Nureki Chimuo Archive

Ryutei Ichiba’s “The Head Lantern” was scary.

The protagonist is a native of Edo, and the second half consists almost entirely of this character’s monologue. In other words, it’s set in the world of period dramas.

If I had to say what was so terrifying, it was first and foremost the situation of a person whose head had been severed without their knowledge, with the head and torso now separated, yet who remained oblivious to it, walking along while talking to themselves.

I inadvertently wrote “cut off,” but it wasn’t cut and then dropped. Although the neck was swiftly severed by a sword, it didn’t fall to the ground. Instead, it remained perched atop the torso.

In other words, because the samurai who struck the blow was so skilled, the head remains still, does not tilt, and stays perched on top of the torso. As a result, the person who was beheaded remains unaware of the fact that they’ve been beheaded and simply continues walking while muttering to themselves. That is the whole story.

That is the story in its entirety. The setting is Shiba-sandai. It takes place on a dark night.

The samurai who beheaded the Edo native simply walks away, leaving the Edo native alone on stage.

As the Edo native walks along, muttering to himself, his head begins to rotate slowly to the right (as seen from the audience). The torso remains stationary. In other words, while his body stays facing forward, only his head turns to the right.

The Edo man notices this and mutters, “Huh, something’s strange here,” just as his face turns completely to the side.

With his face turned to the side, he can’t walk straight.

The Edo man holds his neck with both hands from either side, rotates it, and turns his face back to face forward.

Then he starts walking again.

But then his neck begins to rotate little by little to the left (as seen from the audience’s perspective), and eventually turns completely sideways.

“That’s strange,” he mutters, and once again, the Edo native grips his neck with both hands from either side to turn his face back to the front.

Eventually, realizing that his neck is moving, the Edo man grabs it, holds it up in front of his eyes, and uses it as a lantern as he dashes down the night street. That’s the premise of this story.

When it comes to absurdity, there is no story more absurd than this. It goes beyond mere wit or sophistication.

Ichiba performed this surreal story with terrifying seriousness and realism. It is, quite literally, surrealism.

He offers absolutely no unnecessary explanation.

Ichiba has absolutely no intention of making the audience laugh.

He doesn’t utter a single word or perform a single gesture intended to elicit laughter.

He performs it with utter seriousness. He performs it with deadly seriousness until the very end. He performs it while remaining seated in seiza.

He carries the performance through to the punchline with a stoic, almost hyper-realistic intensity. Had he broken this stance even once, the story would have amounted to nothing more than a flat, run-of-the-mill comedy.

(I once saw this story performed by Tachikawa Danshi at the Toho Meijin-kai, but the performer’s attitude toward the audience, as if to say, “Well, isn’t that an amazing story? Did that surprise you?” was painfully obvious, and that came across as condescending, leaving me with nothing but a sense of discomfort.)

Ryutei Ichiba’s “The Head Lantern” was magnificent. I was thoroughly impressed.

In fact, that day, I was sitting in the center of the front row, right in front of the stage. Drawn into the world of the story, I fell under the illusion that I could see a single red line, like a thread severed by a samurai’s sword, running around Ichiba’s neck.

When I wrote earlier that it was scary, I was referring to Ichiba’s attitude toward the audience, he performed from start to finish without a single thought of making them laugh. That is, without resorting to any cheap gags for laughs. That’s what I meant by scary.

(Even En’o VI would sometimes make gestures toward the audience that resembled forced smiles.)

Rakugo storytellers take the stage with the sole and ultimate goal of getting a laugh from the audience. Getting a laugh is everything for a performer.

I was in awe of Ichiba’s artistry, the way he achieved that goal without ever making the audience aware of it.

Needless to say, rakugo is a world of imagination. The world that the performer brings to life while seated on a zabuton10 is one that the listener expands within their own mind.

The performer’s skill lies in how richly, vividly, and, at times, meticulously they can expand the images in the audience’s minds.

My consciousness had become completely immersed in a single scene unfolding within the Shibasandai district one night in the late Edo period.

On that day, Director Nakahara was actually sitting right next to me.

Since Ichiba was the finale of the evening performance, he delivered his closing remarks, the curtain closed, and the closing drumbeat sounded. I said to Director Nakahara, “It’s over, isn’t it?”

Then I stood up and went outside.

I had thought about saying something witty about Ichiba’s performance, but I decided against it.

If I were to say it now, “the lingering afterglow would lose its magic.”

So I remained silent. These words actually come from an email I received from Kana, a model, after my gathering the other day (see previous entry).

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Japanese floor cushion.

I stepped out onto Shinjuku-dori, hailed a taxi, and went to Yotsua Station. From there, I took the JR line. She accompanied me part of the way. We didn’t exchange many words even on the train.

I’m planning to see “Shibahama no Kawazaifu” and “Narukami,” performed by the Zenshinza at the National Theater, as well as the Bunraku performances of “Hachijin Shugo no Honjo” and “Keisei Yamato Zoshi” at the National Theater’s Small Theater in the near future, and I needed to discuss the details, but I didn’t even have the energy to bring that up.

It’s frustrating, but I had been completely blown away by Ryutei Ichiba’s “The Head Lantern.”