Nureki Chimuo Archive

Several readers of “Talking Theater” have sent me very kind emails.

Thank you very much.

They have been a great encouragement.

Among them was a question about the “small-scale theater” that persisted for several years after the war.

To be honest, while answering that question, I find myself wanting to write much more about “small-scale theater.” I feel I could write about it.

However, I have written this far not so much about “small theater” itself, but to confirm my own self, someone who has had at least some contact with that rare world.

I intend to write only about what I have actually seen with my own eyes and been directly involved with.

Regarding “small theater” in general, several valuable printed works exist that describe it more broadly, from a theatrical historical and archival perspective, rather than through subjective, sometimes myopic personal accounts like mine.

Though this may stray from the flow of this “Talking Theater” piece, I will introduce those books next.

First, “Tokyo’s Small Theaters,” published in March 1982 by the Taito Ward Board of Education.

Edited by the Taito Ward Shitamachi Museum, a second edition was published in March 1986. The price is nowhere listed. As I recall, I bought my copy in 1986 at the Shitamachi Museum near Shinobazu Pond in Ueno. I’ve forgotten how much I paid for it.

Next is “Memories of Small Theater” by Saburo Miyake. This is part of the “Kabuki Materials Selected Works 5” series, edited by the National Theater Performing Arts Research Office. It is marked as published on January 30, 1981. I bought this at the bookstore next to the program sales counter at the National Theater, but this book also has no price listed. I distinctly remember it costing either 1000 or 1500 yen. Still, why don't books sold by official institutions clearly display their prices? I definitely paid for them.

Next, “Asakusa Notes,” published as a special commemorative issue for the 200th meeting of the Asakusa Society.

This was published in November 1978 by Miyosha in Misakicho, Chiyoda Ward, edited by the “Asakusa Society.” Priced at 1500 yen, it features many illustrations and is a book I find extremely valuable.

The cover features an advertisement for the SKD’s26 “Autumn Dance” at the Asakusa International Theater under the cover page “3.” Ah, SKD! Asakusa’s downtown, my review, dancing on for half a century!

Believe it or not, I’ve been an SKD fan since the days of Ryushi Kawaji and Saeko Kozuki!

Admission for general seating was 1700 yen. The accompanying film was “It’s Tough Being a Man: Tora-san Goes His Own Way.”

At this International Theater, besides SKD, I also saw things like “The Hunchback of Notre Dame.” I saw Shin Kougeki too. Of course, it was the height of the Tatsuya and Shimada actors’ prime, their most active period. They also did Shinpa.

It was at this very Kokusai Theater that Nobu Morikawa, originally active in Kansai, first came to Tokyo to perform as the troupe leader. It was during the war, but I saw that too.

(Ah, I’ve gone off on a tangent again. This isn’t just a tangent, it’s veered off onto a side street, then down an alley. Once I start writing about Asakusa, I just can’t stop.)

Next is another publication by the Asakusa Association, “Asakusa Performing Arts Through Photographs,” issued in October 1990. It’s labeled the “Asakusa Association 40th Anniversary Commemorative Issue.” Priced at 3500 yen, it contains many precious photographs. For me, it’s a book that brings back memories in tatters and tears in torrents.

SKD stands for Shochiku Shojo Kageki-dan, an all female dance revue formed in 1928, and existing in Asakusa until their home theater closed in 1982.

Next, in 1970, Abe Yuzo’s “Tokyo’s Small Theaters,” published by Gekijo Shuppansha, and then in 1997, Nakagawa Tetsu’s “Tokyo Small Theaters” published by Seiwabo, priced at 2300 yen.

The author of this book, Nakagawa Tetsu, was born in 1921 (Taisho 10), making him ten years older than me.

The upheavals and turmoil of the past decade have been intense, both personally and for society.

Nakagawa-san has seen quite a lot of performances at the Kotobuki-za in Honjo Midoricho and the connected “Katabami-za” stage.

He described the actors’ stage presence based on his own observations.

Therefore, this “Tokyo Small Theaters” is also an extremely valuable and cherished volume for me.

I had always wanted to meet him, but he passed away a few years ago.

Another living trace of the small theater’s essence has faded away. While the record remains, its scent, its colors, its very essence have vanished.

In March 1945, the Ju Theater was destroyed by the American air force’s massive bombing raid on the downtown Tokyo area.

After the war, several years later in 1950 (Showa 25), the actors who had fought valiantly to defend the last bastion of “small theater” at the Kotobuki Theater gathered and formed the “Katabami-za” troupe.

They then resumed performing “small plays” on a regular basis. This record is clearly preserved in theater history.

However, nowhere is there any record of the roughly five-year “blank” period, the time between the Ju Theater’s destruction and the actors scattering, and their eventual formation of the Katabami-za and their revival.

Yet these actors lived through the most chaotic times just before and immediately after the defeat. Even that “blank” period itself was filled with theater, with them performing to survive.

They lived by performing plays, whether you call it secretly or desperately.

And I happened to come into contact with that troupe during that unrecorded, brief “blank” period and received their kindness. This encounter was purely by chance.

Yet for me, who had been taken by my father to see plays at the Kotobuki Theater continuously from the time I became aware of things until I was fifteen, the reunion with Tsuruzo, Takejaku, and Fukunosuke felt almost inevitable.

I cannot write anything about the “Katabami-za” troupe formed after overcoming the “blank” period. I know neither its circumstances nor its reality.

What I intend to write about in “Talking Theater” is “myself.”

Or rather, I can only write about “myself.” Even if I wanted to write about the “Katabami-za,” I couldn’t.

Lacking the knowledge or learning to view things from a broader perspective, having lived a petty life guided solely by my emotions, I can ultimately write only about “myself.”

I received an inquiry from an enthusiastic reader asking whether the Tsurukame Theater in Kameari, Katsushika Ward, and the Shirahige Theater in Mukojima, Sumida Ward, actually existed. They couldn’t find any mention of these theaters in any reference books.

The names of these two theaters are either anonymous or pseudonyms. The theaters themselves definitely existed.

(The Heiwa Theater in Yotsugi is a real name.)

I intended to write about “myself” as accurately as possible, honestly conveying the emotions I felt at that time.

For that reason, I hesitated to mention the theater names directly. I feared that naming them might cause someone unpleasant feelings.

I worry that not using pseudonyms might hurt someone.

To make it clear, let me give one example.

I have anonymized the name of the woman who appears in this “Talking Theater.”

I did this because revealing her name could potentially cause trouble for her.

Even just specifying her address and the place where she works would undoubtedly cause her trouble.

Similarly, I feel that even though it was fifty years ago, naming the theater outright might cause trouble for the woman involved.

When writing something like this, one can sometimes cause trouble for someone without even realizing it.

I want to avoid that as much as possible.

And another thing, I secretly suspect that my beloved, proud Kabuki actors didn’t want people to know, or didn’t want it recorded, that before the “Katabami-za” they had performed plays alongside an amateurish light theater troupe in a poor, nameless, run-down shack that had once been a movie theater.

If that’s the case, some might say, shouldn’t I also refrain from mentioning real stage names in this “Talking Theater?”

But unless I clearly state their stage names, my writing won’t serve as proof that this account is true.

Putting myself in those actors’ shoes, I also think perhaps the Tsurukame/Shirahige Theater era should remain a secret. Yet I still wish to “record” here that they, amidst the dire adversity immediately following defeat, continued to perform their own pure form of kabuki without compromise. Because it’s something only I know.

Using pseudonyms only for the Tsurukame and Shirahige theaters is contradictory, but it also involves a rather sly calculation. Should this text ever come to her eyes (this “her” will appear frequently later), it would allow for an explanation, a way to settle things peacefully.

Anyway, I want to write honestly only about what I saw with my own eyes and felt with my own skin.

I want to write straightforwardly about those times, relying not on records, but solely on my own notes, my memory, and my senses.

Ah, as I write these things, the story keeps veering off down the side roads.

My feelings drift further and further away from the spirit of the “Talking Theater.”

I must return to the original tone.

Returning to my senses, I will continue writing about that era.

Yes, I’ll include here a letter I recently wrote and sent to someone.

It’s a letter I wrote quite earnestly, pouring my heart into it.

Dear [Recipent’s Name]

Thank you very much. I went to see the performance at the Shimbashi Enbujo.

“Three Kichisaburo and the White Waves” with Kikunosuke was excellent. I think the current Kikugoro is more vibrant and alluring than when he was Kikunosuke. Having experienced Ninagawa’s direction firsthand (during “Twelfth Night”) seems to have been a significant positive for him.

However, in the matinee performance of “Mitsugoro’s Vow,” Mitsugoro was too refined, too gentle, lacking any shadow. I felt he should have carried a bit more of a hint of villainy about him. Still, he was clean-cut, very Edo-style, and beautiful.

Kikunosuke’s O-Jokichi and Ainosuke’s Bokichi were wonderfully homoerotic, beautiful, bewitching, and fascinating.

Matsugoro’s rough-and-ready Oshokichi lacked inner expression, failing to fully heighten the tragedy of this fated brother-sister pair.

Thank you for also showing me Chushingura at the Kabuki-za. It was a great seat. I am very grateful.

Nizaemon’s Yuronosuke was easy to follow, charming, and very good.

Koshiro’s Heimon and Fukusuke’s Okaru were even easier to follow than Nizaemon’s performance, almost like a modern play, but I imagine today’s audience would prefer this style.

I found myself comparing it to the Yuranosuke played by the previous Koshiro (Hakucho), the O-Kuru by Utaemon, and the Helemon by the previous Matsugoro. Still, I enjoyed it.

The sixth act’s Danshiro had a grand, dignified presence. Truly kabuki-like and impressive.

At the Enbujo theater, I was unquestionably moved by Kamijiro’s demon woman in Togakushi-yama.

It’s rare to be so purely moved by stage movement alone.

I’ve been so deeply moved that lately, every night as I try to sleep, the face and form of Kamejiro’s demon woman, with her dark red eye makeup, looms over my eyelids, and the resounding, heroic sound of her stomping feet reverberates in my head.

That said, it is by no means unpleasant, nor does it make sleep difficult. On the contrary, my entire being is immersed in the delightful, brilliant colors and waves of music (the Tokiwazu ensemble, and the Nagauta accompaniment ensemble were all splendidly lined up; this three-way interplay gave me a feeling of luxury).

It was a scene of breathtaking beauty and overwhelming power.

Kamejiro had stated in the program that he would perform this “Oni-zoro Momijigari” exactly as directed by Sannosuke, and indeed, he gave it his all.

Even as I silently commended him, “You’ve danced enough, that’s good enough, it was wonderful, you danced plenty, that’s fine, it was great.” Kamejiro kept dancing with fierce determination, as if to say, “Is that all? I’ll show you more!”

In 1920, the first-generation Ennosuke (En’o) founded the Shunjuza theater company and launched a new theatrical movement. I sensed that the impassioned spirit of that young, first-generation Ennosuke flows strongly through Kamejiro.

Even for a young man, his energy was astonishing. He danced relentlessly, putting such force into his limbs it made the audience nervous, all while maintaining perfect rhythm.

The thunderous applause that erupted from the audience all at once was only natural.

I couldn’t help but turn around, wondering if perhaps Sannosuke, the director of this dance drama, had come secretly, worried about his nephew’s performance, watching from the back of the audience, and if Kamejiro knew this and was performing with such passion because of it.

It reminded me of a few years ago, when the current Kanzaburo, back in his Kankuro days, first danced “Kagamijishi” on the Asakusa Kabuki stage. His father, the late Kanzaburo, had watched from the back of the audience, looking worried.

If Ennosuke had seen this Kamejiro’s passionate yet dignified “Momijigari,” I’m sure he would have been beaming with satisfaction.

I don’t know how Ennosuke is doing during his convalescence, but at this hour, Danshiro was likely at the nearby Kabuki-za. Since his role for the day ended with Fuba Sukeemon’s scene in the sixth act of Chushigura, Kanpei’s Seppuku, and he had no more performances scheduled, I wondered if he had come to the theater to see Kiri’s son dance.

And I imagine he too, seeing this powerful, dignified performance by his youthful successor, would feel reassured and nod approvingly.

Kamejiro’s performance, bearing the pride and honor of Sawagataya on his shoulders, moved me deeply time and again.