Nureki Chimuo Archive

This theater company’s performances do not have a program.

The performances change every day.

When there are two performances a day, the matinee and evening programs are different. In other words, they perform completely different plays in the afternoon and evening.

That is likely why they do not produce a cast list or anything resembling a program.

Or perhaps it is not so much that they choose not to produce one, but that they simply cannot.

They don’t clearly tell the audience what play they’ll be performing next.

Even as the start time (which is strictly adhered to) approaches, the audience has no idea what play is about to be performed because there is no program.

Just moments before the clappers sound to signal the opening, the title of the play is finally announced to the audience.

Not knowing what will unfold on stage until the very last moment is thrilling.

Since they don’t reveal the title until the very last moment, naturally the audience has absolutely no idea what the play is about. It’s impossible to imagine.

It’s a strange custom, to say the least.

But perhaps I’m the only one who finds it strange. The packed auditorium is filled with nothing but fervent, pure anticipation. The audience trusts this troupe completely.

But I don’t trust them quite that much. I don’t trust them, but I do have a sense of anticipation.

That day was no exception.

Clappers rang out from behind the curtain, and suddenly it was announced “And now, the curtain rises on Gorobei the Brawler.”

Hearing that, I couldn’t help but whisper into the ear of the woman sitting next to me, “Oh, Gorobei the Brawler. This is a good one. It’s a story about a chivalrous outlaw from Osaka. A play full of lighthearted comedy. I’m sure it’ll be a lot of fun.”

(Since “Gorobei the Brawler” is a period piece, strictly speaking, it should be written as ‘Osaka9,’ but since the characters are ‘Osaka people,’ I’ll use ‘Osaka’ consistently throughout.)

When the curtain rose, two men dressed as yakuza appeared and explained, in a Kansai accent, that this was Sumiyoshi Taisha Shrine in Osaka.

“See, it’s a story set in Osaka, isn’t it? Just as I thought, it’s about a chivalrous hero from Osaka. This is lighthearted and entertaining,” I whispered to her again, filled with anticipation.

Troupes like this are all incredibly skilled when it comes to comedy.

However, I had actually never seen this play, “Gorobei the Brawler,” before.

play.

I had never heard it in a rakugo or rokkoku performance. I had never read it in a novel or

Of course, I don’t recall ever writing it myself either.

How could I have known this story of an Osaka chivalrous hero when I had never seen it, heard it, or read it?

The moment the program was announced, I felt a surge of pride and said, my voice full of excitement, I said to her, “It’s an Osaka story, just as I thought. Sumiyoshi Taisha, yeah, this is going to be good. It’s going to make us laugh.”

But…

This play is neither lighthearted nor cheerful. Far from making us laugh, it unfolds with the appearance of an utterly dark, twisted, and hopeless tragedy.

This internal thought is for the Japanese reader. In modern times Osaka is written as 大阪, but it used to be 大坂. 9

Gorobei the Brawler in my imagination was a cheerful and open-hearted town ruffian, portrayed by the portly Ichikawa Utaemon during the heyday of Toei period dramas.

(Incidentally, “open-hearted” refers to someone who is broad-minded and doesn’t get hung up on trivial matters.)

Ichikawa Utaemon never lost his Kansai accent and spoke in a peculiar Edo dialect. Yet he possessed an incredibly cheerful personality.

There is a spectacular scene where Utaemon, playing this dashing town ruffian boss, gallantly rescues a beautiful town girl who is being harassed by a drunken, thuggish samurai and is running for her life.

That was my image of Gorobei the Brawler.

However, while I do remember those scenes of Utaemon’s town ruffian being incredibly strong and cool, I don’t have the confidence to say with certainty that the character was Gorobei the Brawler.

That is the only image I have of Gorobei.

And yet, why did I say things like “This play is interesting” or “It’ll make you laugh” the moment the curtain went up?

I don’t know.

(Well, I guess that just means I’m a scatterbrained klutz after all.)

The stage before me now is set outside the torii gate of Sumiyoshi Shrine in Osaka.

Gorobei, who has just appeared, is a man with a distinctly dark aura, and, surprisingly, a clear bruise around his right eye.

Apparently, this blue mark isn’t actually a birthmark. It’s the scar left by a burn that Gorobei’s older brother accidentally inflicted on him when they were children.

The older brother feels deeply ashamed of his younger brother because of this.

The drama begins with such a gloomy premise.

“Wait a minute, this doesn’t look right.” I think to myself as I watch.

There aren’t any cheerful or lively scenes at all.

And the story kept unfolding in a direction completely opposite to what I had expected.

A dashing traveling samurai named Inosuke (also, naturally, dressed as a vagabond) has laid down his straw sandals at the home of this family of outlaws (I assume, there’s no explanation, so I’m not sure) who go by the nickname (or reputation) of “The Brawlers.”

It was this Inosuke who rescued a young woman named Oito from danger when she was being harassed by thugs on the grounds of Sumiyoshi Shrine.

However, Oito mistakes Inosuke for the brawler Gorobei and falls in love with him.

The fact that the man Oito hastily fell in love with was Inosuke, not Gorobei, forms the central plot of this play.

Oito is a beautiful young lady from a wealthy merchant family.

Thanks to the efforts of a man named Gen-san, a greengrocer who (apparently) frequents the shop (the nature of this character is unclear, but he is excessively meddlesome and runs around constantly), the wedding arrangements between Gorobei and Oito are finalized.

After the betrothal ceremony is over and they are about to hold a preliminary wedding celebration, it is revealed that the young woman had actually fallen in love with Inosuke, not Gorobei.

(This is also a strange story. Even though the plot had progressed this far, no one realized it was a case of mistaken identity. It’s unnatural.)

Upon learning this fact just before the provisional wedding, Gorobei flies into a rage and is overcome with grief.

It’s pathetic for a rogue who prides himself on a swashbuckling nickname like “Brawler.” He’s acting like a woman.

He’s a whiny, indecisive ronin.

If this were Gorobei the Brawler played by Utaemon in a Toei film, he’d first laugh loudly, “Wah, ho, ho-ho-ho!”

And then cheerfully say, “Is that so? Well, I never thought a guy like me could make a young lady like that fall for me. Wah, ho-ho-ho. I get it, I get it. All right, I’ll be the matchmaker and make sure Oito and Inosuke end up married. Just leave everything to me, wah-ho-ho-ho.”

He’d be shaking his belly in a bold, carefree manner and giving his chest a hearty slap.

However, Gorobei in this play doesn’t do that.

Driven by anger, he pours sake into a large cup, and upon seeing the birthmark on his own face reflected in the liquid, he laments and grieves dramatically.

As if this were his big moment, he raises his voice and puts on a passionate, over-the-top performance.

Whether he lacks conviction or comes across as overly effeminate, the audience is swept up by the actor’s powerful, impassioned performance and erupts into thunderous applause.

duel.

Eventually, Gorobei and Inosuke finally draw their swords and engage in a life or death

I watch in utter bewilderment, wondering what kind of foolish killing spree this is.

Since there is absolutely no psychological portrayal of Inosuke, I simply cannot understand why they are fighting.

Whether they understand it or not, the audience is completely captivated by the actors’ passionate performance and is utterly entranced.

“I see. So this is another way to watch a play,” I think, finding myself strangely convinced.

There is a twist in the final scene of this play. The older brother, who is acting as a witness to the duel, secretly rubs a stone against the blade of his younger brother Gorobei’s sword to dull it.

Gorobei strikes at Inosuke, but because the blade has been dulled, it fails to cut through.

dies.

Realizing this, Gorobei thrusts his sword into his own stomach, committing seppuku, and

This is the climactic finale of the play.

The protagonist dies, and naturally, the drama ends here, but I have absolutely no idea what’s going on.

I don’t understand why the older brother blunted his younger brother’s sword.

I don’t understand the mindset of a man who raises that battered sword to fight, only to end up committing seppuku.

The feelings of Inosuke, his opponent in the duel, are also a mystery.

I even wondered if it was some kind of surrealist theater (and I don’t mean that sarcastically).

When the curtain fell, the audience, as expected, gave a thunderous round of applause. There were even some women in the crowd shedding tears.

(I wondered if the woman sitting next to me understood it, but I no longer had the energy to ask her. I could only sit there in a daze.)

The actors performed with such intense passion, and there was certainly a certain charm to that intensity, that I couldn’t take my eyes off the stage. But, I could only shake my head and mutter to myself, “This isn’t right. I don’t think Gorobei the Brawler was this kind of person…”

That night, I returned home and looked it up.

The “Encyclopedia of Rakugo Works” by Hideaki Yoshizawa, a book I had received from Hideaki Yoshizawa-san himself.

It’s a magnificent book, packed with content. Volumes 1, 2, and 3.

I bowed respectfully and opened Volume 1.

Gorobei the Brawler.

There it was. I found it.

From the Genna era through the middle of the Kan’ei era, men known as “otokodate” (chivalrous ruffians) appeared in the streets of Edo and Osaka. In Edo they were called “otokodate,” and in Osaka “dateshu.” In Edo, notable figures such as Hatsui-in Chobei, Karainu Gonbei, and Yume no Ichirobei emerged.

In Osaka, too, there were renowned “dateshu” such as Kenkaya Gorobei, Uchoten no Kurobei, Hoshira Inosuke, and Asahina Tohei (omitted). Those who rose above the ranks of the “dateshu” in Osaka to earn the title of “kenkaya” and make a name for themselves were truly formidable men.

Gorobei the Brawler, along with his father before him, made a name for themselves as Osaka’s foremost masters of the streets, and this too was thanks to Araki Mataemon. (omitted below)

(Note by Nureki: Since there is a separate entry titled “Gorokichi the Quarrelsome” related to this, I will transcribe it here.) “Gorokichi the Quarrelsome”

(Omitted) Now, when Araki Mataemon was running a dojo in Osaka, many ruffians (known as “dateshi” in Edo, or “town ruffians”) enrolled as students. One of them was Mori Goroemon, a ronin formerly in the service of Kato Shikibu-no-Suke, who went by the nickname “Kenkaya” (the “Fighting House”). He was unmatched in skill, and Araki entrusted the future of the dojo to him before heading down to Edo.

Goroemon had been warned that he was prone to sword-related misfortune and to exercise extreme caution, but he got into a fight with Akagawa Hanpei (a ronin of Wakisaka Awaji-no-kami, who was despised by all the chogaku groups). Hanpei had his brow split open by a Dojima geta and fled, barely able to crawl. Ten days later, on his way home from the residence of Uchoten Kurobe at Watanabe Bridge, the brawler was stabbed with a spear by an unknown assailant and lay dying. Before passing away, he told his son (the fourteen year old Masakichi) that his enemy was Akagawa Hanpei.

Masakichi immediately enrolled in the Araki Dojo in Kagurazaka, Ushigome, Edo, determined to avenge his father. Every day, he trained with the sounds of “putturi,” “gururi,” and “spon.” Eventually, at Araki’s command, he walked all over Edo in search of Hanpei.

Peering into a dojo on Meguro Hayatozaka, he saw the crescent-shaped birthmark between his master’s eyebrows. It was indeed Hanpei. He reported this to Araki immediately. Finally, driven by a son’s single-minded devotion, with a shout of “Ei!” and the sounds of “Ptsuri, Gurui, Spon,”

the revenge was successfully carried out. He received praise from the authorities, and the news even made the street newspapers. From then on, the number of new students at the Araki Dojo skyrocketed.

Gorokichi (Masakichi) returned to Osaka, where he became known as “Gorokichi the Brawler,” leaving behind a reputation as a hero that even surpassed that of his father, Goroemon the Brawler.

The above is the story, told in the form of a kodan, of the brawler Gorobei and his son, the young brawler Gorokichi, as recorded in “The Encyclopedia of Kodan Works” by Hideaki Yoshizawa.

I believe that the character referred to as Goroemon is likely the same person as Gorobei.

According to this, the story of the brawler Gorobei does indeed exist in the world of kodan.

However, this Gorobei does not have a birthmark on his face.

Since he is described as a strong man who made a name for himself as a chivalrous outlaw, his image is indeed closer to that of Ichikawa Utaemon.

Utaemon would not commit such a self-destructive act as forcing himself to commit seppuku with a sword whose blade he had dulled with a rock.

(First of all, I couldn’t understand why he was committing seppuku.)

In any case, he was a Gorobei who whined and complained constantly, hardly the image of a chivalrous outlaw.

Yet, the audience responded with thunderous applause.

Among the plays performed by this theater troupe, this “Gorobei the Brawler” seems to be a familiar and popular piece.

She looked it up online and found that this play is frequently performed by similar troupes all over the place.

But aside from that, I still have a memory of the story “Gorobei the Brawler” somewhere in my mind.

It’s the story of a chivalrous hero who is strong yet gentle, bright, cheerful, and truly manly.

So, I asked my acchitei master, who possesses extensive knowledge of traditional performing arts.

“If you know anything about the story of Gorobei the Brawler, the chivalrous hero from Osaka, please tell me,” I said.

My acchitei master is well-versed in the stories that appear in rakugo, rokkoku, and popular period dramas, and has heard most of them directly from the performance of the artists who actually perform them on the rakugo stage. (It was this acchitei master who introduced me to Hideaki Yoshizawa Sensei.)

I received a reply a few days later, but even he said he was not very familiar with the story of Gorobei the Brawler.

(I’m sorry, master. Even though I asked you such a trivial question, it seems you went to the trouble of looking into it. As always, I am deeply grateful. I will never forget your kindness. Please don’t let this discourage you. If there is anything else I don’t understand, please let me know.)

Hmm?

If that’s the case, where and under what circumstances did I come to know this story?

As mentioned earlier, just before the curtain rose, when the Kyogen title was announced, “Ah, this is a play that begins in the precincts of Sumiyoshi Shrine in Osaka, where the protagonist, a chivalrous hero, rescues a town maiden from danger,” I whispered into the ear of the woman sitting next to me.

The play began exactly as I’d described, but it immediately took an unexpected turn, and I found myself muttering, “Huh? That’s not right. This isn’t it.”

It turns out my belief that I knew this play was a misconception, but that’s fine, of course. As long as it’s entertaining.

But after the performance ended, a strange, lingering unease remained in my heart.

(That’s why I’m rambling on like this. If it had been a hopeless piece of trash, I would have forgotten it immediately.)

Why has this story of a plain, gloomy, utterly pathetic, and twisted “hero” (a character who can hardly be called a hero at all) become one of the most popular plays?

I just can’t seem to understand that. I can’t accept it.

Perhaps it is precisely because it is such a sinister, hopeless, miserable, and dark tale that I, too, am drawn to it and cannot bring myself to forget it.

And why is this gloomy play so popular with the public (even if it is only a small segment of the public?)

This mystery has strangely taken a firm hold on my heart and won’t let go.

Let's review it once more.

The protagonist, played by a handsome young troupe leader, has a blue birthmark on his face, and because of this, he is (or so he believes) despised by women.

He has resigned himself to the fact that he will never find love in his lifetime.

(Yet this Gorobei is tall, with excellent proportions and a commanding presence. Truly a handsome, dignified man.)

Expressing his inferiority complex over the birthmark through exaggerated and passionate acting, well, given the existence of the Kabuki masterpiece “Sano Jirozaemon and the Yatsuhashi Courtesan,” it’s not entirely unconvincing.

But the story goes that Gorobei’s older brother takes a sword, strikes its blade against a stone until it blunts and becomes unusable, and hands it to his younger brother (even though he surely harbors no ill will towards his brother, this is a truly insidious and bizarre act). Knowing this, the younger brother ultimately plunges the sword into his own stomach, twists it back and forth, and dies in agony.

It’s far too masochistic. I find it baffling.

In Kabuki plays, there are many scenes where a key character commits seppuku at the climax of the drama, and I can find them all convincing and moving, yet Gorobei’s act alone remains a mystery to me.

Perhaps the audience applauds this tragedy, centered on a dark and twisted sense of inferiority, sensing in it a lofty, tragic beauty.

Perhaps the audience senses a perverse eroticism in seeing a fresh-faced, youthful leading man, full of charm, passionately perform this self-destructive tragedy with a birthmark on his face. Is the brawler Gorobei popular with the theatergoers because of that birthmark? If he didn’t have it, would the audience not love Gorobei quite so much?

It is difficult to put into words, but perhaps the reason this play is supported lies in the fear of some dark aspect lurking in the depths of the human heart, the allure of the negative side, and the praise for it. Even a birthmark has a sensual quality. A birthmark is also a form of individuality.

For me, this production of “Gorobei the Brawler” certainly possessed the charm of an absurdist play. That is because all the actors were skilled. Their acting ability surpassed the script’s shortcomings.