Qiu Jirong sits at a mirror in his dressing room, painstakingly applying his theatre makeup. First the white, then firm strokes of gold, black and finally red—the face paint that will transform him into a coloruful fairy-tale character in China’s iconic national art form: the Peking opera. For a few hours, he feels the power that only the stage can bring. His shrill arias rise to a near-impossibly high pitch as he gestures to the pounding clang of drums and cymbals. But the transformation is short-lived. Soon, the classically trained actor, 22, must return to reality: before the curtain falls, he scans the audience and sees mostly empty seats.

The 200-year-old art form performed by six generations of Qiu’s family is losing fans among younger Chinese, who shun its theatrics and trademark tales of generals, concubines and emperors for more modern artistic fare.

The number of Peking opera touring troupes has dwindled as the performances have become a subsidised staple of state-run television. Even free tickets to live shows go unclaimed. Its stalwarts remain mostly elderly Chinese and foreigners. For the young, the stilted pageants have become something of a cultural embarrassment. Now the government is launching a campaign to save the once-beloved opera. Academies have renewed the call for new students.

Late last year, an ornate new centre opened in Beijing to focus nearly exclusively on the opera. The 1,100-seat Meilanfang Grand Theatre will use an aggressive advertising campaign and reduced ticket prices in an effort to attract larger crowds.

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