Nureki Chimuo Archive

I carefully keep a thin program book.

I’ve had it since a time so long ago I can’t even remember, since my childhood, in other words.

It’s the “program” for the “Hanagata Kabuki Troupe” issued on May 1, 1944. In the world of Kabuki, programs are generally called “synopses11.”

On the cover of this program, “Hanagata Kabuki Troupe” is printed in white letters on a red background. Below that, in a smaller text, it reads, “Honjo Midoricho, Kotobuki Theater, Telephone: Honjo 2422.”

Counting the cover, it is a program of just twelve pages.

The following text is printed on the inside back cover.

Greetings

As the Greater East Asia War grows ever more fierce and brutal, uniting one hundred million hearts into a blazing fireball, we stand at the decisive autumn hour when we must vanquish the demonic beasts of America and Britain or perish. We humbly pray for the continued good health of all our patrons everywhere. Consequently, in response to the demands of the times, our theatrical world has also undergone various changes. Fortunately, our troupe, whose fundamental purpose is popular theater, has been able to survive and continue our

In modern theater, program is written as プログラム , while in kabuki, the word is 筋書, romanized as sujigaki.

performances thanks to your support. This is a matter of profound gratitude for all of us members, and we deeply thank you for your continued support.

By order of the authorities, starting April 1st, the performance time has been shortened to two hours and thirty minutes (including intermission). Consequently, our usual four or five-act programs will be reduced to three or even two acts. Performances will now be held three times daily, morning and evening, without intermission. To establish a wartime structure for the troupe, all members will cooperate wholeheartedly regardless of the roles assigned, whether good or evil. We will humbly and earnestly request your continued support and attendance.

Spring 1944 Performance Kotobuki-za Theater Company, respectfully submitted.

The above constitutes the theater’s “Greetings,” printed to fill the entire inside front cover.

If you would kindly take the time to read this text, I believe you will gain some sense of how unsettled and tense the times were.

Transcribing it, I noticed that the characters (written characters) from this era, unlike those of 2008, are full of unfamiliar, complex strokes.

(That said, I grew up in the generation that used these complex kanji and the older kana system.)

I transcribed the manuscript using the simplified characters in current use, but the original text contains characters with many strokes that seem quite difficult by today’s standards.

For example, “壽座” (Juza), “劇團戰時體制” (Gekidan Senshiki Seisaku), and “繼續” (Zokushu).

I suspect only those of middle age or older could even read them.

Thankfully, R-san, who types this text for me on a computer word processor, has an extraordinary fondness for these troublesome old characters.

Despite being young, she finds sentiment and charm in the characters of the past.

She searches out these complex, multi-stroke characters with a hobbyist’s interest and types them meticulously and accurately on the word processor.

I am truly grateful.

I always find R-san’s attitude reassuring, how she is genuinely moved by and devoted to these old, beautiful things, created with such soul and dedication by people of the past.

In truth, it’s not just her understanding of characters and typefaces. Her comprehension and profound knowledge of the “SM” world are so deep that even I, having lived in this melting pot for fifty years, am left speechless.

My knowledge is merely the accumulation of experience, but she possesses an innate sense, coupled with intelligence, reason and cool judgement.

When she challenges me to debate armed with such weapons, I simply cannot compete.

In fact, it was R-san who ordered me to write about Nureki Chimuo in 1944.

For over a year now, she’s been saying, “Write it, write it.”

Even when I tell her writing about my boyhood days would be dull and lacking in charm, she stubbornly keeps saying, “It’s fine, write it. There will definitely be readers who find it interesting. Write it.”

Eventually, somehow, the time felt right, and I began writing this.

No, not “somehow.”

R-san deliberately ripened the “time” in my heart.

R-san, who spares no effort in shaking me up, sought out and informed me of the existence of Master Takemoto Yano Tayu, a precious witness and testimony of this bygone era.

I was overjoyed.

(I’ll write more about this later.)

Enough about that.

(This is read as “kanwa kyu dai.” It can also be read as “that being said.”)

Even though it’s an old word, not used much anymore, R-san can read it smoothly and understand its meaning, despite being young. I’m truly grateful for that.

She is an irreplaceable, dependable comrade. I place my complete trust in her.

“Fullest trust” (zenpuku) means to the utmost, completely, to the maximum extent.

No, calling her a comrade so casually is probably not quite right.

This “Talking Theater” of mine has already exceeded 1100 sheets of 400 character manuscript paper.

I wonder how many characters that adds up too.

I’m not good at math, so I can’t calculate it, but she records everything accurately and neatly on that computer.

It’s tremendous effort and hard work.

R-san, rather than calling her a comrade, if this were the Warring States period, I now feel like a samurai holding the reins of his lord’s horse.

Enough about that.

Anyway, moving on.

Opening the cover of the program for the prestigious Kabuki troupe, the Kotobuki Theater, the first page lists the performances. Above the margin, enclosed by two lines, “Let us build an impenetrable air defense line!” is printed horizontally.

It is arranged to be read from right to left. The opposite of how it is done today.

Nowadays, people might carelessly read it as “Build the Iron Wall” instead.

The characters for “iron wall” (鐵壁) were also printed as “鐵壁” in the program sixty years ago.

“Let us build an ironclad air defense system.” Would people today understand the meaning of the slogan?

Put simply, it’s a slogan urging us to defend and protect ourselves because the American Air Force was dropping bombs on our heads.

But even if the authorities tell us to defend and protect ourselves, where would powerless commoners, watching kabuki in a small wooden theater, find the strength to resist bombs dropped from high in the sky?

At that time, slogans of this kind were plastered everywhere throughout the streets of Tokyo.

The bombing had actually begun, little by little.

Even under these circumstances, the leading Kabuki troupe at the Kotobuki Theater was still raising the curtain.

And large crowds of patrons had gathered.

To put it dramatically, even facing the possibility of death from American air raids, the common people still wanted to see the play.

I too, taken by my father, went to see plays at this Kotobuki Theater every month.

Had the gears of fate turned just a little faster, my father and I would have been charred corpses in Honjo Midoricho.

Beneath the slogan printed on the first page of the program, “Let us build an impenetrable air defense line!” the words “May Grand Kabuki Performance,” were printed.

This too was typeset horizontally from right to left. If someone today were to read it, they would see “Gita Kabuki Dai Gyo Ko Gatsu Go.”

A single horizontal line was drawn, and below it, now in the usual vertical composition, “Opening Day: May 1 1944 (12:00 PM Start, Three Performances Day and Night, No Intermission)” was printed.

The performance began at twelve o’clock, meaning noon, and the same play was performed three times a day without changing audiences.

From the perspective of current theatrical conventions, this can only be described as bizarre.

Only two plays were performed. The plays were:

First: The Three Generations of Kamakura, The Scene of Silk River Village Hermitage. One Act.

Second: Amano-ya Rihei. From the Inner Chambers of Amano-ya to Exile on the Yodo River Embankment. Four Scenes.

I felt compelled to elaborate a bit more, with supporting materials, on the state of theater attendance at that time, as the Pacific War drew to its close.

The boy I was back then was undoubtedly there.

If you think, “What’s the point of knowing that now? It’s boring. I don’t want to read such tedious material,” then you should stop reading now.

For those uninterested, this is truly a dull piece of writing, one that makes you wonder, “What’s the point of bringing this up now?”

I will transcribe again the printed text appearing on the final page of the Kotobuki Theater program.

I don't know if “copy” is the right word, or if “transcribe” is more accurate.

My gut tells me that “transcribe” is the way to go.

Instructions from the Air Defense Bureau, Ministry of Home Affairs

Outline of Air Defense Measures at Wartime Entertainment Venues and Internal Regulations for Handling the Kotobuki Theater

Regarding the Handling of Admission Tickets When Performances at Each Entertainment Venue Are Suspended Due to the Issuance of Alert and Air Raid Warnings.

One. When an alert warning is issued during a performance, immediately suspend the performance and calmly notify the audience of this fact.

Two. When the alert warning is lifted, resume or continue the performance.

However, if resumption after the alert is lifted would prevent completion of the remaining program by the scheduled end time, do not resume. Also, if the alert has been in effect for an extended period, resume the performance by 1:00 PM on the day the alert is lifted.

Three. Admission fees for advance tickets sold before the performance begins shall, in principle, be refunded (in cash).

However, if the counterparty consents, refunds may be made for the next performance date or a specially designated performance date. The refunds mentioned in the preceding paragraph shall be made after the alert is lifted.

Four. Admission fees paid after the performance has commenced shall not be refunded.

Five. If the performance is suspended due to an alert during the performance, free admission tickets shall be issued if the suspension occurs within one hour after the start of the performance, and half-price tickets shall be issued if the suspension occurs within two hours after the start of the performance, allowing admission.

However, if the performance venue is damaged by an air raid or otherwise cannot resume the performance, the admission tickets shall be invalid.

Six. Re-entry tickets are valid only for the remaining portion of the same type of performance when it is held again (substitute programs are also acceptable).

Seven. Discounted admission fees shall be set at half or less of the regular ticket price, and shall entitle the holder to view the entire program of the next performance of the same type.

Any other orders or designations issued by the authorities shall be followed accordingly.

That is all.

The ominous foreboding that Tokyo’s ordinary neighborhoods would soon be scorched by the indiscriminate bombing of the U.S. Air Force emanates from this clumsy, dry document produced by the Ministry of Home Affairs’ Air Defense Bureau, a government agency.

To convey the eerie, unpleasant atmosphere of the time, I believe reading this high-handed directive from the authorities, rather than some clumsy social commentary, would give a more visceral sense of the reality. That’s why I transcribed it exactly as it was written.

Even now, I feel a deep sense of gloom at the horror of an era that forced such ominous, tasteless, poorly written text into a theater program.

Yet despite this dark, eerie atmosphere pervading society, whenever my father took me to this theater as an elementary school student, it was always packed.

Entering at noon meant we could watch the same kyogen performance repeated three times.

“No seat changes” meant you paid once and could watch all day. My father liked “no seat changes.”

(The program doesn’t list the admission price, so I can’t know it now. Why didn’t they include the price in the program? Was it because prices fluctuated wildly back then?”)

As an elementary school student, the only day I could watch all day was Sunday.

There must have been many patrons like me and my father back then, paying just one admission fee to watch the same play three times each day.

The shrill shouts calling out the stage names of the lead actors, Ichikawa Shinnosuke and Matsumoto Korainosuke, “Naritya!” “Koraiya!” still cling to my ears even now.

The term “shrill shouts” comes from the fact that this theater had many young female patrons.

My father explained to me cheerfully that girls working as live-in employees at small and medium-sized businesses throughout this downtown area would get together and come in groups.

My father affectionately called these women “factory girls.”

Both Shinnosuke and Korainosuke were handsome men with straight, well-defined noses.

(This Shinnosuke is a direct ancestor several generations back of the currently popular Ebizo Ichikawa. I expect I’ll write more about this later.)

Korianosuke was tall, well-built, spoke well, and had a charming appearance that seemed sure to make girls squeal with delight.

In the scene at the entrance of the Matsue family's upper residence in “Kawachiyama,” when Korainosuke's Kawachiyama Munetoshi reached the hanamichi and was called back by Kitamura Daizen, he froze in shock.

(At that time, Kitamura Daizen was played by the actor Sawamura Kisaburo. Even though no script remains, how is it that I, an elementary school student, remember something like this? I find it strange myself. Kisaburo always played despicable villains.)

Daizen: “Don’t play dumb, Shosun. How could I possibly forget you? No matter how much you feign ignorance, I remember the proof that will never let you escape. A single mole on your left cheek…”

Kawachiyama: “Ah! So you knew, Daizen? Ha ha ha ha!”

That's the Kawachiyama from the so-called “Grand Kabuki,” but on the stage of the Honjo Kotobuki Theater, it's like this:

Kawachiyama: "Well then, Daizen, you knew? Ha ha ha ha ha. Indeed, I am Kawachiyama... What a place for Kitamura Daizen to show up, facing such a clown. There's no helping it. Now listen... As the saying goes, ‘What is strong against evil is also strong against good.’”

And there was the famous line in the Mokuami style. Korainosuke's delivery here was so smooth, so crisp. As a child, I was utterly entranced, listening in rapt attention.

It was precisely because I listened and watched in such rapt attention that, even today, more than sixty years later, I remember it as vividly as if it were yesterday.

Once I start reminiscing like this, there’s no end to it.

Just as this ominous warning in the poorly written clause drafted by the authorities foretold, on the night of March 9th, the following year, the Kotobuki Theater was completely destroyed by fire during the U.S. Air Force’s scorched-earth campaign.

Many of the people who loved this small theater were also burned to death.

Just like Shinnosuke and Korainosuke, there was a young onnagata named Nakamura Tsurutaro, who was popular with the female factory workers in the downtown area.

He had a plump build, a slightly round face, and a certain charm. He often played cute female roles.

I liked this Tsurutaro more than Ichikawa Fukinosuke, the troupe’s leading onnagata, who possessed a more refined acting style.

When I saw Tsurutaro’s Oshiro in “Nozaki Village,” I, an elementary school student, felt sexually aroused.

Hearing that Tsurutaro had been burned to death in the March 9th night air raid, I wept with overwhelming grief.

I thought Tsurutaro had shared his fate with the Kotobuki Theater.

Years later, I became a disciple of Ichikawa Fukinosuke and was given the name Fukujiro.