and status – is widely celebrated
in modern Indonesian culture. At odds with traditional notions of a

parentally arranged partnership embedded in family and community,
the concept of a marriage based on love and individual choice found

Theatre Conventions and Social Meanings 71

expression in Indonesian c ultural form s from the early twentieth century
onwards. Novels of the 1920s and 1930s depicting youthful romances
thwarted by parental wishes and customary rules symbolised a wider
dash between mod ernity and tradition. After Independence, portrayals
of romantic love flourished in mass media such as film s, popular songs
and magazines.

That aspirations of romantic love were widespread in everyday

life, not jus t among the urban elite but also among villagers and
kampung-dwellers , is suggested by James Peacock’s study of th e East
Javanese popular drama ludruk. On the ludruk stage, stories of love
and marriage involving generational conflict predominated as dramatic
plots. Meanwhil e num e rous young kampung men recounted their
experience of youthful romance , referred to by the Indonesian word

cinta, with girls they had met at school (Peacock, 1968: 144). Yet the
extent of social acceptance and practice of romantic love as a basis

for marriage is less clear. In the 1970s in Central Java marriage by
individual choice was sai d to be customary among educated youth,
especially in the cities, while among the poorer and less-educated, and
in rural areas, arranged marriages were seemingly the norm. 13 In the
case of marriages based on individual choice, parental blessi ng was

still essential. None of the young men interviewed by Peacock had
actually married their sweethearts, because their parents did not approve
(Peacock, 1968 : 145). Marriage based on individual choice, free from

parental restriction , was evidently a source of divergent expectations
rather than a universally accepted good. 14 A ssociated sources of tension
were the freer mixing of young people, widely decried as likely to
lead to loosening moral standards, and the role of modern media in
representing love and passion .

Ketoprak love scenes and their reception by audiences provide

interesting insights into the complexities of contemporary Javanese
understandings of love and marriage. Progressives in the ketoprak world

of the 1970s spoke approvingly of the appeal of ketoprak love scenes
to modern tastes and expectations , particularly among the young.

Daring stage represe ntation of romantic intimacy was justified as being
in keeping with contemporary behavioural trends. 15 Actors compared
their romantic encounters with tho se of films, boasting proudly that
ketoprak, too, contained ” bedroom scenes” (adegan ranjaniJ, with lord
and lady sitting on a divan together and on occasion lying down to
sleep. But there was much criticism of ketoprak – in the medi a, in
speeches and discussions in everyday conversation – for seducing young

72 Javanese PerfOrmances on an Indo nesian Stage

viewers into licentious behaviour through its daring representa tion of
physical affection. 16 Some performers expressed unease about appearing
in love scenes. Many husbands and wives imposed strict conditions on
their spouse’s participation in such encounters and were willing to travel
long distances and endure many hours watching a show to make sure
these limitations were observed.

Some viewers may have been troubled also by the contrast between

the stage portrayal of romantic love, arising from brief acquaintance and
strongly influenced by physical attraction, and the slowly developing
feelings of trust and empathy that Javanese reportedly identifY with a
stable, lasting marriage (H. Geertz, 1960: 135). Tresna, an idealised
concept of love as deep, abiding selfless affection for another person,
rather than romantic passion, gandrung, with its volatile, unstable
quality, has traditionally been regarded as the appropriate basis for
marriage (Keeler, 1987: 52). The amorous pursuits and fond embraces
ofketoprak love scenes, like the modern media images referred to by the
Indonesian term cinta, might well have had connotations of dangerous,
ephemeral sexual passion at odds with the notion of abiding love.

This conflicted context may help explain the striking contrast
between the intimacy and warmth of the looks and gestures of ketoprak
lovers and the serious, formal style of their dialogue. Visually they
radiated romantic attraction. Verbally they declared their high-minded

love (tresna) for one another in formal statements, delivered in the
wooden style of memorised quotations. They routinely asserted that
wealth and status were irrelevant to choice of marriage partner, even
in stories where no differences of status were involved. 17 A mixture

of factors may have influenced these interactions – the remoteness
of ideal concepts to actual experience, a lack of appropriate terms to

describe romantic feeling , or an attempt to balance sensuality with
serious, worthy sentiments to appease audience concern.

Rhetorical declarations of love were followed immediately by
talk of establishing a family (mangun brayat) and ” having harmonious
relations with the community” (bebrayan ing tengah masyarakat). Even
in modern times, long-established conceptions of marriage seemingly
held sway. For all its individualistic implications, romantic love led
on to marriage still understood as strongly oriented towards family

and community.
Ketoprak love scenes of the 1970s celebrated ‘modernity’ in both

dramatic imagery and ideological values. Styled as appealing to young
people, they achieved the anticipated response . Youthful audience

Theatre Conventions and Social Meanings 73

members, particularly young men, frequently applauded the pronounce-
ments of ketoprak lovers valorising freedom of choice of marriage
partner, for all their stiff formulaic quality. At the same time , aspects
of these scenes encoded a se nse of discontinuity between new values
and their social context, the ongoing strength of es tablished attitudes
and practices.

WOMEN VIEWERS AND THE WOMAN QUESTION

Along with young people, women of all ages are seen to take great
interest in ketoprak’s love scenes and in the form as a whole. The
prominence of women in ketoprak audiences of the 197 0s was indeed
striking – groups of wealthy middle-aged traders watching nightly
from the front seats when a big commercial troupe came to town;
mothers with babies and young children crowded around the open
stage at neighbourhood performances; withered grandmothers still
alert and a bsorbed at four in the morning when the show finally came

to an end. The particular appeal of ketoprak to women and how it
might relate to distinctive qualities of female characterisation onstage
warrants investigation.

Female interest in ketoprak is often explained in terms of its melo-
dramatic emotionality. Ward Keeler quotes standard Javanese opinion
that women, unable to appreciate the artistic subtleties of wayang, by
contrast “enjoy weeping through ketoprak’s shamelessly melodramatic

twists of fortune. ” Men , meanwhile, “profess to find these aspects of
ketoprak foolish” (Keeler, 1987: 240). Such differences in taste accord
with hegemonic Javanese gender ideology, which associates men with
emotional control cultivated through spiritual exercis e and women

with more mundane activities and less controlled feelings and speech
(Keeler, 1987: 77; Brenner, 1995: 28-31). The perceived lack of interest
by women in the ‘ high art’ of wayang kulit may stem most crucially

from wayang’s performance a t ritual celebrations presided over by men
and its embodiment of values and preoccupations regarded as funda-
mentally male concerns. The appropriate place for women at a wayang
performance, as at a slametan ritual feast, is at the back of the house,
preparing and distributing food, while the men are Out front; 18 ketoprak

as a popular entertainment without intrinsic ritual co nnection, is open
to participation by all.

A key aspect of ketoprak’s appeal for both men and women clearly
was and is sexual fantasy. Ketoprak love scenes of the 1970s, as suggested

74 Ja vanese PeJformances on an Indo nesian Stage

above, were redolent with sensual suggestion and provoked excited
audience response . Glamorous male and female stars were essential to
the appeal of a performance. 19 Stories were rife of affairs between these

young male stars and rich female patrons , likewise between female stars
and male admirers .

Female emotional involvement arguably reflects something more
than the lack of emotional restraint supposedly characteristic of women.
In highlighting the ‘love interest’ of historical and mythological tales
and focusing on themes of romance and domesticity, ketoprak gives
prominence to female characters. As we have seen, their adventures
involve many difficulties and conflicts with which women viewers

identify. The situation of women playing women’s parts and improvising
dialogue , rather than female characters being represented by men,

provides space for expression of specific female perpectives.
The two types of ‘heroine’ defined by codes of theatrical represen-

tation, the refined lady and her more assertive and vivacious counter-

part, correspond in a general way to traditional patterns of female
characterisation in Javanese performance. Wayang kulit and classical
court dance both recognise this distinction. Sumbadra and Srikandhi,
the twO wives of the iconic wayang hero, Arjuna, are seen to embody
quintessential models of refined, demure and more outgoing woman-
hood. 21 In performance practice, the overwhelming majori ty of esteemed

female figures who appear in the course of a shadow puppet lakon are
of gentle, refined character. Assertive qualities are represented instead
by female demons and raucous maidservants. Likewise in the world
of classical court dance, the revered female group dances srimpi and
bedhaya celebrate an image of controlled, restrained feminity. 22

In ketoprak, as popular entertainment without elite pretension,
watched and performed by both men and women, the situation is very

different. Glamorous heroine figures classified as both branyak (assertive)
and kenes (flirtatious) seemed to appear more often than their refined
counterparts in the performances of the 1970s, playing the main female
roles in a majority of lakon . Of lead actresses, who always specialized
in one mode or the other, the most popular and successful performed
in the branyaklkenes style. A number of factors arguably contributed to
their appeal. Their spirited interactions with male characters were often

humorously entertaining, more engaging than the passive compliance
of a traditional refined princess. And overt female attractiveness and
assertiveness had an additional, controversial connotation, the concept
of the ‘modern woman’.

Th eatre Conventions and S ocial Meanings 75

The qualities of assertive heroines were consistentl y described
by actors as both “modern” (moderen) and “like foreign women” . The
alternate refined, reserved, female stereotype was, by contrast, classified
as “traditional” and typically Javanese. Playing out this distinction, in
one performance a lady soldier from a foreign country, dressed in a
silver lame pantsuit, challenged the hero to do battle. As he hesitated
she asserted, ” Don’t go thinking that I am like the women of former

times!” (Aja p ikir aku iki wanita kaya dek biyen.’). Whereas in the past
women might have been gentle and retiring, she implied, strong, assertive
modern women can confront men on their own terms.

Both the Hollywood-influenced stereotype of bold , sexually
liberated Western woman and the notion of female emancipation and
achievement also originating from the West, are arguably denoted
here . By the 1970s the concept of the independent, achieving modern
woman, first adopted among the Western-educated elite in late colonial
times, then promoted after Independence by political organisations
and women’s groups, 23 had undergone a shift. The gender ideology

of the New Order state highlighted women’s contribution to national
development primarily through their domestic roles. Julia Suryakusuma
(2004: 161-89) describes this process at work a t the national level,
while Norma Sullivan documents its implementation in Yogyakarta
through the activities of the Family Welfare Movement (Pembinaan

Kesejahteraan Keluarga, PKK) (Sullivan, 1994: 64-82). Nevertheless
increasing numbers of women continued to gain education, work outside

the home and participate in the changing parameters of modern life.

To what extent female audience members at ketoprak perfor-
mances, the majority of whom were small farmers and farm labourers,
market traders and kampung housewives, were able to participate in

such trends is debatable. But the main exponent of assertive female
characterisation in ketoprak of the late 1970s, the star actress of the

Sapta Mandala troup e , Marsidah BSc, with her unive rsity degree and
prestigious daytime position as an official of the Department of Education ,

could be regarded as a prime example of an achieving modern woman.
In conversation she expressed a sense of “speaking up” for her fellow
women in her stage criticisms of male behaviour and assertion of the
views of female protagonists.

The issues which Marsidah and other assertive heroines addressed
related not to formal female advancement in education and employ-

ment but to domestic conflict and the neglect, irrational jealousy
or, most commonly, suspected infidelity of a husband or sweetheart.

76 Javanese Perfo rmances on an Indonesian Stage

Another focus of female protest was sexual predation and assault.
Their stance in these outburs ts – hands on hips, chin thrust forward,
direct, staring gaze, sharp, challenging tone of voice – connoted both
hostility and bold, assertive assurance. There were reverberations with

the supposed lack of emotional control of women, represented onstage
by loud maidservants and plain-speaking village wives; however, this
was no village wife railing at her spouse, but a glamorous lady crisply

putting her man in his place or denouncing male aggression against
women in terms of impressively modern ideological statements about

individual rights.
The protestations of wronged wives and beleaguered heroines

evoked mixed audience responses. Their spirited statements were
greeted with applause by the female audience bur also laughter and
derisive shours from the men. Male performers often reacted to asser-

tive woman characters with teasing provocation, playfully trivialising
their heated outbursts. If the image of the outgoing ‘modern woman’
aroused some ambivalence in ketoprak performance, in all-male ludruk

its portrayal was explicitly negative. The stereotype of the middle-aged,
nagging wife appeared ubiquitously, performed with exaggerated gusto.
More serious expression of hostile feeling occurred in a savage carica-
ture of the modern, go-getting woman. Pushy, flashy female figures,

exaggeratedly aping Western ways, evoked angry and abusive audience
response , and invariably met an unpleasant end (Peacock, 1968: 77-8,
160-1). Representations of assertive female figures across performances

and theatre genres drew on a mix of dramatic elements – glamour,
progressiveness, humour – to reflect in varying ways on the impact of
modernising ideology on the complexities of male-female relations.

***

That love, romance and gender relations have featured so prominently
in this review of the social reference of the codes and conventions
of ketoprak in the 1970s can be seen to connect with socio-political

conditions of the time. Popular trends in the domain of gender and
domesticity could be relatively freely expressed and depicted through
varied , dynamic stage im agery. In other areas of experience, particularly
the ‘political’ sphere, represented by kings and officials, rulers and
th eir subjects , contextual reference was more limited and uniform .

Factors of casting and differing acting skills produced small variations

Theatre Conventions and SociaL M eanings 77

in characterisation , bur generally the roles of refined king and regional
rebel, master and servant, were ‘played straight’.

Performances confirmed the centrist, hierarchical political ideo-
logy of past Javanese kingdoms and contemporary state authorities.
However, historical actions do not always fit easily within ideological
frames . Included in the standard repertoire of ketoprak are several
well-known stories drawn from Javanese history, the events of which
would seem to challenge the image of a powerful and beneficent central
Javanese king and court . The following chapter analyses performances
of twO such anomalous tales . By comparing renditions of these stories
by troupes with differing geographic and social connections, we get
a sense of how ketoprak performances afforded expression to varying
political perspectives , even in the constrained ideological environment
of the 1970s.

298

Notes to pp. 30-40

Those imprisoned included Pak Sasmito and Bu Rukiah, Pak Rukiman,
Pak Pardi and Ibu Kadariyah.

A central principle of New Order political philosophy was azas kekeLuargaan
(family principle), the notion of the state as a family. State policy decreed

that “the family household is the smallest unit of a nation” and that the

nation must be built up of srrong families (Suryakusuma 2004: 194).

To encourage srable monogamous marriage, regulations were introduced

curbing polygamy and divorce among civil servants, whi le the ideal of the

cwo-child nuclear family was relenrlessly promoted through birth control

propaganda.

Wijaya and Sucipto (1977: 43) cite a figure of 99 for three of the five

districts (kabupaten) of the Yogyakarta area in 1974, not including the city
itself, and specu late that the total figure would have been much higher.

In 1977 the bupati of Bantul spoke in this vein, using the English term,

in his speech at the finals of the Bantul disrrict ketoprak competition that

I attended .

For example, the story was performed with an explicirly populist, anti-

authority message at a POI electoral rally that I attended in 1971 (Hadey,

1988: 18).

Stories from the Majapahit era and earlier, termed gedhog, involved bare

torsos, full or knee-length pants draped with batik cloths (kain), anklets,
bracelets and elaborate headdresses. Kejawen lakon (from jawa, ‘Javanese’)

set in the later Mataram dynasty emp loyed batik skirts, high-collared

jackets (surjan) and moulded batik headdresses (bLangkon) for men; batik
skirrs and blouses (kebaya) or srrapless bodices (kemben) for women.

Mesiran style (from Mesir, ‘Egypt’), with long satin rrousers for both men
and women, boleros, tunics, cloaks and turbans, was used for Middle

Eastern tales .

Chapter 2

What this description indicates is ketoprak participants’ own perception

of their form compared with other theatre genres. Outside observers,

particularly those unfamiliar with Javanese thearre conventions, are likely

to perceive ketoprak acting as highly stylised rather than ‘realistic’ .

Three or four of the total of about ten scenes are circled to indicate that

they should be introduced by a musical composition (gendhin~, suggestive

of a specific atmosphere, in place of the all-purpose accompaniment used

elsewhere. The choice of appropriate musical expression for the designated

ambience is left to the gamelan leader. When no particular designation is

given, the gamelan plays a standard pattern such as srepegan and the loud
repetitious percussive piece sampak in the fight scenes .

6
7

Notes to pp. 41-69 299

In practice only big commercial troupes have the resources to fit out their

actors in this way, amateur groups having to settle for much more modest

costuming, but all agree on the principle.

The hierarchical speech levels of Javanese language are all-important in

expressing and acknowledging status in social interaction. For a masterful
description of these processes at work, see Keeler (1987: 28-38).

Some pairs fight with wooden poles, in a style said to have come into

ketoprak through the participation of Chinese actors and entrepreneurs

in the 1920s; others use weapons such as choppers or a metal ball on a

chain, whirled menacingly at one’s opponent.

In professional troupes, many of the young actors who perform the parts

of soldiers (baLa) spend their days practising acrobatic routines and, when
they can afford it, attending siLat and kungfu movies in order to pick up
new rricks. Amateurs, meanwhile, are said to be sometimes so eager to

play the parts of baLa in privately sponsored kampung and village shows
that they pay their own expenses – costume hire, refreshments, rransport

– instead of receiving a payment for their services.

A well-known Yogyakarta actor, impressively eloquent and charming

onstage but slight and boyish, ideally suited for the part of Arjuna or Panji
in classical dance drama, was exp licirly criticised by his fellow players for

his lack of fighting skill and the fact that jisiknya kurang (he is physically
undersized) .

The Siswo Budoyo troupe, for examp le, had a very famous pair of clowns

– one slight, sprightly and rubber-faced with a Chaplinesque moustache;

the other totund, moon-faced and more stolid.

The formulaic greetings exchanged at the commencement of a ketoprak

palace scene, for examp le, draw on stock phrases from court audiences in

wayang kulit.
Giving a glimpse into ordinary citizens’ experience of such mobilisation,

a kampung neighbour described the early 1960s as jaman rapat (the era
of meetings) .
In Umar Kayam’s shorr story Bawuk, set in the 1960s, non-Javanese students
are deliberately cast as kings and nobles in Javanese plays. The incongruity

and awkwardness of their speech and demeanour in these roles satir ises

the figures they are representing (Kayam, 1975).

At a performance I saw in the 1970s the clown servants ridiculed their

master more overtly. When the talented but arrogant and unpopular leader

of the group entered the stage, in glittering brocade jacket, multiple jewelled

necklaces and bright pink lipstick, one clown commented to the other,

“Priyayi kudu diajeni”. This statement would normally be understood as
“priyayis must be respected”. But choosing the alternate meaning of ajeni,
“to value, give a price to”, the servants proceeded to assess their master’s

monetary worth, walking around him, fingering his finery and suggesting

300

1 S

17
18
19
20

2 1

Notes to pp. 7 1-74

pri ces – 200 rupi a h ? 50 0 ? lOOO ? Un w illin g to d em ea n himselfby reac ting
to t he ir o utrageous behavio ur, th e actor pl ayin g t h e m aste r co uld o nly
stand w ith a fro ze n , sickl y smil e, prete nd th at no thin g was h appenin g and
wait fo r the m to sto p.
C hri s M annin g a nd M as ri Singari mbun c ite studi es fro m t he early 1970s
o f vill ages in the Yogyakarta area w hi ch indi ca te th a t 6 0 per cent o f all
young wo m en a nd 80 pe r ce nt o f th ose w ith o ut sch oo lin g experie nced
arran ged m a rriages (M annin g and Sin ga rimbun , 1974) .

Parental co ntrol ove r c ho ice o f spo use rela ted prin c ip all y to fi rs t m a rriages.
E nsu ring a suitabl e m atc h fo r a yo un g d aug hter, in particul a r, was important
to m ainta in family ho no ur a nd stat us. H oweve r, in a co ntext w h ere the
di vorce ra te was high , subsequent m arri ages could b e co ntracted w it h far
m o re freed o m.
In Java n ese p erfo rm a nce traditi o n , love m aking sh o ul d b e re prese nted

symb o licall y o r referred to as occur rin g o ffs tage : touchin g between t h e sexes
occu rs o nl y in m argi na l, so m ewha t disreputab le co ntexts su ch as a male
d a n cing w ith a fem ale d a n ce r, Ledhek, at tayuban d a n cin g a nd d rinking

p arties. In ke to pra k, howeve r, rel axa ti o n o f th ese sta ndard s was j us tifi ed
as bein g in keepin g w it h cha n g ing social m ores.
One p erform a nce I attended was preced ed by a speech fro m th e spo nsor
expli ci tl y wa rnin g a u d ie n ce m emb ers n ot to b e ca rr ied away by the
se nsua li ty of the love sce n es in th e co ming sh ow. T h e effect, w h eth er
slyly d elib erate or no t , was o f co urse to stimula te excited antic ipa tion by
audi en ce m embe rs o f t h e promised titill ati o n .
On e wo nde rs if there a re echoes h e re of anti- fe u dal social id eo logy fro m
the 195 0 s a nd 1960 s, alo ng with th e value o f love as a bond between
individu als, free o f extern al influ ence.
See N orma Sulli va n (1994) for a deta il ed d escripti o n of ge nde r ro les at

sLametan.
Th e appearan ce of th e h a ndso m e 1″0L actor was eagerl y awai ted a nd much
co mm e n ted u po n . At o n e crowd ed , n o isy o utdoo r perfo rm a n ce, t he

entran ce o f such a fi gure w as greeted by th e middle-aged female t rad er
standin g n ex t to m e w ith the pi erci ng sh o u t, “Who else h ave yo u go t back
the re?”

By a m ale dal ang in wayan g kulit, for example , a nd cross-dressin g acto rs
in ludruk.
In the id eo log ical disco urse that has d evelo ped a ro un d waya ng, Sumb adra
and Srikandhi a re cited to indicate the acceptan ce in Javan ese society o f
di verse fe m ale ch a racter tra its a nd th e p ro m ine nce of st ro ng wom en fig u res .
H oweve r, th e ideal o f J ava n ese wo m anhood is always d escribed in term s
of the ch a racterist ics o f Sumb adra, re fi ned, modest a nd d emure.
By co ntras t , goLek, a so lo d ance genre specifically cl ass ifi ed as branyak in
its lively style and whi ch orig ina ted in villages before being ad opted at

Notes to pp. 75- 9 0 301

co urt , h o lds an ambi gu o us pos iti o n o n the m argins of co urt culture (C hoy,

198 4 : 5 6- 60 ).
23 In th e early 1960s th e im age of th e mode rn wo m a n re p o rtedly h ad

co nside rabl e cur re n cy in both u rba n a nd ru ral Java Oay, 1969: 93) .

Chapter 3

Acco rding to E uro pea n sources, Sulta n Tren gga na was first repl aced bri efl y
by his so n Prawa ta, the n by H adiw ijj aya (D e G raaf a nd Pi geaud , 1974 :

74-8) .
M y own visit to the graves ite co nfirm s this picture of secrecy and exclusion .

Res idents of th e h o u se, identified b y n eighb o urs as that of the juru kun ci
(guard ian of the grave), reac ted w ith wary suspic io n to m y a rri val. At first
they d enied co nnection w ith the juru kunci , but a t las t reluctantl y allowed
me in to m eet a n ailing, alm os t blind old m an . H e was h eavy-set a nd
blu ff- m a nnered w ith a thick, reddi sh- tinged m o u stac he – sign s, I had
b ee n told , of d esce nt fro m Pen an gsan g. But brushing as ide all ques tio ns
abo ut a ncestry, he simply asse rted empha tically th at as a wong Liya, a n
‘o th er’ – n o n-kin , n o n-Isla mic, n o n-Java n ese – I co uld not gain entry

to the sacred site.
3 In the Sapta M a ndala prese nta tio n, it is th e Sultan’s produc ti o n o f a kris,

Pen an gsan g’s own weap o n, le ft b ehind by the wo uld-b e assass ins a nd
co nstituting p roof of Pena ngsan g’s involve m ent in the plo t , that brin gs

o n armed co nfro ntat io n .
As an all-ni ght sh ow las ti ng m a n y h o urs, the vill age perfo rm a nce covers

m o re o f the Pen an gsan g story than co mme rcial prese ntation s. Kalinya m at
first appears in sce n es preceding h e r encounter wi t h the Sulta n . Sh e abuses
h er skinny, timid husba nd fo r his lack o f ac ti o n over th e d eath of her

bro the r Prawata a nd d rags him off to compla in to Suna n Kudus. When
th e Sun a n is unres po ns ive, sh e chas tises and phys ically assa ults h im , then
o n the way ho m e, e n gages in a slap st ick fi g ht w ith assass ins w h o eventuall y
kill h er husband. All the w hile the a udien ce roa rs with laughte r, a ppl a uds

h er apo plectic o utbursts and urges her on to fu rth er o utrageo usness.
In recog niti o n o f the dra m atic impo rt of th is sce ne, in the vi llage pe r-
fo rman ce a di ffere nt actor, a fa m o us profess io n al perfo rmer w ith a rich ,
so n oro us sing ing vo ice, replaced the local m an pl aying Pen an gsang in this
o ne spo t. In th e fo llowing sce ne, that o f th e g reat b attle, his yo unger a nd

m o re robust co un te rpa rt o nce m o re took the pa rt.
6 This is the sta nda rd ending, played o ut in the co mm erc ial perfo rman ces.

A t the village c irc um c isio n prese ntati o n, howeve r, the la rge excited crowd ,

havi ng increased in size rather than dissip ated in the usu al way as the night
wo re o n , was bi gge r than ever a t 3.30 a. m . People did n o t disperse at
this po int but stayed on fo r m ore. So the Pajan g so ldi ers o blig in gly cam e

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