The Great Popular Performing Arts of Edo: Kabuki, Sideshows, and Rakugo

By

Kawazoe Yū

Translated by Samuel L. Leiter

Introduction 

Introduction (kōjō)  

This is an adaptation of Edo no Taishū Geinō: Kabuki.Misemono.Rakugo (The Great Popular Performing Arts of Edo: Kabuki, Sideshows, and Rakugo), a beautifully illustrated book by Kawazoe Yū (Kyoto: Seigensha, 2000). It is generally faithful to the original except where explanations are introduced to further clarify passages for readers unfamiliar with this material. The following is based on Kawazoe’s introduction.

There are various possible viewpoints from which to approach Japanese performing arts, but here I have tried looking at them from the perspective of “the performing arts of Edo times,” rather than “traditional performing arts.” This is also a decision to give precedence to the name of the series, “Great Edo.” However, in reality, many people and things flowed from Osaka to Edo, and this book also includes pages on the sideshows of “Going Down to Osaka,” in which Edo things traveled in the opposite direction. That is only natural, and one may say that precisely by adhering to Edo, a view of the opposite side becomes possible.

While being concerned with this question of cities, another thing to which I was particular was the viewpoint of “popular performing arts,” or “popular (= masses).” Needless to say, the masses exist not only in Tokyo but also in remote mountain regions and small islands. The masses are take cities as their center, but they do not exist only in cities. Specifically, in the Edo period (1603-1868), it is possible to think that a popular society of a certain degree had already been formed. However, it is also impossible to discuss Edo after the Genroku period (1688–1704)= when media and popular phenomena such as plays and popular songs produced flourishing cultural politics—apart from their connections to other periods. The heart of this book, however, is the popular performing arts of the period from before and after the Bunka-Bunsei era (1804–1830) to the end of the shogunate. I have tried to engage actively with this urban society called Edo, in which different popular cultures and popular media were mutually connected, and, while becoming involved with one another, advanced dynamically.

The specific genres taken up are the three of kabuki, sideshows, and rakugo. These contain comparative, easy to arrange pictorial documentation. Aside from cultural history, I do not know whether there is much value in these three things placed side by side. Basically, my intention is not to detail a general history, but to attempt to indicate as clearly as possible certain circumstances and distinctive points. Therefore, I think that merely examining the visual materials will be sufficient.

The great popular performing arts (taishū geinō) were loved by the masses. They were enjoyed as “spectacles,” so understanding the circumstances of their “spectators” will be a shortcut to approaching Edo’s popular performing arts. I invite you to take a look from the opening curtain onward.

Fig. 1.

A Picture of the Great Prosperity of the Theatre (Fig. 1)

(Artist: Utagawa Toyokuni I. Three-sheet series of large-format, multicolored woodblock prints. Bunka 14 (1817). National Theatre.)y

This is a picture filled with vitality, depicting the stage of a greatly flourishing theatre and the surrounding audience seats. First, please observe the closeness of the distance between the stage and the audience seats. Surrounding the stage are the partitioned seating boxes (masu seki) of the doma (the pit), and, if one looks carefully, audience seats have also been arranged at the left rear of the stage. Literally, a densely concentrated bodily space in which the spectators envelop the actors, so to speak, conveys the atmosphere of a richly human theatre space in which everyone is “of one mind” (ichiza dōjin).This was what an Edo theatre of former times was like. Incidentally, the stage depicts the lion dance (shishi mai) performed by Ichikawa Danjūrō VII and Iwai Hanshirō V at the Kawarasaki Theatre in the third month of 1817. However, there are also many examples in which the central sheet of such a three-sheet series was replaced with that of a different production.

Spectators Viewing from Directly Beside the Stage (Fig. 2)

Fig. 2

Men and women watching from very close distances view the performance from the front, from the side, and from behind. There was created a bodily space filled with the enthusiasm of actors and spectators united as one, and the spectators became part of kabuki

The forestage, where a performance is in full progress, projects considerably forward. Consequently, as in the picture, there were many spectators who viewed the actors’ performances directly from the side. In the audience seating, one can see people eating meals, drinking sake, and watching the play in a relaxed manner, and the scene is considerably disorderly. They were not gazing intently at the stage in front of them as a serious “place,” as people do today, but there was an underlying sense of unity in the theatre as a whole as a “place,” and in this way they were immersing themselves in the world of kabuki. Incidentally, at the upper right are the sajiki (gallery seats), and on both the east and west sides there were lower sajiki and upper sajiki. A characteristic of Edo’s lower sajiki was that two horizontal wooden bars were attached to them, and because the appearance of people sticking their faces out from between them was said to resemble quails (uzura), they were popularly called “quail sajiki” (uzura sajiki), or, abbreviated, simply “uzura.”

Spectators Viewing from Behind the Stage: “Rakan-dai” and “Yoshino” (Fig. 3)

Fig. 3.

The seats constructed at the far back were called “Rakan-dai” below and “Yoshino” above (or “Tsūten”).Admission was cheap, and the seats were for the most common people, packed so tightly that they were like a stuffed lunch box. From here it was possible to see the actors from behind, and, when the curtain closed, one could see from behind the curtain, so it was also possible to observe the actors who would appear next and the way the large stage units were arranged. The designation “Rakan-dai” came from the way the people sat lined up resembling the Five Hundred Arhats at Honjo Itsutsume in Edo. “Yoshino” was so called because the cherry blossoms on the hanging branches decorating the upper part of the stage came directly before one’s eyes (Nara’s Yoshino was famous for viewing cherry blossoms). Likewise, “Tsūten” was so called because the hanging branches of autumn leaves were directly before one’s eyes (the Tsūten Bridge at Tōfukuji Temple in Kyoto was famous for viewing autumn foliage). Although these names were elegant, the spectators here enjoyed kabuki at inexpensive prices; sometimes quarrels erupted. There were also occasions when, because of a full house, spectators climbed onto the stage; when that happened the acting space disappeared, resulting in a situation described in a senryū as “Performing in a space of about one tsubo because of the full house.” The person sitting on the half-tatami mat in the foreground is the stage attendant, whose role was to restrain noisy spectators and disturbances.

Pictures of the Interior and Exterior of the Nakamura-za (Fig. 4)

(Artist: Utagawa Toyokuni I. Large-format, multicolored woodblock print, six-sheet series. Bunka 14 (1817). Waseda University Theatre Museum.)

Fig. 4

The following two ukiyo-e depict the interior and exterior of the Nakamura-za in 1817, the same year as the preceding illustrations. In Fig. 4, the customary New Year’s production of Soga no Taimen (The Soga Brothers’ Confrontation) is being performed; on the hanamichi on the left are the brothers Soga Gorō and Jūrō. The hanamichi, which passes through the audience, was a wonderful creation peculiar to kabuki, established as a permanent feature in the first half of the eighteenth century, creating an acting space on which actors and spectators came into intimate contact. There, the actors’ performance space projects outward toward the spectators, while, conversely, the hanamichi strongly directs the spectators’ lines of sight toward the actors, and the spectators’ bodies, too, approach the side of the stage. Apart from this hanamichi on the lower-hand side (west), there is a passageway on the right-hand side, called the higashi no ayumi-ita (eastern walking board). Eventually called the kari hanamichi (temporary hanamichi) when it became a removable feature, it was a passageway for spectators and vendors and, at the same time, could be used as a special acting space allowing actors to circumnavigate the auditorium.

Fig. 5.

Now, turning our attention to the exterior of the theatre (Fig. 5), at the center of the roof a yagura (drum tower), a large structure measuring nine shaku and four sun square, bearing the theatre’s crest; beneath it are the yagurashita (signboard below the yagura), recording the name of the theatre proprietor, and the atari kanban (big hit signboard), displaying the word ōiri for “full house.” Also, the various painted signboards on the right, the large title signboard (ōnadai kanban) and small title signboard (konadai kanban) on the left, and other details are clearly depicted. This print allows one to look view the theatre building amid the bustle in front of its entrance. At the entrance are also kiyōsha (“stage mimics”), who attract spectators by imitating the gestures and voices of actors, dressed in matching costumes and with their faces wrapped in hand towels. Incidentally, the titles visible here on the signboards and the actors’ faces on the stage do not necessarily correspond to the actual performance. Rather than being based on an actual production, this example may be called a kind of mitate-e (representation by analogy), celebrating the New Year at the Nakamura-za and in kabuki.

Why Depict the Theatre? The Spectators Also Took Center Stage

The Development of Ukiyo-e Theatre Pictures

Ukiyo-e genre pictures began with early modern paintings executed in ink, and include works depicting the interior and exterior of theatres throughout the ages, in the form of ink paintings (sumizuri honpon), lacquer paintings (urushi-e), red-and-brown paintings (benizuri-e), and full-color prints (nishiki-e). Particularly from the 1740s onward, illustrations of theatre interiors became a favorite subject among woodblock prints known as uki-e, which employed the Western method of perspective. That development continued even into the late Edo and Meiji periods. When we consider that ukiyo-e prints were commercially published products, we realize that theatre pictures were published because many people wanted them. In this connection, what is particularly different about pictures depicting specific actors or plays in performance and pictures of the theatre itself, is that the subject of the latter was the theatre building itself as a “place” or “space.” Because this was so, it was naturally not only the actors and performances on the stage but also the spectators who became subjects of depiction. In other words, in theatre pictures, “the spectators also took center stage.” Therefore, when the common people of Edo looked at pictures of theatres, it was very natural for them to imagine themselves in the sajiki or thinking about going there. Furthermore, the idea that a theatre exists only when there’s an audience present, and the fact that spectators ultimately came to think about the origins of the word shibai (“theatre”) as “sitting on grass” (the word’s literal meaning) are fundamental matters. The development of Edo theatre pictures can therefore be understood as something that also represents the culture of the common people of Edo.

Ichimura-za Jōnai-zu Byōbu (Folding Screen Depicting the Interior of the Ichimura-za) (Fig. 6)

Fig. 6

(Four-panel folding screen, one screen. Kyōhō 18 (1733). Waseda University Theatre Museum.)

This is a work in which we can understand the appearance of the western sajiki and the doma before the latter became divided into masu (boxed-in seating). Originally, the basic forms of audience seating were these areas, and there were periods when the sajiki were on only one level, as well as periods when there were sajiki up to the third floor. From approximately the middle of the Kyōhō era onward, there was a two-level arrangement of upper and lower galleries, as in the picture, and the middle portion was especially expensive, with the audience consisting principally of people of rank and members of wealthy merchant households. Here can also be seen spectators who appear to be accompanied by geiko (young men). Moreover, in the two kinds of prints from the late Bunka era introduced earlier, the figures of palace ladies-in-waiting were conspicuous in the better sajiki seats. The audience seats in this picture being filled predominantly with male spectators is greatly different from today, Edo kabuki’s being premised upon a large male audience. The play is Hanabusa Bunshin Soga (The Distinguished Soga Doubles), at the Ichimura-za in January of Kyōhō 18 (1733). Ichikawa Danjūrō II, as Soga Gorō, appears on the hanamichi. We see in these pictures a preoccupation with what were called “Soga plays” (Sogamono), plays about the Soga brothers, especially Shibaraku (Wait a Moment!). These depict the exaggeratedly masculine performance style called aragoto associated with Edo kabuki, typically presented within such important temporal and spatial settings as the season-opening kaomise (face-showing) productions and New Year performances.

Shibai Kyōgen no Zu (Picture of a Theatre Performance) (Fig. 7)

Fig. 7.

(Urushi-e [lacquer-style print]. Around the Kanpō era (1741–1744). National Theatre.)

This picture of the Nakamura-za’s interior is a comparatively early uki-e (perspective-picture). Although it is completely roof-covered, the vestigial existence of the hashigakari (bridgeway) upstage right, the gabled roof above the stage, and other features make it readily apparent that the kabuki stage developed from the Noh stage. Speaking in terms of the larger development, both the hashigakari and the gabled roof, which originally had clearly existed, gradually declined, becoming formalized and reduced to mere vestiges.

Uki-e Edo Sakai-chō Shibai no Zu (Perspective Picture of the Theatre in Edo’s Sakai-chō) (Fig. 8)

Fig. 8.

(Artist: Rekisentei Eiri. Large-format nishiki-e. Around the Kansei era (1789–1801). National Theatre.)

This is an uki-e of the interior of the Nakamura-za, with the spectators depicted like tiny beans. Of course, counting these tiny beans and calculating how many spectators there are is nonsense, but taking into account the artist’s intention to fill the picture with these tiny figures is necessary to “reading the picture.” The point behind this “constructed expression,” in a word, was to stress “theatre prosperity,” so, within the perspective format, even if the spectators became tiny beans, it was important to pack the space with large numbers of spectators. This is a work that, in.\;one respect, represents the importance of the audience’s presence. The passage extending across the left and right of the foreground was the naka no ayumi-ita (middle walkway), and behind it was the naka no ma (middle space), consisting of the cheap, crowded seating. In the picture, the spectators here are depicted with richly expressive faces. The actor performing Shibaraku on the hanamichi is Ichikawa Danjūrō V. Note that the pit has not yet been divided into boxed off sections, which are present in the next image.

Tōto Meisho Saruwaka-chō Shibai (Famous Places of the Eastern Capital: The Theatres of Saruwaka-chō) (Fig. 9)

Fig. 9.

(Artist: Utagawa Hiroshige I. Large-format nishiki-e. Around Kaei 3 91850]. National Theatre.)

Under the Tenpō Reforms (1841-1843), Edo’s theatre district was relocated to Asakusa’s Saruwaka-chō (discussed later); this picture shows a theatre interior during the late Edo period (bakumatsu) following that relocation. It doesn’t depict any particular theatre; rather, Hiroshige illustrates the appearance of an Edo theatre as a “famous place” (meisho). It is, essentially, a generalized theatre picture, and the play depicted is likewise the typical Soga no Taimen, with Gorō and Jūrō on the hanamichi. It is interesting as a kind of “symbolical” theatre picture.

Le Théâtre: Scène de danse (The Theatre: A Dance Scene) (Fig. 10)

Fig. 10.

A Late Edo Period (Bakumatsu) Theatre as Seen by a Foreigner (Fig. 10)

(From Aimé Humbert’s Bakumatsu Nihon Zue (Illustrated Japan at the End of the Shogunate). Meiji 3 (1870). Author’s collection.)

This is an illustration included in Bakumatsu Nihon Zue: Le Japon Illustré, published by the French firm Hachette after Swiss diplomat Aimé Humbert, who came to Japan from in Bunkyū 3 (1863), returned to his country. It shows the interior of a theatre at the very end of the bakumatsu period. The title reads “Grand Theatre: Dance Scene — LE THÉÂTRE: SCÈNE DE DANSE.” Although there are several problems regarding the accuracy of the details, I think it captures the impression of the space, which must have appeared unusual to a foreigner, quite well.. The theatre interior, where sunlight was the basic source of illumination, would have been quite dark if the weather was bad.  On the hanamichi, a shosagoto (dance piece) featuring harukoma (spring-horse dancing) is being performed, and omote-akari (face lighting), in which a candle is placed on the end of a long, slender pole and held before the face, is being used. Although this black and white depiction differs considerably from the brilliant nishiki-e, I think it too conveys one view of the truth, while the splendor of the nishiki-e presents another view related to the sensibility of the people of Edo. The essay in which Humbert discusses kabuki, errors included, is reprinted in the translator’s book, Meiji Kabuki: Japanese Theatre through Foreign Eyes.

Audience Reputation — Shikitei Sanba’s Kyakusha Hyōbanki (An Audience Critique). (Fig. 11)

Fig. 11.

The enthusiasm of the spectators, together with the stage, creates the universe of kabuki and the playhouse. . . . The person who was keenly conscious of this “theatre that exists because of the audience,” and, conversely, “the audience that exists because of the theatre”—spectators who cannot live without theatre—was Shikitei Sanba (An’ei 5 [1776]–Bunsei 5 [1822]), a writer of popular fiction who was passionately fond of theatre. Sanba is generally known for two works of kokkeibon (comic fiction), Ukiyoburo (The Floating-World Bathhouse; Bunka 6 [1809]–10 [1813]) and Ukiyodoko (The Floating-World Barbershop; Bunka 8–9 [1811–1812]), but he also produced numerous works taking the theatre as their subject, such as Gijō Kinmō Zui (An Illustrated Guide to the Theatre; Kyōwa 3 [1803]), introduced here, and Gijō Suigen Maku no Soto (Theatrical Witticisms Outside the Curtain; Bunka 3 [1806]). He even went so far as to produce Kyakusha (also Kakusha) Hyōbanki (An Audience Critique); Bunka 8 [1811]), inspired by the annual actors’ critiques (Yakusha Hyōbanki), which evaluated spectators the same way. In it, following the example of the Yakusha Hyōbanki), he ranks types of audience members and describes their manners with affection, sometimes with tongue in cheek, sometimes admiringly, and sometimes while projecting himself into them. Please enjoy the world of old-time theatre spectators that follows. (A thorough description of these works is in Jacob Raz, Audience and Actors: A Study of Their Interaction in the Traditional Japanese Theatre [1983]).

Nuregoto-ba o Miru Tei (The Manner of Watching a Love Scene) (Fig. 12)

Fig 12.

(From the first volume of Kyakusha Hyōbanki.)

A nuregoto (love scene) enacts sexual love between a man and a woman; the picture presents spectators in the dō-sajiki watching one in a dazed manner, among others. Shikitei Sanba writes (upper right), “Enraptured by the love scene of the gently falling spring rain, before they know it, saliva dribbles from their lips.” Incidentally, the dō-sajiki were boxes at the front of the second level, at the rear of the theatre, away from the stage. The front portion of these was also called hikifune.

Kankyaku no Kuraizuke (Ranking the Spectators) (Figs. 13, 14)

(From the first volume of Kyakusha Hyōbanki.)

At beginning of the illustration of Fig. 13, on the right, it says “Three Theatres of Flourishing Edo: Critique of Theatre Spectators, Complete List of Spectators.” This section ranking spectators after the model of the actor critiques. In essence, it replicates the rankings of the “Leading Male Roles Section” of the three theatres. Beginning with these, the rankings continue through “Supreme Upper-Upper Excellent: Regular Devoted Patron, Hero,” “White Supreme Upper-Upper Excellent: One Who Loves Shibaraku, Devotion,” “True Upper-Upper Excellent: Patron” . . . and “Upper-Upper Excellent: Theatre Connoisseur, Prosperous Growth,” while at the end of the scroll comes “Great Upper-Upper Excellent: Spectator in the Mat-Floored Boxes, Honesty.” Since the leading “Regular Devoted Patron” will be explained in the next section, the “Mat-Floored Boxes” of the final Great Upper-Upper Excellent ranking are seats behind the second-floor front boxes, inexpensive crowded seats so far from the stage that the dialogue cannot be heard, as indicated by the accompanying words “the moon dim in the heavens.” In this way, one can perceive Sanba’s distinctive insight into the passion of spectators who try to come into contact with the atmosphere of the theatre, even if only a little. Furthermore, at the beginning, the words “Patrons: The Eight Hundred and Eight Towns; Bathhouses in Every Town; Barbers; Within Four ri in Every Direction; Hairdressers at Every Street Corner” symbolically indicate the spread of theatre enthusiasts throughout Edo. Bathhouses and hairdressers’ shops were places of social intercourse for the common people of Edo, and this was the world in which Sanba, who wrote Ukiyoburo and Ukiyodoko, was most at home.

Hanamichi no Deha o Miru Kenbutsu no Omomuki (Spectators Watching an Entrance on the Hanamichi) 

Figs. 15a, top, 15b, bottom.

(From the first volume of Kyakusha Hyōbanki.)

Spectators in the upper sajiki, on the audience’s left, leaning forward enthusiastically to peer at an actor who on the hanamichi. Splendid food being brought in is visible, and to the left is written “Western Upper Boxes: Tayū.” Tayū was the highest-grade second-floor seating; proceeding from the side nearest the stage, there was the uchigōshi (inner lattice), next came this tayū, and the more distant section was called hira (ordinary). Moreover, the term tayū-sajiki became generalized and was used to mean a particularly good seat with an excellent view. Although the occupants of the best seats are not necessarily connoisseurs, the spectators in the picture are watching very intently.

Ureiba o Miru Kenbutsu no Tei (Spectators Watching a Sorrowful Scene) (Fig. 15b, bottom)

 (From the first volume of Kyakusha Hyōbanki.)

This, on the other hand, shows the lower boxes on audience left, popularly called the kamo-sajiki. The lower boxes, in order from the places nearest the stage, were the uchi-suiren (inner bamboo blinds), shown here; the tayū; and, in the lower-ranked places, the soto-suiren (outer bamboo blinds) and shin-gōshi (new lattice). Also, the area slightly higher than the ordinary ground-floor seating in the foreground was called the taka-doma (raised pit seating); these seats were also established beneath the eastern (audience right) and western boxes around Kyōwa 2 (1802), and their price was twenty to thirty percent higher than that of the ordinary ground-floor seats. In any case, observe how deeply the spectators watching the “sorrowful scene” emotionally identify and sympathize with the play.

Onna no Ko no Hiiki (Girl Fans) (Fig. 16a)

 (From the middle volume of Kyakusha Hyōbanki.)

Children love theatre as much as adults do. In the illustration, a couple of girls, with actor pictures before them, hold a shamisen and play with dolls. Following a section in which
Sanba humorously describes adults who boast to one another about their favorite actors, Sanba also amusingly depicts the innocent rivalry of young girls who imitate the adults in their devotion to actors.

Otoko no Ko no Hiiki (Boy Enthusiasts) (Fig. 16b)

(From the middle volume of Kyakusha Hyōbanki.)

Mischievous boys are not to be outdone. When they agree to play at theatre, it quickly turns into a scene like the one seen here. The boys naturally favor the bombastic style of aragoto, and they dispute who is stronger, Susanoo no Mikoto or Benkei, or Benkei or Kintoki; then they ask which would be more powerful, Benkei and Kintoki together or Danjūrō, and their talk takes an exaggerated turn as they conclude. Sanba writes, “The more they’re scolded, the less the temple-school children listen; the teacher is forced to deal with those who imitate actors’ gestures and voices.”

Audience as Supporters — Shikitei Sanba and the Mimasu-ren

In Shikitei Sanba’s Kyakusha Hyōbanki, at the beginning of the section on leading male roles, is the designation for the “Supreme Upper-Upper Excellent: Regular Devoted Patrons.” These were spectators who patronized a particular actor with unwavering devotion and invariably attended that actor’s performances. When such like-minded spectators gathered together in an organized fashion to support a particular actor, they became a renjū (fan club). In fact, many such kabuki renjū existed. For example, let’s look at the Utei Enba (Kanpō 3 [1743]–Bunsei 5 [1822]) and the Mimasu-ren (Mimasu Association). Utei Enba will appear frequently hereafter. His original occupation was master carpenter, but he was a versatile, talented man also active as a popular-fiction writer, a jōruri playwright, a financial backer of entertainments, and a key figure who opened the way for the revival of rakugo. Enba was a leader who organized activities; ardently favoring Ichikawa Danjūrō, he organized the Mimasu-ren (mimasu, three sake measuring boxes inside one another) being Danjūrō’s standard family crest), and became its central figure. First and foremost of his duties was mobilizing audiences to attend plays in which Danjūrō appeared; in addition, the association carried out a wide variety of activities, such as compiling collections of kyōka (comic waka poetry), haikai, and the like (ten collections altogether, with approximately 1,400 contributors). Incidentally, Shikitei Sanba is said to have been a disciple of Utei Enba, both being passionate theatre enthusiasts. Furthermore, Enba published an earlier work called Kyakusha Hyōbanki, a sharebon (witty books about brothel life) published in An’ei 9 (1780). This was a comical critique of the pleasure-seekers visiting the licensed quarters.

Hana Edo Kabuki Nendaiki (Chronicle of Kabuki in Blooming Edo), First Series, Volume One (Fig. 17)

Fig. 17.

(Written by Utei Enba. Illustrated by Katsukawa Shuntei. Bunka 8 (1811). Waseda University Theatre Museum.)

Although Enba’s book may be called the first history of kabuki, it was, above all, a history of Edo kabuki centered on the Ichikawa Danjūrō line, and was written for Danjūrō’s sake. Danjūrō VI died prematurely in Kansei 2 (1790), Danjūrō VII succeeding to the name at only ten. Danjūrō V, who had retired, died in 1806. Enba became a supporter of the young Danjūrō, worked desperately to promote him, and helped make him representative of Edo.

Fig. 18.

Utei Enba at Home (Fig. 18)

(From Utei Enba’s Edo Kakki Danjūrō Hiiki (Edo Ardor: Devotion to Danjūrō), Tenmei 9 [1787]. National Theatre.)

This illustration to which considerable elegance has been added, depicts the residence of Utei Enba, named Danshūrō. Enba, who was a master carpenter, skillfully incorporated Danjūrō’s mimasu crest into the ceiling and interior decorations. Even his kimono bears the mimasu crest. There is also a hanging scroll of Danjūrō, making an environment totally devoted to Danjūrō.

Utei Enba’s New Year’s Greeting for Bunka 8 (1811) (Fig. 19)

Fig. 19.

(By Utei Enba. Artist: Utagawa Toyokuni I. Shikishiban surimono (privately printed sheet in square format). Private collection.)

Saitan (New Year’s Day) refers to works made to celebrate the New Year. This is a surimono of a daishōgoyomi (calendar of long and short months) by Utei Enba. Daishō refers to the “large months” (thirty days) and “small months” twenty-nine days or fewer) in the lunar calendar. Such privately published prints ingeniously indicated which months were large and which small (the arrangement of months changed each year in the lunar calendar). Enba continued producing and distributing New Year’s prints for several decades. Here, the pictorial motif is Ichikawa Danjūrō VII: the twenty-two-year-old Danjūrō VII is depicted using gold and silver, and the small months are recorded on his collar. In this way, Enba, acting as a behind-the-scenes fan, persistently used various means to promote the star. A member of the audience could thus be a figjure of considerable importance.

KOKUHO: A New Movie About Kabuki Actors

 

I apologize for how long this blog has been dormant. Covid and the ultimate demise of the great kabuki magazine, ENGEKIKAI, whose monthly issues I used to chronicle, are part of the reason. Also, my other research and writing interests were involved. Recently, though, I was commissioned to write an essay related to the release of the new Japanese movie, Kokuho, which is Japan’s entry into the Academy Awards competition for BEST INTERNATIONAL FEATURE FILM. The essay was intended as a reference point for Western journalists writing about the movie. Now that the film is released I’m posting the essay below for those who might be interested. The movie is definitely worth seeing, but this is not a review.

KABUKI: An Introduction to Kokuho

Samuel L. Leiter

Kabuki, one of the world’s most honored theatrical traditions, shines brightly in Lee Sang-Il’s Kokuho, a movie whose title, meaning “National Treasure,” applies to kabuki as well as to a handful of its actors and musicians who have received that honor.  It is one of Japan’s four classical theatre genres, the others being the ritualistic noh, the comical kyogen, and the dramatic puppet theatre called bunraku; kabuki draws material from each, but especially from the last, which provides perhaps half its plays.

Born in Kyoto in 1603, kabuki originally meant anything “offbeat,” but came to be written with characters meaning “song,” “dance,” and “prostitute” (later replaced by “skill”). It began as a popular art of songs, dances, and sketches set in the pleasure quarters among prostitutes and their clients that delighted the burgeoning urban citizenry under the newly established Tokugawa shogunate. Kabuki’s creative and performative centers were in Osaka and Kyoto, in Western Japan, and Edo (later Tokyo), in the East. These areas competed in intense rivalry for artistic dominance. Kokuho’s leading actors are from Osaka, but also play in Tokyo.

While noh and kyogen were associated with the samurai class, the highly commercialized kabuki (like its rival, bunraku) was ragingly popular among the masses, its leading performers as glorified and well paid as movie or rock stars. Scandal and family dissension could as easily arise among them then as today. While many parallels can be drawn between kabuki and the commercial theatres of the West, it differed largely—apart from its native subject matter and conventions—in the breadth of its artistic methods.

Actors, who often begin their rigorous training before they’re even in kindergarten, learn to perform in serious historical and domestic dramas with tales of revenge, murder, suicide, romance, dissipation, theft, power, war, inheritance, usurpation, loyalty, and the like. They also learn to dance in a vast repertory ranging from symbolic to dramatic.

Kabuki is an all-male theatre whose female roles are played by specialists called onnagata (onna=woman, gata=person), as we see in Kokuho. This practice began in the mid-seventeenth century after real women were banned from the stage in 1629, following incidents of rowdiness stirred by men seeking the actresses’ favors. The shift from depending on the natural sex appeal of women to performances by men intent on deepening the internal representation of women led to a marked enrichment of kabuki as a serious artistic form.

At one time, some top-rated onnagata, seeking realism in their art, lived as much like women offstage as possible, even when married with children. Externally, these male actors created a stage femininity that strongly influenced the behavior and fashions of women in real life. It should be noted though, that despite gender-role specialization, many actors play both males and females, requiring the best of them to be part Baryshnikov and part Graham, part Olivier and part Streep.

As in any traditional Japanese art, devotion to perfection can be all-consuming for kabuki actors. Kokuho presents a glimpse of the rigorous training process as well as substantial selections from five kabuki works, four from famous dances and one adapted from a classic 1703 puppet play. A typical program, which might last over four hours, presents several such pieces, including both dance and drama.

The non-dance plays are mainly well-known scenes drawn from longer plays whose full-length versions are only rarely staged. This accounts for the unique, semi-musical way the female character shown in Kokuho’s dramatic scene speaks, based as it is on the narrative style of the puppet theatre chanter, who recites everyone’s lines in distinctly different voices according to long-established musical and poetic conventions.

The dances in Kokuho represent several types, but it’s interesting that two of them allow the film’s two young actors to perform roles that closely mirror one another. In one selection, they play vigorous male lions, playfully swinging around their floor-length manes; in the other they’re beautiful dancers—in reality, jealous women transformed into serpents—visiting a temple’s bell-raising ceremony, during which they shed their gorgeous costumes as a serpent does its skin.

Although a work of fiction in which the names of the characters and theatres are made up, Kokuho truthfully reflects many things about kabuki, including allusions to a historical background that gives credence to the dramatized events. The film provides a trustworthy depiction of a world where actors take different names with a new ordinal number as their artistry progresses. In this world, an actor’s successor succeeds to a name as the present holder—if still active—takes a new one during a highly formalized public ceremony. Further, succession need not be to a biological relative. None of kabuki’s longest dynasties—there have been eighteen actors called Nakamura Kanzaburo—has a direct blood connection to its founders.

From a theatregoer’s perspective, Kokuho—filmed in real kabuki theatres—shows both the premodern seating arrangements still found in a few old-time venues, where audiences sit on the ground in small, boxed-in enclosures, and modern ones with their comfortable Western seats. We also witness the use not only of an audience runway, the famous hanamichi, but of an elevator trap fitted into it for magical entrances. And, obviously, kabuki’s various stage conventions catch the eye, as do its quick onstage changes, stylized posing, visible onstage assistants, and exquisite scenery, costumes, wigs, and makeup.

Kokuho provides a lens through which to view kabuki, a living tradition where artistic legacy and personal ambition intersect. The film spotlights the rigorous practices, name-succession pressures, and theatrical conventions that define this four-and-a-quarter-century art form, revealing the human dynamics behind the iconic makeup and spectacle.

 

ENGEKIKAI #3 (March 2022): Cover and Contents

The late Nakamura Kichiemon II as Ichijō Ōkura Nagashige in Ichijō Ōkura no Monogatari. Photo: Shinoyama Kishin.

     

Here, as promised, is the cover for the penultimate issue of the great monthly kabuki magazine, ENGEKIKAI, which has preserved kabuki history in text and image since early in the 20^th century, when it began as ENGEI GAHŌ. This is vol. 3 (March 2022), recording the productions of January, as seen in the lower right headline covering shows at four kabuki theatres: Tokyo’s Kabuki-za, Kokuritsu Gekijō, and Shinbashi Enbujō, and Ōsaka’s Shōchiku-za. But, as the cover photo signifies, the issue’s major contribution is its memorialization of Nakamura Kichiemon II, one of the greatest modern stars, from the 1960s until his death in November of last year. Designated a Living National Treasure, he was the son of Matsumoto Hakuō (previously Matsumoto Kōshirō VIII), a giant of postwar kabuki, and the brother of the still active star, Matsumoto Hakuō II (previously Kōshirō II). The cover shows him in the role of Ichijō Ōkura Nagashige in Ichijō Ōkura no Monogatari.

Among other items in the issue is the most recent in Matsumoto Kōshirō X’s backstage series, “One Thousand and One Nights.”

Coming soon: the final issue of ENGEKIKAI. 

 

"The Theatres of Japan" by T.J. Nakagawa (1890)

This essay was originally going to be part of my book Meiji Kabuki: Japanese Theatre through Foreign Eyes, a collection of Meiji period writings in English about kabuki, but it was cut when I decided to include only writing by non-Japanese contributors. Although deficient in certain respects, it was one of the more thorough and knowledgeable essays at a time when foreigners writing about kabuki knew little about the form and there were no quality reference sources in English to study in advance. With its commentary and notes, it should give a good idea of how the 62 essays in the book, many of them necessarily condensed, are treated. SLL

 “The Theatres of Japan”^[1] (1890)

T.J. Nakagawa 

T.J. Nakagawa, like Anna D’Almeida, is someone about whom no easily discernible traces remain. Although a native Japanese, his fluent English writing suggests he may have been educated abroad. Certainly, his use of the initials T.J. in his name reflects a strong Western influence. And the sole other example of his writing I could find, an article about “Journalism in Japan,” published in the May 1900 issue of Forum is, perhaps, a sign that journalism was his field.[2]

            Nakagawa offers our only indigenous perspective, providing a capsulized, although generally accurate, version of kabuki history, beginning with a brief look at its predecessor, nō, which influenced it, through its broadest developments up to the late nineteenth century. He reminds us of the low status actors previously had; notes why women were banned from the stage; touches on the artistic evolution of dramatic content; and points out, importantly, that, prior to the Meiji period, Osaka, not Edo was Japan’s theatre center.

This last is often overlooked by modern admirers of kabuki and its colorful past. Nakagawa states, though, that with the ascendance in Meiji of Tokyo’s theatrical power, its stars only rarely visited their provincial brothers, but this was not quite the case. Tokyo actors often toured to Osaka and Kyoto (and elsewhere), although the very top actors did so less frequently than their colleagues, and there was an active interchange between east (Tokyo) and west, especially once railway connections were installed in the early 1870s.

            Nakajima offers a surprisingly negative assessment of kabuki scenography, both artistically and technically, which contradicts the reports of foreigners who often, if not always, tended to highly praise Japanese sets. While some influential Japanese thought features like the hanamichi inconsistent with the stage’s progress into modernity, others, and not simply because they were conservative, recognized the theatrical value of such elements and fought to protect them from overeager reformers.

            Reform was the watchword of the day, and Nakagawa notes the activity of new societies seeking to raise kabuki to a level of international respect. The mid-1880s witnessed an eruption of reformism in all cultural fields. Both Osaka and Tokyo inaugurated Theatre Reform Societies (Engeki Kairyō Kai), of which there were several follow-up groups into the 1890s. Under the influence of the West, they sought improvements in playwriting, social status, and theatrical architecture. Even Western-style oil painters began, occasionally, to design sets. Nakagawa, however, recognized the danger of the reformers throwing the baby out with the bathwater.

            Nakagawa cites a production exploiting a number of naturalistic effects, although, as elsewhere, he fails to mention the title. His clues include it being a play about Dutch-scholar martyrs, starring Danjūrō, performed at the Shintomi-za “several months” earlier. Neither the titles nor the plots of plays performed at the Shintomi-za in the months prior to his article of June 1890 suggest anything about scholar martyrs. However, as Professor Hioki Takayuki of Meiji University informs me,^[3] if we go back four years, to May 1886, we can find a candidate in Yume Monogatari Rosei no Sugata-e, listed in some sources by the name of one of its heroes, the historical figure Watanabe Kazan.^[4] This is the play we are looking for.

Watanabe Kazan (1793-1841), the role played by Danjūrō, was a scholar and painter. As Seichi Iwao writes, he “became interested in Dutch learning—that is, the study of European science and civilization as it was conveyed to Japan through Dutch teachers and textbooks.”^[5] The physician referenced by Nakagawa would have been another major character, Takano Chōei (1804-1850), played by Ichikawa Sadanji I. They and other scholars formed a society called the Shōshikai, focused on studying European culture and contemporary political issues in Japan. Kazan and Chōei were critical of the shogunate’s hardline stance on foreign ships that approached Japan. That is why, in 1839, they and other members of their group were sentenced to life imprisonment, which is why Nakagawa calls them “martyrs.” For various reasons, neither served out their time, but, as the play discloses, both ended up committing suicide.

Nakagawa’s next reference, to a play in which a realistic earthquake occurs, is also vague. It was probably Jishin Katō, whose title means The Earthquake and Katō (a reference to the historical samurai, Katō Kiyomasa [1562-1611]); it was done at the Shintomi-za in February 1887. And the subsequent comment on Kikugorō V’s performance as a cormorant fisher has to have been Ukai no Kagoribi, meaning The Cormorant Fisher’s Basket Fire, which premiered at the Shintomi-za in May 1887, with Kikugorō as both a geisha and a fisherman.^[6]

Nakagawa moves on to discuss kabuki’s revolving stage (mawari butai) and hanamichi, offering this volume’s most comprehensive and comprehending account of these unique devices. However, for all his admiration, he is disappointed that kabuki has not done even more to take advantage of their possibilities. He also explains why the revolving stage was not available in the West, which he blames on the stage space it requires. Nevertheless, it would be introduced in Munich in 1896, at a time when things Japanese were trending abroad. A decade later, Austrian director Max Reinhardt (1873-1943) would make such innovative use of it that it became increasingly popular in Europe and America.^[7] Today it is one of the most common methods of shifting scenes.

Nakagawa follows up with an interesting overview of the beauty, authenticity, and expense of kabuki costumes. Kabuki costumes were typically anachronistic and often far more fanciful than what was actually worn offstage. Danjūrō was concerned about this and wanted to reform costuming. As Nakagawa explains, not all his costars were on board. Allow me to expand on his account of the famous dispute between Danjūrō (whom he refers to by his guild name, or yagō, Naritaya), and Nakamura Sōjūrō.

Danjūrō was a fanatic advocate of historical realism, like Charles Kean (1811-1868) in England a bit earlier.[8] He either had the playwright Kawatake Shinshichi II (Mokuami) write what were dubbed “living history” (katsureki) plays, or adapt existing history plays to eliminate many of their fabrications in the name of authenticity. That was the case with the June 1881 Shintomi-za production of Youchi no Soga, which Nakagawa calls The Two Brothers of the House of Soga.^[9] In it Danjūrō used a new way of costuming Soga no Gorō. It was traditional for him to wear a costume with only a butterfly and plover design but he changed this to authentic armor, with a belly band, gauntlets, shin guards, samurai sandals, and leather tabi, all straight from a Kamakura-period picture scroll. In contrast, the Soga no Jurō of visiting Osaka actor Nakamura Sōjūrō wore the traditional costume of bare feet, suō robe, and hakama, with his feet wrapped in straw—the pure Edo-period style.

So the Soga brothers were thoroughly mismatched, throwing the production off balance, earning sharp criticism, and forcing the management to try to persuade them to change, with no effect on either. As a result, it was said, “The younger brother was prepared for a fire, the older brother for a flood,”^[10] or “the older brother is going to do his laundry in the river, the younger brother is going to collect firewood in the mountains.”^[11] Tokyo’s governor, Matsuda Michiyuki, was brought in to arbitrate, but Sōjūrō refused to compromise. Disgruntled, he walked out after a single performance, and his role was taken by Ichimura Kakitsu (later Ichimura Uzaemon XIV; 1847-1893).

Following his discussion of costuming, Nakagawa turns to a story famous in kabuki annals about the actor Nakamura Nakazō I (1736-1790).The story is another one about how scrupulously kabuki actors of the past were in making their roles as realistic as possible within the limits of the form’s conventions. The unnamed play is Chūshingura, in whose nearly wordless Act V the villainous young rōnin Sadakurō, his face painted deadly white, and his simple black kimono hitched up to reveal his similarly white legs, kills a passerby on a dark and lonely road. As he examines the man’s purse, saying but a single line, with obvious satisfaction, “Gojū ryō” (“Fifty gold pieces”), he, in turn, is shot by someone else. In one of kabuki’s most memorable moments, bright red blood trickles from his mouth onto his exposed white thigh, and he collapses, dead.

This simple scene was perfected by Nakazō in 1766 at the Ichimura-za. Originally, Sadakurō wore the garb of a mountain priest (yamabushi), but Nakazō changed it to the black kimono he made famous, with a wig showing the hair on his normally shaved scalp half grown in. Brief though his appearance is, Sadakurō’s mimic possibilities make the role one many actors long to play.

Nakagawa moves on to further discuss the extreme methods actors went to in their quest for believability, and the measures their masters used to inspire such performances. The example given, involving instructional methods, while far from the internal approach taken by adherents of the Stanislavsky system, is reminiscent of the anecdotes associated with the great American playwright-director, David Belasco (1853-1931). For example, Belasco would smash a supposedly expensive watch—it was a fake—to show his exasperation as a means to rouse his actors’ passions.

And the incident Nakagawa cites regarding Ichikawa Ichizō III’s playing a villain with so much truthfulness that it angered a spectator enough to seek to harm him reminds us of anecdotes about American frontier theatres where audience members are reported to have shot their pistols at pretend assassins. The Ichizō incident happened in the second month of 1857, when Ichizō was at the Morita-za, playing Tenjiku Tokubei in Irifune Soga Nihon no Torikaji. The story has been covered in various sources.^[12]

Eventually, Nakagawa’s commentary on acting realism leads him to men playing women, kabuki’s famed onnagata. He praises the high degree of simulation they bring to their art, notes that they no longer specialize in narrow female types, says that even actors specializing in male roles have expanded to include females, and comments interestingly on the then declining custom of onnagata living their daily lives as much like women as possible. No judgment is passed on the long-established practice, now vanished.

He brings up the subject of actresses to replace the onnagata, something of great concern to those reformists anxious to abandon the old tradition. Nakagawa realizes how difficult this will be, and points out the training it will require. In fact, training schools for actresses began to appear not long after the turn of the century. Regulations against women acting in public were loosened in 1890. The next year, 1891, saw the appearance of the short-lived but revolutionary amateur troupe called the Seibikan, in which a mixed company of men and women performed, actress Chitose Beiha (1855-1918) doing the path-breaking. The Seibikan was a pioneer in the new genre later called shinpa.

However, the earliest example of modern mainstream kabuki using women was at the Kabuki-za in 1893. This happened when Danjūrō cast his two young daughters, Horikoshi Jitsuko (1881-1943) and Horikoshi Fukiko (1883-1947),^[13] alluded to by Nakagawa, as the butterflies in Dōjōji.

There follows a compelling passage about kabuki’s naughty past and the low status it and its actors were confined to in the pre-Meiji years. Nakagawa introduces the topic of the theatre’s employment as a place of both moral education and social value, describing the institution of a necessary censorship to assure things remain that way. Late Meiji Japan was, he reminds us, more concerned about propriety, especially in romantic matters, than the West, and he did not wish to see such standards weakened by foreign influence.

He forecasts the construction of a new theatre that will bring Japan into the modern world, confesses that it will contain actresses as well, and predicts reforms to playwriting that will soon transpire.^[14] This leads to a discussion of a play Erwin Baelz enjoyed in Chapter 15, Bulwer-Lytton’s 1840 British comedy, Money, the first modern foreign play to be adapted into a Japanese context. He is afraid that the conventions of such plays, so unlike those to which audiences are accustomed, may be harmful to the familiar conventions. As it turned out, the Japanese theatre was flexible enough to allow for such incursions, while adjusting its old traditions to the demands and interests of the new world.  

I.

[Nakagawa opens by depicting the origins of kabuki, which grew out of sarugaku, the predecessor of nō, which he briefly describes. He tells the familiar story of Okuni, the dancer who, after arriving in Kyoto in 1603, created the popular form that came to be known as kabuki. She originally performed in the dry river bed of the Kamo River, giving rise to the pejorative name for actors “kawaramono” or “riverbed beggars.”

            He details kabuki’s early development, the official pressure it faced from its perceived immorality, the banning of women, and the consequent rise of male specialists in female roles (onnagata). This sparked the form’s maturity as a dramatic, rather than revue-like entertainment.]

At the end of the eighteenth century Osaka had become the recognized home of the national drama. This city was the rendezvous to which all ambitious aspirants were drawn, and no actor could rise prominently in his vocation unless it were known that he had been trained upon its stages, and in accordance with its peculiar artistic principles. The ascendency of Osaka continued undisputed until the restoration of the imperial government, in 1868. Upon the removal of the court and the seat of administration from that part of the country to Tokyo, three hundred miles away, the supremacy of the theatres was likewise transferred, and during the past twenty years no energy has been spared by the managers and players of the Eastern capital to elevate their art to the highest grade of perfection. There are still companies of great merit at Osaka, and in some particulars their performances are said to surpass those of their successful rivals. But the taste of connoisseurs has declared itself overwhelmingly in approval of the Tokyo school. In the majority of the provincial theatres, including at present those of Kyoto, nothing better can be seen than extravagant and gaudy reproductions of plays once worthily applauded, but now represented by troops of wandering players of no standing whatever. It is only on rare and exceptional occasions that actors of metropolitan repute can be persuaded to leave their own sphere and participate in entertainments elsewhere. I shall therefore confine myself, in describing the present condition of the Japanese stage, to a review of what the leading theatres of Tokyo now provide.

II

It will first be convenient to speak of scenic and mechanical effects, although it must be admitted, at the outset, that these are unquestionably defective in Japan. We have as yet no proper estimate of the importance of pictorial and structural accessories. The mimic views of landscape, architecture, and interiors are never intrusted [sic] to really capable hands, but are almost invariably executed by painters and machinists of mediocre talent. Elaborate settings, for the purpose of increasing the illusion, are almost unknown. Gradations of light and shade are rarely attempted, and colored illuminations were experimentally introduced for the first time only about a year ago, in the Shintomi Theatre, and then without sufficient care or dexterity to produce a satisfactory impression.^[15] It is difficult to supply an explanation for the various imperfections in this department of the theatre. No sustained effort at amendment appears to have been made in the last fifty years. But occasional indications have latterly been given of a willingness to introduce practical reforms. A movement has been set on foot by travelled Japanese who have made themselves familiar with the theatrical processes of Europe and America, the object of which is to compel the attention of managers to the required improvements. Societies have been formed, not alone for the purpose of making good the superficial deficiencies of the stage, but also to enhance its influence as an instrument of popular education. If their endeavors have thus far been unproductive of large results, it is probably because the innovations proposed are of too radical a nature. The advocates of foreign methods and applicances [sic] had known little or nothing of the Japanese drama before they went abroad, for the theatre of their own land was in many cases so degraded by evil repute that the better class of society was reluctant to patronize it. Without sufficient investigation, they are eager rather to destroy utterly, and build anew, than to graft the advantages of Western growth upon the native foundation. It is unfortunate that they are frequently found recommending a degree of change which cannot for the present possibly be tolerated by the community. If the entire system should be remodeled according to their plan, the theatre would inevitably lose much of its national character, and become in many respects an imperfect and spiritless exponent of uncongenial principles. Nevertheless, their exertions have had the beneficial end of directing the minds of all concerned to the importance of casting off the old-time conventionalities and traditions, which are utterly inconsistent with a proper respect for art. Of the immediate consequences of their proceedings a few examples may be given.

            Several months ago, at the Shintomi Theatre, a new piece was produced, upon the subject of the martyrdom of the early Dutch scholars. The supposed time of year was the end of November, when the leaves turn yellow and are blown off the trees by the least breath of wind. This also is the season of continuous misty rain. It is evening. The scene reveals a physician’s study, which opens on a small garden entirely exposed to the weather. At the request of Danjiuro [Danjūrō], the actor who assumed the principal character, machinery was contrived by which rain was made to fall, and leaves were shaken from the trees as if by the breeze. The slender branches of the willows were seen vibrating to and fro; the fragile bamboo fence swayed from side to side; the wind was heard moaning and wailing, and the raindrops pattered against the walls of the house and into the pools that had collected upon the ground. It was a perfectly realistic representation, so far as external effects were concerned. Unluckily, it had the result of entirely diverting the attention of the audience from the action of the play. The performer was not, however, deterred from making further experiments. His next appearance was in a historical drama, one of the incidents in which was a destructive earthquake. For the first time in Japanese theatrical history, a house was built upon the stage in fragments, and was thrown to the ground with a violence and a disorder which startled the beholders into the belief that an actual convulsion was in progress.

            During the same season the celebrated actor Kikugoro, our foremost representative of pathetic characters, was cast in the part of a cormorant fisherman supposed to be living on the eastern shore of the Bay of Yedo. In order to acquaint himself with the habits of life and occupation of this humble class, he took up his abode in the very neighborhood, and practiced fishing with cormorants until he became an adept in the pursuit. Toward the end of his rural sojourn he sent for the manager and the scene-painters of his theatre, in order that an exact likeness of the locality might be presented to the public. In this instance the result was so satisfactory that the experiment was soon after repeated on a more extensive scale. Kikugoro was charged with the preparation of a romantic drama illustrating the adventurous career of a notorious bandit^[16] who was for years the terror of the district surrounding the famous temples of Nikko. The natural beauties of this region, as well as the picturesque and majestic shrines erected in memory of the early Shoguns, are well known to great numbers of Japanese; and the actor added largely to his reputation for faithfulness of scenic reproduction by visiting the temples as a pilgrim, in company with artists and machinists, and securing models of the edifices in and around which the action of the play was understood to take place. He went so far as to join, with his associates, in one of the great religious festivals for which Nikko is celebrated, and was thus enabled to represent the various ceremonies, processions, etc., with a spirit and a precision which excited the most unbounded popular enthusiasm.

            The indifference to ingenious mechanical devices appears the more remarkable when it is considered that the Japanese stage has one peculiarity of construction which fits it for effects that can nowhere else be produced. This is the revolving stage (mawari-butai), which in any other country would probably have suggested and [sic] infinite variety of interesting and surprising illusions. The greater part of the stage, in our playhouses, consists of a large circle which can be turned around so that separate divisions are successively presented to the eyes of the spectators. Only one-half of this circles [sic], at most, is disclosed at any one time. It is customary, while a scene is in progress before the audience, to prepare the following scene upon the hidden part of the movable platform. A change of view can thus be effected without abruptly interrupting a dialogue, or disturbing the continuity of action. In the favorite play of “Chiushingura,” an adaptation of the historical record of the famous “Forty-Seven Ronins,” this contrivance is turned to excellent account. The last scene but one of the chivalrous drama represents the devoted band of avengers about to break into the fortified mansion of their dead master’s enemy. It is a chilly December night, and the snow is falling. The assailants’ first endeavor to gain admission by stratagem, but finding the gate strongly blockaded, they throw aside all artifice and attack the defences with axes and heavy battering rams. Having forced the barrier and made a sufficient opening, some of the party rush to the interior, while others scale the walls by means of rope-ladders or by climbing upon one another’s shoulders. Meanwhile, the stage turns and the inner court-yard of the edifice comes into view. The ronins are seen in fierce combat with the ill-prepared and terrified inmates. In no other manner could so stirring and impressive a picture of assault and conquest be realized in theatrical representation. The objection to employing this device in European or American cities is that twice the ordinary space behind the scenes would be required. Fully one-half of the Japanese stage is never visible from the front. I have described only the effect produced by dividing the revolving platform into two parts; but additional subdivisions can be made whenever required. In the theatres of Osaka, especially, four and even six views are sometimes presented before the stage completes its circuit.

            Another striking characteristic of our theatres is the hana-michi, literally, “flower-path.” This is an open passage extending from the front of the stage to the extreme rear of the auditorium, at the left of the pit or parterre. It is about six feet in breadth, and is elevated two feet above the flooring of the pit, to the level of the shoulders of those who sit in that part of the house. Under certain circumstances this passage is utilized for the entrances and exits of actors. If the character is imagined to have come from a great distance, or if his approach is hurried or precipitate, he proceeds to his position on the stage directly through the audience, and his arrival is thus made to appear much more vivid and life-like than if he made his way from the side. The use of the hana-michi is, of course, a severe trial even to the most experienced and self-possessed performers. It is only by the exercise of great discretion, and by a complete abandonment to the spirit of the part, that the illusion can be preserved. But the real masters of the stage have proved that the danger of close contact with spectators is only fanciful, and that by exposing themselves, as it were, to the very touch of the public they are enabled to exercise a magnetic influence which can be asserted under no other conditions. When a perfect sympathy is established between artist and audience, this daring expedient is sometimes carried to startling extremes. After a scene of great distress and sorrow, the retiring actors will linger until the surrounding multitude is utterly subdued by the pathos of his spell. On the other hand, a bold and impetuous advance, in the execution of some desperate errand, or in obedience to a necessitous appeal for help, will frequently kindle the wildest excitement. At the close of the above-mentioned drama, “Chiushingura,” the friends and allies of the besieged noblemen are made to swarm upon the stage from various directions, with a remarkable and thrilling increase to the effect of confusion and and [sic] strife. For most purposes the hana-michi I have described as running through the left side of the pit is considered sufficient, but a corresponding passage exists at the opposite side, of somewhat smaller proportions, which is opened whenever required for more elaborate evolutions.

III.

As regards the accuracy and taste of its wardrobe, the Japanese stage is second to none in the world. No representation is considered worthy of the public in which the minutest and most patient attention has not been given to every detail of personal attire. Audiences may always safely reckon upon seeing a literal and faultless presentment of the dresses of any age or locality selected for dramatic illustration. In satisfying the requirements of this department the question of expense is rarely considered. Managers are always ready to provide the costliest materials and to engage the most skilful workmen for fashioning the garments selected by the leading actors. It is understood that the players are in the first place responsible for the choice and style of raiment, the managers being content to follow their instructions implicitly, and to be guided entirely by their practiced judgment. Sometimes this blind faith leads to awkward misunderstandings. A few years ago an old historical drama entitled “The Two Brothers of the House of Soga” was revived with exceptional splendor, the leading parts being confided to the distinguished tragedians Sojiuro and Naritaya,^[17] both of whom are recognized as unimpeachable authorities in matters of costume. On this occasion their views as to the appropriate garb of the two brothers were totally antagonistic. Each claimed to have discovered the precise mode of attire in the period set forth, and each professed to be abundantly supplied with evidence in support of his pretensions. Neither was willing to yield, and the play was finally brought out with dresses of undoubted brilliancy and sumptuousness, but which could not be made to harmonize by any reference to history or tradition. Theatrical circles were greatly agitated by the conflict of discussion that ensued, but the question whether Naritaya or Sojiuro were entitled to greater confidence was never satisfactorily decided.

            As an example of the diligence with which apt and suggestive effects of costume are sought, I may mention an incident in the career of an actor who identified himself with the wild and lawless heroes of the stage. In his youth he was cast for the part of a ronin named Sadakuro—the subordinate vassal of a nobleman who, having been expelled from his master’s service, took to highway robbery for a livelihood. The conventional dress provided for this role, which had long been familiar to the public, failed to satisfy the performer’s conception of what was suitable for a person in the situation of the discarded retainer. It occurred to him that if he could invent a new and more appropriate costume, the effect of his impersonation would be greatly increased. For many weeks, he dwelt upon this subject until it became the absorbing occupation of his mind. The day of performance approached, but no satisfactory design presented itself to his imagination. Returning home from rehearsal one afternoon, he passed the imposing Buddhist temple of Zojo,^[18] in Shiba, in which stood the image of Kuwan-on,^[19] to which many of the populace were in the habit of praying for the realization of their dearest hopes. Impelled by the thought that he might obtain aid from this source, the actor entered the shrine and devoutly appealed for guidance in his dire emergency. For seven successive days he repeated his adjuration in vain; but on the last day, as he turned away dejected, and was about to descend the gilded steps of the temple, he was restrained by a sudden downfall of rain. Having no umbrella or overcoat with him, he stood awhile under the shelter of the broad, projecting roof. He was presently joined by a young man, apparently a profligate outcast from some family of rank, who had given himself up to the most dissolute habits of life. He wore a stained and threadbare robe, which was caught up to the knees with slovenly carelessness. He had no outer garment; his feet were bare; he carried in his right hand a torn and broken paper umbrella, and a pair of swords in tarnished lacquer sheaths were negligently stuck through his soiled silken sash.

At first the actor did not notice the new-comer, but his attention was gradually attracted, and as he became aware of what was before him his heart beat with joy and gratitude at the revelation which had been miraculously vouchsafed. Speeding homeward, he summoned his wife and servants, and impressed upon them the necessity of imitating with scrupulous minuteness the costume and the properties which had happily fallen under his observation. The dress was hastily made ready for the opening performance, and the result of the bold departure from habitual usage was awaited with lively interest and anxiety. The secret had been carefully guarded. Upon the first appearance of the ruined ronin the audience stared in astonishment, and for a moment appeared undecided whether to accept or reject the unlooked-for novelty. But the spirit of truthfulness and propriety soon prevailed. A tumult of applause testified to the appreciative recognition of the actor’s intentions, and from that time the costume and general “make-up” of the character of Sadakuro has been in accordance with the precedent established by the inspired votary of Kuwan-on.

IV.

Although the theory of dramatic art in Japan excuses, and even encourages, indifference to many superficial and external accessories, it is extremely severe in demanding the closest attention to the illustration of feeling and emotion. Audiences are accustomed to the most subtle and delicate analysis of character and are mercilessly critical in all that relates to the portrayal of human life and nature. An artist is forgiven many shortcomings if he shows evidence of a determination to identify himself personally with the ideal creation he endeavors to embody. The method of study adopted in the fulfilment of this purpose may be exemplified by incidents in the career of those who have successfully produced it.

            Two years ago the tragedian Otowaya^[20] was called upon to personate a merchant who had been driven insane by financial disasters and still heavier domestic calamities. For several days previous to the general rehearsal this actor began to accustom himself to the conditions of his part by a complete change in his habits of personal life. He dressed negligently, selecting the oldest and most worthless of his garments; partook of indifferent and ill-prepared food; omitted his daily bath, which is a unheard-of deviation from Japanese usage; became moody and irritable, and seemed resolved to simulate, in every particular, the actions and demeanor of lunacy. To such an extent was this carried that those nearest to him became alarmed, and without his knowledge took counsel with the family physician, apprehending that his excessive devotion to artistic principle would seriously endanger his health.

            In the training of their apprentices our leading actors are none the less solicitous to inculcate the importance of the extremist fidelity in depicting strong emotions. The same Otowaya was once endeavoring to explain to a follower what was required to give appropriate effect to a hasty and excited entrances upon the stage. A messenger was supposed to be bringing intelligence of the highest moment to his lord. Many times the desperate rush of more than a hundred feet along the hana-michi was repeated, without meeting the approbation of the exacting teacher. Stung by the ridicule of his associates, and looking upon himself as the object of some inexplicable spite, the youthful actor determined to renounce his calling if again subjected to reproach, rather than persevere in what he believed to be a hopeless task. He came to rehearsal prepared to resent the affront which he anticipated, and to break away from his connection in a storm of rage. Bursting in upon the group surrounding Otowaya in his character of feudal chieftain, he endeavored to announce his determination with angry vehemence; but his agitation was so great that he could not utter an intelligible word. While he stood gasping for breath his instructor rose, and approaching him with a smile, said: “At last you have done well; continue thus and your success is assured.”

            It is my genuine conviction that the Japanese actors are fully entitled to the credit they receive for the delineation of sentiment and passion. Few spectators, however hardened by experience, could witness unmoved the masterly exhibition of fortitude under suffering, filial devotion, conjugal tenderness, and patriotic ardor which are constantly presented for the admiration of the theatre-going multitude. In the season of 1857, Ichikawa Ichizo was playing the part of a pirate chief who treats his father with great cruelty and exposes him to shame as well as grief. The performance was one day interrupted by a samurai from a distant province, who suddenly sprang upon the stage and attached Ichikawa with a dagger, inflicting several wounds before he could be seized and disarmed. He had been so carried away by the actor’s truthfulness that he attributed to the man himself, and not to the ideal character, the acts of filial impiety.

            The brilliant romantic actor Yebizo^[21] was once engaged in representing a treacherous fencing-master, who first assassinates a rival swordsman and afterward murders, under circumstances of unpatriotic atrocity, the two sons of his victim. During this latter scene of inhuman slaughter a spectator in the pit flung a heavy tobacco box at the actor’s head, severely bruising him, and for a short time suspending the progress of the play. Immediately after the curtain was drawn, at the close of the act, Yebizo presented himself before the audience, with the tobacco box fastened upon his head in place of the cap he had worn during the performance. In a few lively but emphatic words he declared himself grateful for so unmistakable a proof of appreciation, notwithstanding the extraordinary manner in which it had been manifested, and professed his determination to make himself worthy, forever after, of a testimonial the sincerity of which was beyond suspicion.

V.

In recent years I have had frequent occasion to visit our theatres in company with foreigners. It was for a long time difficult to make them believe that the women of the stage were in all cases represented by men. To such perfection have feminine impersonations been brought, that even those who are familiar with every artifice of disguise are unable to detect the slightest difference between the imitation and the reality. This is the result of a method of training which was once so laborious and painstaking that the actors who followed it were compelled to renounce all the natural occupations and pursuits of the male sex, and devote themselves to a life of perpetual mimicry. Not only in the exercise of their vocation, but in the privacy of their homes, they were accustomed to wear a modified form of feminine dress, to arrange their hair after the fashion of women, and to habituate themselves to the use of those household articles which are ordinarily manipulated by wives and daughters. Their style of living was like that of ladies of high degree. Their theatrical dressing-rooms have been compared, though with considerable exaggeration, to the boudoirs of feudal noblewomen. The lines of study were so carefully subdivided that one class would devote themselves to the imitation of fair damsels, while another would assume the guise of matrons, and a third would deport themselves like aged dames. These fine distinctions are not at the present day so strictly observed as in preceding generations; and though there are still numbers who address themselves chiefly to the impersonation of women, as their special branch, there appears to be growing disposition to enlarge their sphere so as to include the assumption of male as well as female characters. One of the proposals of the theatrical reformers before alluded to is to abolish the custom of assigning feminine roles to men, and to introduce actresses in accordance with the system of Western theatres. Their arguments have not yet been sufficient to convince the public that the change is necessary, and I confess to grave doubts myself, whether it would prove truly advantageous and wise. There would certainly be great obstacles for some time to come. Theatrical companies composed entirely of women do already exist in Japan, and their performances are witnessed with more or less curiosity by those who seek variety at the expense of artistic refinement. They are popular to a certain extent among the vulgar, but they can never hope to entertain cultivated amateurs. Thus far no attempts have been made to unite the two classes of performers, and it is probable that, before this can be successfully done, a special training school for actresses must be instituted, and a course of theatrical education be applied from early childhood until the time when they are fitted for the difficult duties of their profession. Our first tragedian, Danjiuro, is said to be rearing two of his daughters with this object in view. These young ladies are now six and eight years old, respectively. The inquiry when they will be ready for admission to their arduous career has often been made, but yet remains unanswered.

VI.

It has long been a contested question whether the theatre in Japan can or cannot be regarded as an aid to the moral education of the people. I doubt that it has ever served this desirable purpose; on the contrary, its agency appears to me to have hitherto been injurious. It was to contravene its pernicious tendencies that actors were bound by severe restrictions under the government of the Shogun. They were not allowed to mingle freely with citizens in general, and were required, when walking in the streets, to wear a peculiar helmet^[22] made of straw, the visor of which completely hid their features. Until fifty or sixty years ago regulations were posted in all green-rooms giving notice that actors were forbidden to wear garments of silk; that they must reside in a quarter especially set apart for them by the authorities; that a particular license must be procured to enable them to go more than three blocks from their dwellings; that gambling by them would be punished more stringently than the same offence committed by other parties; that the incident of suicide from disappointed love must never by represented on the stage, and much more to the same effect. These ordinances, however, were by no means implicitly obeyed, and the influence of the theatre grew to be so deleterious that it was universally considered a dark blot upon public morality.^[23] After the restoration of the imperial government, some twenty years ago, energetic efforts were made to improve the character of the performances and to elevate the condition of the actors. These projects were sanctioned by official authority, and in some cases the schemes of reform were laid out by responsible attaches of government. Some of the methods adopted for counteracting the evils of the playhouses, and purifying the associations of those connected therewith, were certainly calculated to startle the conservative sense of the community. Several actors of distinction were invested with the rank and dignity of preacher of the Shinto faith—the established state religion of Japan. The celebrated and popular Naritaya, the two Narikomas, father and son, ^[24] and numerous others still hold those places and occasionally perform the functions of their sacred office. It may be mentioned, incidentally, that the services conducted by them are largely attended by young daughters of rather indulgent parents, and it would probably be difficult to trace any substantial improvement in social manners or habits directly to this cause.

            A regular theatrical censorship has been instituted by the present government, and every piece intended for performance in the capital has now to be submitted to the inspection of officers of the metropolitan police. Delegates from this bureau attend all representations, partly to preserve order, but also to see that the rules forbidding offences against propriety are not infringed. Their interference is very rarely called for. It has come to be understood, in late years, that the indecencies of a former period must necessarily be banished, in order to secure the countenance and patronage of the respectable class. Twenty-five years ago no ladies, and comparatively few gentlemen of position, could be induced to attend the theatres. Now the families of daimios and the attachés of the Court are frequent occupants of the boxes, and there is as little fear that their sensibilities will be shocked as in the most prudently conducted houses of Europe or America. The question of the limit to which the relations between the sexes may be illustrated has been discussed in newspapers and debating clubs, at various times, with a good deal of vigor. Some extreme purists, like the classical scholar Yoda,^[25] have gone to the length of asserting that all love-scenes should be rigorously excluded, and only historical or religious episodes be permitted. It is true that the latitude of love-making which is recognized as natural and becoming in Western countries would not be legitimately possible with us in real life, as Japanese society is now constituted. Young people are not permitted to meet and converse unreservedly, and the growth of affection is never sanctioned until after a formal betrothal. More commonly it is kept in restraint until the actual ceremony of marriage is performed. Ardent and passionate demonstrations would therefore either have no meaning, or would be suggestive of a licentious disregard of social laws. The tender attachments of husband and wife; the boundless devotion of children to parents; the fervent and self-sacrificing loyalty of the servant to his master—all these may be depicted with the utmost intensity of feeling; but it is only in the illustration of loose intrigue or illicit intercourse that amatory scenes are represented.

            It is to be expected that the gradual adoption of Western ideas and principles will make itself apparent in the theatre as in other institutions of Japan, but not, I trust, to the extent of interfering with its thoroughly national characteristics. Its value as a popular recreation would be greatly impaired by confining it too rigidly to a purely aesthetic purpose. According to time-honored custom, a visit to the playhouse is an affair not of a few hours, but of the entire day. Families or parties of friends take their places early in the morning and remain until nightfall, partaking of refreshments which are served between the acts from neighboring restaurants. Among the projects contemplated by the reformers to whom I have once or twice alluded, there is one which threatens destruction to these easy and comfortable habits of indulgence. A building is to be constructed with accommodations for spectators like those provided abroad, and with a stage admitting of the most elaborate foreign effects. The performances, in which women will take part as well as men, are to be given only in the evening, and the several acts are to follow one another in rapid succession. If the existing dramatic libraries do not furnish pieces that are suited to these innovations, a new repertory will be created to meet every requirement. Adaptations of exotic plays may be found desirable, and a few preliminary attempts in this direction have already been made.

            Bulwer’s comedy of “Money” has been submitted to the audiences of Tokyo, but not, it must be acknowledged, with the most convincing results. It will be a difficult task, in my opinion, to set aside the forms and methods of amusement which have become endeared to the public by long and happy association, and to secure the acceptance of strange and novel features, however meritorious in themselves, in place of the cherished drama of history, adventure, or domestic romance, with its continuous and measured development, and its protracted course of action relieved by interludes of brilliant dancing and pantomime (shiosa).^[26] But I am bound to say that the societies which have taken upon themselves the work of elevating and improving the stage are entitled to respect for the honesty and uprightness with which they prosecute their plan, and as they have secured the co-operation of many eminent actors, and declared themselves ready to be guided by practical counsel in matters in which they are inexperienced, it is not unlikely that their efforts will at least prepare the way for future benefits. If they can broaden and strengthen the edifice of dramatic art without weakening its foundations, they will deserve the gratitude of the theatre-loving community throughout Japan.

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[1] From T.J. Nakagawa, “The Theatres of Japan” Scribner’s Magazine, 7:5 (May 1890): 603-620. Reprinted as pamphlet (n.d.) from which this chapter is taken.

[2] I use the male pronoun as a convenience, not a certainty.

[3] My thanks to Professor Hioki, and to Professor Kei Hibino, of Seikei University, who put me in touch with him.

[4] It is also known as Watanabe to Chōei.

[5] Seiichi Iwao, ed., Biographical Dictionary of Japanese History, trans. Burton Watson (Tokyo and New York: Kodansha International, 1978): 270.

[6] As we see, Nakagawa’s references to recent events in Japan are several years behind the appearance of his article.

[7] This is not to deny even earlier—albeit occasional, not permanent—uses of revolving (or turntable) stages, some historians even considering the ancient Greek eccyclema the origin of the technique.

[8] See Richard W. Schoch, Shakespeare’s Victorian Stage: Performing History in the Theatre of Charles Kean (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006).

[9] It is more usually (and accurately) known as The Soga Brothers’ Night Attack.

[10] Toita Kōji, “The Kabuki, The Shinpa, The Shingeki,” in Komiya Toyotaka, comp. and ed., Japanese Music and Drama in the Meiji Era, trans. and ad. by Edward G. Seidensticker and Donald Keene; Vol. 3 in Japanese Culture in the Meiji Era (Tokyo: and Donald Keene (Tokyo: Ōbunsha, 1956): 202.

[11] Nishiyama Matsunosuke, Ichikawa Danjūrō (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 1960): 282.

[12] For a fuller account, in Japanese, see Ihara Toshirō (Seiseien), Kabuki Nenpyō, Vol. 7 (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1962): 39-40.

[13] Jitsuko later became Ichikawa Suisen II, while Fukiko became Ichikawa Kyokubai II. Although known as kabuki-style dancers and actresses in shinpa, they never achieved kabuki acting careers. On the other hand, a female Danjūrō disciple, Ichikawa Kumehachi (1846-1913), previously mentioned, gained a respectable reputation as a kabuki actress or onna yakusha, as explained in Chapter 11. See, also, Loren Edelson, “Revisiting the Female Danjūrō: The Acting Career of Ichikawa Kumehachi,” The Journal of Japanese Studies 34:1 (Winter 2008): 69-98. 

[14] The Teikoku Gekijō (Imperial Theatre), which opened in 1911, fulfilled Nakagawa’s predictions.

[15] A reference to lighting effects with colored filters.

[16] Plays about bandits, known as shiranami mono, were an important subgenre of the sewamono category.

[17] Danjūrō.

[18] Zojōji, still a major Tokyo temple.

[19] Kannon, goddess of mercy.

[20] Kikugorō V.

[21] Ichikawa Ebizō (1791-1859), better known as Ichikawa Danjūrō VII, the father of Danjūrō IX.

[22] Actually, a woven, basket-like hat with an opening for the eyes.

[23] Theatres were classed as akusho, places of ill repute, along with brothel districts.

[24] Naritaya was Danjūrō IX and the actors referred to as Narikoma (i.e., Narikomaya) were Nakamura Shikan IV (1831-1899) and his son, then Nakamura Fukusuke IV (1865-1940), later Shikan V, and, finally, Utaemon V.

[25] Yoda Gakkai (1834-1909), a very important figure in the Theatre Reform Movement.

[26] Shosa, lit. “posing,” but, loosely, “movement.”