Whichever culture you explore, any encounter with something called opera will throw up the inevitable charivari of sep-arated twins, mistaken identities, kidnapped infants and thwarted lovers. Mention Peking Opera in this country, though, and it will usually evoke images of a glorified circus, with jugglers, acrobats, ambulatory lion-headed rugs and, almost incidentally, a bit of singing, dancing and acting. Yet dig a little deeper and you find countless affinities with the opera of Covent Garden and La Scala, starting with those irresistibly flaky plots.

One of my favourites, an acknowledged classic that the National Beijing Opera Company of China is bringing here next month, is the magnificently named Suicide with a Golden Brick. It is about a drunken emperor who drives one of his loyal generals to the act of desperation outlined in the title. Later, hallucinating with remorse, the emperor is attacked by a ghost wielding the same unlikely weapon and, not unnaturally, dies of shock. This is one of the saner scenarios. The company is also bringing a mix of war stories, love stories and a 1,000-year-old legend about snake spirits.

Admittedly, in your average Verdi, there is little chance of seeing men and women, shoulders spiked with banners like a Spanish bull, jousting ferociously with pikes, swords and spears. The “acrobatic” skills of the performers derive from martial arts as much as theatre. The costume for a warrior general might weigh 20lb, and the shoes typically have 4in heels. Anyone who can spreadeagle themselves in midair and swing a lance around their head while kitted out in that lot deserves respect.

The most valued performers, however, are those with the purest voices and the greatest respect for the traditions of the Beijing opera. In fact, one of the national company’s most popular stars, Li Shengsu, is admired not just for her lovely voice, but because it is almost indistinguishable from the lovely voice of a man who has been dead more than 45 years. Mei Lanfang founded the National Beijing Opera Company of China in 1955, after a long career as a fêted female impersonator. He started performing in 1906, more than a century after the emperor Qianlong had banned women from the stage, ostensibly to save men from their corrupting influence. Nevertheless, the tradition of men playing women’s parts survived until the Cultural Revolution of 1965, when it was branded too decadent. From the age of 10, Li was taught by Mei’s son, who hand-picked her to take over his father’s most celebrated roles.

“Your teacher decides who you will be, throughout your career,” says Li, “and trains you accordingly.” Beijing opera, she says, is rigidly stratified. There are four basic types: men, women, clowns and painted faces (actors in stylised make-up, often representing generals, judges or supernatural figures). Each type has numerous subgroups, and each of these has characteristic costumes, songs and ways of moving or talking. Li is famed for her “virtuous” and “lively” women. A radiant, clear-skinned 39, she has been performing these roles since she graduated from Beijing’s opera academy at 20, and will perform them until she retires. “You don’t feel restricted by this,” she says. “It is not like in the West, where actors play many different kinds of character, so-so. Here, you have the chance to make your performance perfect. It’s more important to respect tradition than to innovate.”

Chinese opera is usually traced back 4,000 years, to shamans who danced to invoke and entertain spirits. In parts of China, it is still possible to see exorcisms in which a Taoist priest acts out a battle with a masked assistant who represents the invading ghost. According to legend, the painted-face character dates back 2,000 years, to a pretty-boy warrior who wore masks into battle so his enemies would take him seriously. Although the Beijing tradition is the most famous, there are more than 350 regional operas in China, each with a repertoire and instrumentation — and often a distinct language — of its own. Each region will also have a Beijing opera troupe and academy.

The national company draws artists from most of them, but it also has a 2,000-strong school for actors, playwrights, musicians and backstage staff. Yu Kuizhi, who leads the tour of Britain, graduated 24 years ago. Like Li, he began to study opera at 10, and his future was decided when he was a child. “Your teacher sees your strength, like jade or some other treasure, and concentrates it,” he says. Yu is a dapper figure who specialises in playing “mature, well-educated” men. He is the emperor in Suicide with a Golden Brick. At 45, he says, he is in his prime: “But now I only practise eight hours a day, especially if there is a two-hour performance in the evening. In the academy, the day began at 6am and ended at 9.30pm. And there were no holidays, because if you rested, your muscles went back to how they were. Sometimes I think maybe this is the hardest pro- fession in the world.”

National Beijing Opera Company of China is at the Lowry, Salford (May 11-14); Sadler’s Wells, EC1 (17-21); Edinburgh Festival Theatre (24, 25); and Salisbury International Arts Festival (27)