It is not a special effect, a capsule of fake blood, or some street-performer’s trick. It involves a performer actually holding anywhere from a few to ten wild boar tusks in their mouth while singing, reciting lines, and performing combat moves—transforming those "tusks" into a switch that triggers raw emotion right before your eyes.

I. You might think Ninghai is a quiet place, but its stagecraft can suddenly "bare its fangs."

Ninghai, Zhejiang, lies where the misty atmosphere of the Jiangnan region meets the rugged folds of mountains and sea; it is renowned for producing scholars and travelers (it was the starting point for the famous explorer Xu Xiake). Yet, the local theater tells a different story—one that is neither gentle nor "flat." *Ninghai Pingdiao*—a regional opera style from eastern Zhejiang characterized by vigorous vocal delivery and dynamic, thunderous percussion—is considered a branch of the Xinchang *Diaoqiang* tradition. Circulated throughout Ninghai and its environs, its history traces back centuries, spanning the transition from the late Ming to the early Qing dynasties.

Among the many signature pieces in the *Pingdiao* repertoire, the most captivating element isn't the graceful manipulation of long, flowing "water sleeves," but rather a specific oral feat: *Shuaya*—the art of manipulating tusks in the mouth.

Its most iconic appearance occurs in the famous *Pingdiao* segment *Jinlian Slays the Dragon* (often associated with the traditional play *Little Gold Coin*). Here, it is used to portray the "One-Horned Dragon" (also known as Li Jiao; the character's name varies slightly across different versions)—a figure that is half-human and half-demon. To convey the arrogance, ferocity, and menace of this half-divine, half-bestial creature—qualities that cannot be fully expressed through facial makeup and physical movement alone—the people of Ninghai chose to literally place "beast fangs" inside the actor's mouth to drive the narrative.

II. "Western Face, Eastern Fangs": What is it, and why does it give you goosebumps?

Observers often place *Shuaya* alongside the "Face-Changing" art of Sichuan Opera as a spectacular feat: one involves transformations on the face, while the other involves transformations within the mouth. This has given rise to a popular saying in the performance world: "Western Face, Eastern Fangs." Yet, once you are actually seated in the theater, you realize that any metaphor falls short:

As the gongs and drums quicken the pace, the actor’s lips part slightly. First, two fangs emerge from the corners of the mouth like a warning; then, with a series of movements—swallowing and spitting—the count rises to four, six, eight, and at the peak, even ten fangs. They flutter, snap, and flip up and down within the mouth. Sometimes, the fangs seem poised to pierce the nostrils—a striking visual effect—while the actor’s voice must still force its way out from behind that array of "bone-white, razor-sharp weapons," all while maintaining the standard repertoire of singing, reciting, acting, and martial movements.

The Ninghai County government’s description of this Intangible Cultural Heritage puts it plainly: it is an art of "mouth transformation"—rugged yet nuanced, wild yet agile—where the shifting fangs themselves "speak."

When the fangs clamp down, it is often interpreted as a sign of triumph or relaxation; flipping up and down signals rising anger; violent, wide-ranging shaking conveys a rage bordering on loss of control.

The audience doesn't necessarily need subtitles; their bodies "understand" it instinctively.

III. The fangs are not mere props but a "bodily technique": bite, lick, swallow, spit.

Stripped to its essentials, the mechanism isn't mysterious: performers typically use processed boar tusks (often described as lower-jaw tusks from large males, subjected to rigorous polishing and cleaning). The actor relies primarily on the tongue—supplemented by the teeth, lips, and breath control—to position, flip, project, and retract the tusks within the confined space of the mouth, establishing a steady rhythm of "retraction and release."

Yet, "the principle isn't mysterious" and "actually doing it" are two very different things:

To turn these hard objects into controllable "joints" within your mouth, you must train the soft tissues of the oral cavity to withstand the constant pressure of a foreign object.

Public accounts make no secret of the cost: the training period often entails swollen gums, a numb tongue, and even mucosal abrasions or calluses; many young trainees are deterred right at the start by the pungent, gamey odor and their own involuntary physiological reflexes. Thus, it was never a simple matter of "stuffing them in just because you have a big mouth"; it relies on long-cultivated muscle memory, breath control, and psychological resilience—a quintessential "embodied skill" that must be embedded within the conventions of the opera form. You aren't merely showing off a stunt; you are enabling the character to "grow fangs" within a specific dramatic context.

IV. The Greatest Danger Isn't the Fangs Themselves, but the Fact That "Only a Few People Know How": The Crisis of Transmission and Survival

In 2006, Ninghai Pingdiao Opera was included in the first batch of the National List of Intangible Cultural Heritage, bringing "Shua Ya" (the art of manipulating fangs) into the national spotlight as the genre's signature feat.

However, official recognition does not guarantee survival:

"Shua Ya" has long been a craft where—while connoisseurs appreciate its nuances—few are willing to learn it, endure the grueling training, and ultimately stick with it. There are two main reasons for this: the training is painful and the financial returns are unstable; furthermore, traditional practices often restricted transmission to males only, further limiting the pool of potential practitioners.

A turning point arrived when the stark reality of "having no other choice" set in. To prevent the art form from dying out, the boundaries of tradition had to be broken. Xue Qiaoping—an actress at the Ninghai Pingdiao Art Inheritance Center—emerged as a pivotal figure in this lineage. She did not inherit the skill through family succession; instead, she was selected by the troupe and apprenticed under masters (such as the fifth-generation inheritor Ye Quanmin). She persevered on this path even as her peers dropped out one by one. Later, she brought this "unique Eastern feat" to a wider array of stages and media platforms—including mainstream shows like *China's Got Talent*—letting the world know that Ninghai offers more than just seafood and mountain roads; it also boasts a raw, primal energy rooted in a thousand-year-old tradition, embodied in a single mouth.

In a sense, Xue Qiaoping represents more than just "an actress capable of manipulating ten fangs." She has successfully dragged an endangered, unique skill out of the realm of "secret clan or troupe transmission" and into a "public transmission mechanism." By training students and taking the art form into cultural halls, schools, and festival performances, she ensures it remains visible—for only by being seen can it truly stay alive. V. What exactly is the "beauty" of it? Don't dismiss *Shuaya* (tooth-juggling) as mere novelty.

When people first encounter videos of *Shuaya*, they often post comments like "Terrifying," "Looks like an alien," or "Hollywood should take notes."

However, such reactions risk reducing *Shuaya* to a mere curiosity, overlooking its true aesthetic value:

It is an act of characterization, not acrobatics: the demonic nature, domineering spirit, and inner turmoil of the "Horned Dragon" character are physically manifested as an "untamable object" within the mouth; the more teeth used, the more the human figure appears to be disintegrating into a beast.

It is organically fused with the style of the opera genre: *Ninghai Pingdiao* does not aim for soft, delicate charm; it features heavy percussion and bold, angular lines—and *Shuaya* serves as an "extreme magnification" of these very traits.

It represents the pinnacle of expertise within an incredibly small circle: the number of people nationwide capable of mastering the technique—juggling ten fangs while simultaneously singing, acting, reciting, and performing martial movements—can be counted on the fingers of two hands. That very number speaks volumes about the immense weight of the tradition.

VI. If you want to see it in person: Where to find "living *Shuaya*"

The best bet is locally in Ninghai: The *Ninghai Pingdiao* Art Inheritance Center and related troupes still showcase this unique skill during festivals, rural outreach performances, and theatrical showcases (such as events in village cultural auditoriums, the "Kaiyou Festival," and provincial or municipal opera exhibitions).

If you spot a performance of the *Jinlian Zhan Jiao* (Jinlian Slays the Dragon) excerpt or a "*Shuaya* demonstration" on posters for opera showcases, Intangible Cultural Heritage exhibitions, or "Opera in Scenic Areas/Schools" events within the Ningbo or Zhejiang region, that is almost certainly it.

When watching, I suggest you don't just focus on the teeth: listen to the accompanying percussion (terms like "Three Bigs, One Small" often appear in local accounts) and the imposing momentum of the musical tunes—the teeth are the lightning, but the music is the storm cloud.

True Intangible Cultural Heritage is not about locking fangs away in a glass display case. Writing eloquently about *Shuaya* is easy; the real challenge lies in getting young people willing to open their mouths, insert the fangs, endure the pain, and—on some evening, upon a small-town stage—allow the monster of a four-hundred-year-old opera tradition to breathe once more. The allure of Ninghai’s *Shuaya* (teeth-juggling) performance lies not in "how many teeth the mouth can hold," but in the fact that a person is willing to use their own body to preserve the sharpest edge of local memory.