Nureki Chimuo Archive

I saw something amazing.

Even if you say something is amazing, there are many different kinds of amazing, and unless you explain exactly what it is, you wouldn’t know what’s so amazing just from being told that out of the blue, would you?

So, I’m going to try to explain it now, but I’m not sure where to start.

There are so many things I find amazing all over the place that my poor little brain can’t seem to make sense of it all.

In this day and age, which has changed so drastically, the fact that the Asakusa theater performances I used to watch almost every day when I was a child (around 1935) have survived in almost exactly the same form is, first and foremost, something that fills me with awe.

Overwhelmed by emotion and feeling a bit dazed, I’ll write down the scenes that remain imprinted on the back of my eyelids, in no particular order, without trying to organize them.

It was a period drama, a so-called “wandering swordsman” story.

What left the deepest impression on me was the sight of two courtesans who had run away from the brothel where they were employed, comforting each other by the seaside.

The scene in which these two cheap courtesans, working in a port town in the north where the cold wind howls, appear staggering toward the camera exudes a sense of misfortune

and tragedy that foreshadows the story’s conclusion, and has the power to instantly draw the audience into a sense of sorrow.

I was overwhelmed not so much by the atmosphere conveyed through their flimsy red kimonos, disheveled topknots, and unhealthy, sallow complexions, but by the inner lives of the two courtesans that were revealed.

It’s not a superficial, gimmicky performance, but a strangely realistic and profound one.

Since they are professional actresses who perform on stage every day, it goes without saying that they should be able to convincingly portray any role given to them, whether it be a prostitute or a princess. Yet the two courtesans standing before me at that moment possessed a desolation that went beyond mere acting. They presented a harrowing sight, crushed by a life of misfortune and tragedy.

In short, it possessed a realism that made it hard to believe it was a play.

The two courtesans were named Oai and Oriku, but the younger one, Oai, was blind.

The older courtesan, Oriku, poured out affection for the pitiful Oai with such subtle tenderness that it felt truly human.

Oriku had a husband and a young son, and they lived in the same seaside town.

Her husband is the sort of man who lost money gambling with yakuza, ran up debts, and sold his wife to a brothel to pay them off. On top of that, he is a good-for-nothing who comes begging for money while bringing his child along.

Oriku clutches her child’s hand, weeping, saying, “The day will surely come when we can return home, so please bear with it a little longer.”

The acting in this scene is so familiar and straightforward that it could be called classical, yet there is not a trace of artificiality in the performance of the actress playing the mother. She is truly skilled.

The owner of the brothel is a yakuza boss who controls this entire area as his territory.

His henchmen came looking for the two prostitutes.

The henchmen grab Oai, who is about to throw herself into the sea in a desperate attempt to die, and drag her back.

“I won’t stand for you dying. I need you to work harder. There are customers who’ll be happy to sleep with a blind woman,” says the boss, slapping Oai across the face. His lines are powerful.

It’s the kind of line you’d never hear on TV.

The henchmen drag the two courtesans off the stage.

The tragic sight of the two prostitutes by the sea made such a strong impression on me that I wrote about it first, but before that, a lone wolf yakuza named Yataro had been wandering the country in search of his younger sister, who had been abducted by slave traders when she was a child. He came to this port town after hearing a rumor from a blind street musician playing the Tsugaru shamisen.

There is a scene where he happens upon Oriku, her husband, and their children in a moment of deep sorrow. He gives them some money, and from Oriku, he learns that his missing sister, Ochiyo, is being forced to work as a courtesan in this seaside town under the name Oai.

Yataro resolves to rescue his sister, even if it means clashing with the yakuza who run the brothel.

Yataro of Shimokita is usually the protagonist played by the troupe leader, so he is cool and strong.

(On the day I saw it, it happened to be the birthday of one of the troupe’s young leading men, so they had him play the hero, Yataro. Even though a birthday is a private matter for an actor, the way they forcibly draw the audience in and turn the entire performance into a celebratory event is amazing!)

I really like the swordfight scenes between Yataro and the yakuza. The action sequences, that is.

The way he draws his sword, his stance, the way he lowers his center of gravity, and how he plants his feet firmly. The form is excellent.

The swordplay sequences are short but effective, and they are repeated several times.

They’re well-trained and leave no openings.

The movements of each of the henchmen are lively and intense. It’s also exhilarating.

For a sword fight by a theater troupe of this kind, it’s outstanding. There’s no hesitation in the flow of the choreography.

(And I say this as a Shinkokugeki fan.)

It’s clear that every member of the troupe practices seriously and enthusiastically, and just like the two courteans’ compelling performances, this sword fight is truly amazing! You can tell this is a tightly knit troupe. Their core movements and interactions are perfectly in sync.

Yataro is reunited with his younger sister, Ochiyo. He hugs her tightly and says with conviction, “We’re going to escape from this place and find happiness.”

At first, Ochiyo, who is blind, refuses to believe that Yataro is her brother.

She simply cannot bring herself to believe it.

The performance of a blind courtesan, crushed by despair and resigned to the fact that such a helping hand will never appear before her again, is truly remarkable.

“I am utterly defiled. There is no other choice but to die,” she pleads to her brother in a heart-wrenching voice.

Her pallid face, like that of a woman possessed by the Grim Reaper, possessed a sickly intensity so compelling it was hard to believe it was acting. It was both terrifying and captivating. Even the bruises on her face, inflicted by the yakuza, seemed alive. I know that when actors immerse themselves in roles like this, they can sometimes become immersed in a masochistic pleasure. They can become intoxicated by their own tragic fate.

It could be said that this is one of the true joys of being an actor.

Yataro continues to encourage Ochiyo, who cries that she wants to die, and carries her as they flee, but along the way they are surrounded by the brothel family, and another sword fight ensues.

(The henchmen who were cut down once keep coming back to life and reappearing, but I don’t mind that. That’s just how theater works.)

It’s starting to snow.

An extravagant amount of snow is falling, far more than this small stage could ever handle.

A Tsugaru shamisen and a taiko drum appear on the left side of the stage, adding intensity to the final showdown.

In time with the falling snow, the sounds of the shamisen and taiko resound, sometimes high-pitched, sometimes low.

This is a luxurious touch for a troupe of this kind, and I think it’s amazing that it never comes across as cheap.

When the swords clash, a clink-clink sound effect is added, but this too is seamlessly integrated and doesn’t feel unnatural.

The beautiful visual spectacle and the auditory intensity amidst the swirling snow provide the audience with instant gratification. The audience is spellbound, their faces frozen in astonishment. Both the actors and the audience are entranced.

What follows is a plot development, and an ending, that differs somewhat from typical popular theater.

As is standard, after this grand swordfight, the siblings Uataro and Ochiyo manage to shake off the pursuit of the yakuza family and escape safely.

Then, forgetting their past hardships, the siblings would embrace with bright smiles, and the curtain would fall.

“Let’s go to Edo and see a good doctor. If we do that, I’m sure your eyes will be able to see again,” Yataro says cheerfully.

However, this play is different.

In the end, Ochiyo is killed by the yakuza.

Seeing this, Yataro flies into a rage and cuts down all the remaining yakuza.

Then, scooping up the fallen snow with both hands, he covers his sister’s body in the center of the stage, crying out in anguish, sobbing, “This is your wedding dress.”

Just when you think the curtain is about to fall, there is still one more boss remaining among the brothel family.

After a fierce battle, the boss slashes Yataro, and at the same moment, Yataro slashes the boss down.

With a voice barely above a whisper, Yataro calls out his sister’s name as he collapses at the base of a large tree standing at the back center of the stage, where a sacred rope has been strung.

Then, the massive amount of snow that had accumulated on the tree’s branches falls in a torrent onto Yataro’s body, burying him, and as the music swells, the curtain falls.

Amazingly, both brother and sister are ultimately killed in the end.

In the scene preceding this, the older sister, the courtesan Oriku, had also been killed by the yakuza.

Of all the characters in this play, the only survivors are the pitiful man who sold his wife to a brother and his child.

It really is an incredible play.

It goes far beyond the conventional boundaries of popular theater.

There are absolutely no comic relief scenes, the kind that are always found in plays of this sort to elicit laughter from the audience.

From beginning to end, it’s nothing but seriousness.

Each and every actor performs with a seriousness that borders on excessive.

One cannot help but feel that this troupe, starting with the troupe leader, is made up entirely of people who truly love the theater.

The curtain fell and the auditorium finally brightened.

is…”

I exchanged glances with Director Nakahara and said, “My, what a hopeless play this

I laughed, feeling strangely betrayed and exhausted.

No, this troupe always pleasantly surprises us.

But for everyone to be so brutally slaughtered…

Along with that sense of betrayal, a strange, almost moving feeling welled up in my chest.

It was certainly a play worth seeing.

I already knew that Director Nakahara was moved even more deeply than I was.

She undoubtedly felt she had witnessed something even more extraordinary than I had.

I thought to myself that we must discuss this moving experience as soon as possible.

What was the true nature of this emotion? What was it that moved and excited Director Nakahara and me so deeply?

And then, a thought suddenly occurred to me.

As a child, I had watched sword-fighting plays like this, plays that seemed designed to immerse the audience in a sense of hopelessness and the thrill of destruction, countless times at the Asakusa Park Theater and the Showa-za. The roots of my love for theater actually lie in that era.

The Noboru Umezawa Troupe, and the Osamu Kanai Troupe.

This feeling is not merely a case of nostalgia on my part. Though the program for this troupe from seventy years ago is now tattered, it must still be tucked away somewhere on my bookshelf.

I must dig it out and read it again. I must show it to Director Nakahara as well.

I will go and meet the boy I once was.

There is still so much more to this theater company “Arakijo,” which performed “Yataro of Shimokita” today.

I must make a record of that as well while I’m at it.

“Please write it down,” Director Nakahara has also asked me.

Even if she hadn’t asked, I had already intended to write about it the moment the curtain fell on “Yataro.”

That is my duty.

To document the existence of a troupe that burns with such intense, single-minded, and pure passion for theater in a modest theater in a town far from the heart of Tokyo.

And this passage might, perhaps, become a part of the historical record for future generations.