Nureki Chimuo Archive

Last time, I wrote that the title “寿の門松” is read as “Nebiki no Kadomatsu.”

I intended to skip a detailed explanation of this kabuki play since it would take too long, but it’s been on my mind, so I’ll write a little about it.

Writing about it also helps me learn.

“Nebiki” refers to root pulling” (根引き), meaning: 1. Pulling up trees or grass with their roots intact. 2. Paying a ransom to free a courtesan or geisha from servitude.

In “Nebiki no Kadomatsu,” a beautiful courtesan named Azuma appears, and the story involves a ransom payment (minoshira-kin). Therefore, the title naturally leans heavily on the meaning from the second definition.

The plot is as follows.

The fallen Naniwaya Yohei becomes infatuated with Azuma, a courtesan at the height of her fame in Shinmachi, and agonizes over her.

Moved by Yohei’s sincerity, Azuma confesses she has a lover named Yojihei and gives Yohei ten ryo, asking him to call her as a customer.

Impressed by her spirit, Yohei vows to use that ten ryo as his foundation to rise in the world and bring Azuma and Yojihei together.

He then swore brotherhood with Yojihei and, after wounding his rival, a man named Hikosuke of the Haya brothel, headed down to Edo.

This concludes the first part. Even just this much makes it easy to see why this play would not resonate with today’s audience (or indeed, with audiences sixty years ago, immediately after the war).

High school student A fell for a girl at the same school.

That girl had a boyfriend, B, who was also a high school student.

A found B a nuisance and grew to hate him so much that he actually killed B. That news was on TV yesterday.

Well, this is an extreme example, but such are the times we live in now.

If this play were staged today, the prostitute girl might say to customer A, who has fallen for her, “I have a boyfriend named B. So I can’t be with you. Here, take this money. Come to the shop with it and hold me.”

And she’d hand him ten ryo… I wonder how much ten ryo from the time when Chikamatsu Monzaemon was alive would be worth today?

I’m not well-versed enough to know for sure, but it’s undoubtedly a considerable sum. After all, it’s enough to start some kind of business.

A is deeply moved.

(Anyone would be thrilled. If it were me, I’d be super super super thrilled and do a backflip.)

And then, using that money as a foundation, he vows to become a wealthy man and bring her and her lover B together. That’s the story of the first part of this play.

Even for a play, it’s an unbelievable story.

(You could say Chikamatsu made it into a play precisely because it’s unbelievable.)

Now, the story progresses to the “Scene at the Yamazaki Jokan Residence.”

Yohei, in order to bring Yojihei and Azuma together, wounds a man named Hikosuke and, becoming a fugitive pursued by officials, flees to Edo.

Out of a man’s sense of duty, Yojihei takes the blame for Yohei’s crime upon himself and ends up imprisoned by his father, Jokan.

Worried about this, the courtesan Azuma escapes from the pleasure quarter.

Then, with the mercy of Jokan and Yojihei’s wife, Okiku (yes, Yojihei has a wife!), she brings out her beloved Yojihei, and the two flee together. That’s how the story goes.

The blind actor, Bando Takejaku, plays this Okiku in the role of a female character.

That means this Okiku is the most important role in this scene.

Jokan was played by Onoe Takenosuke, and the courtesan Azuma by the young onnagata Onoe Otojo.

Yojihei, a shinbo tachiyaku (enduring supporting role), was played by Ichikawa Fukunosuke because the troupe lacked a suitable handsome leading man.

Even just explaining the plot this briefly, it’s clear today’s audience would struggle to follow it.

Okiku has a deep affection for her husband, Yojihei. Despite this, she is paired with the courtesan Azuma and allowed to escape with him. Her father, Jokan, agrees to this arrangement.

I doubt an audience today would sympathize with such an unreasonable story if it were performed at the Kabuki-za.

However, the psychology of these characters must have been completely understood by the audiences of old (and, truth be told, I understand it too).

Since it seems unlikely to resonate with audiences today, especially younger ones, it is rarely staged in the Grand Kabuki.

Though not performed at the Kabuki-za, it is staged in smaller theaters. That’s precisely where the value of these smaller theaters lies.

Because it can’t be done at the Kabuki-za, it’s performed in small theaters. That’s where the pride and dignity of small theater actors reside.

As a child, I didn’t fully grasp that, but my father seemed to understand it somewhat. He enjoyed these small theater performances and would take me along to see them.

My father said on those occasions, “Grand Kabuki is like the refined taste of sea bream. Small theaters are a bit coarse, but they have the rich, savory flavor of sardines.”

I often heard this line, for instance, when he took me to places like the Kotobuki Theater in Honjo.

Even now, I can still clearly hear the cheerful, buoyant tone in his voice on those occasions.

I feel like we’ve gone off on a tangent again.

While we’re on the tangent, let me get carried away and write a little more praise for the small plays.

That “praise” isn’t my writing, but rather what literary critic Takehiko Noguchi wrote in the morning edition of the Nikkei newspaper on August 19, 2007.

There was a column titled “The Style of Edo,” and one of its subheadings read “The Art of Small-Scale Theater.”

I don’t know where Mr. Takehiko Noguchi is now. Since I have no way to contact him, I’m reprinting it here without permission.

As soon as I find out how to contact him, I intend to reach out immediately, apologize for my rudeness, and seek his understanding.

Until then, I humbly ask for your forgiveness.

Once upon a time in the 1960s, there was a small theater troupe called the “Katabami-za” that

made its home on the sixth floor of the Asakusa Matsuya Department Store at the “Sumida

Theater,” where it performed.

Performers like Bando Takejaku, Bando Shinsha, Ichikawa Joen, and Ichikawa Monsaburo were

already seasoned veterans, yet they gave their all on stage with tireless energy. Their uniquely

rich and flavorful style of performance, rarely seen at the Kabuki-za, was a delight to watch.

Small theater referred to all theater outside the major Kabuki houses like the Edo Sanza

(Nakamura, Ichimura, Morita). While major Kabuki refined itself into an art during the Meiji era,

small theater preserved the commoner sensibilities of Edo, presenting unique performances and

rare styles unseen elsewhere. The Katabami-za was one of the precious survivors of this

tradition.

The first play I saw was “Moritsuna’s Garrison.” It’s a tragedy set against the backdrop of the

Warring States period, where the brothers Sasaki Moritsuna and Takatsuna fight each other as

enemies. The head of Takatsuna brought to the garrison was a fake, but his captive son, Shiro,

stabs himself in the stomach with a sword to deceive the enemy into believing it was real. The

child actor’s portrayal of clutching his intestines in agony was brutally realistic, and Moritsuna’s

anguish, knowing the truth yet torn by filial love, was profoundly moving. That kind of facial

expression, mobilizing every muscle in the face, is an art form you absolutely never see in the

refined world of Grand Kabuki.

I was astonished to discover a play like “Badarai no Mitsuhide.” It depicts the brutal bullying

Oda Nobunaga inflicts on his subordinate, Akechi Mitsuhide. Having incurred Nobunaga’s

displeasure and been branded with a crescent-shaped scar on his forehead, Mitsuhide endures

it silently, pleading for an audience to appease his lord. Thus, Nobunaga forces Mitsuhide to

drink sake from a trough used for washing horses.

Takejaku’s portrayal of Mitsuhide’s agonized expression was almost an intangible cultural

treasure of “facial art.” His jaw twisted from gnashing his teeth, and deep within his crossed

eyes, the flames of resentment burned blue.

I recall an elderly local man seated nearby wearing a smug look, as if saying, “Well? Tastes

good, doesn’t it?”

As expected of Mr. Noguchi Takehiko.

The charm of the “Katabami-za” is vividly captured in this passage, especially in the final three lines.

This truly captures the essence of the audience who loved the “Katabami-za” theater fifty years ago.

Mr. Noguchi, thank you for your wonderful writing and such kind words of praise.

As someone with even a slight connection to the “Katabami-za,” I offer my heartfelt thanks.

I am so deeply grateful, it brings tears to my eyes.

(R-san, please find Mr. Noguchi’s contact information. I beg you. I absolutely must go before Mr. Noguchi and express my gratitude.)

The “Katabami-za” was formed when the troupes of Bando Takejaku, Bando Tsuruzo, Ichikawa Fukunosuke, and others who had strived, no, struggled at the Tsurukame Theater and Shirahige Theater, gathered as comrades and reunited.

I, that is, Ichikawa Fukujiro, was no longer Fukunosuke’s disciple at this time.

Unable to endure the harsh life, I had fled the world of small theater.

Yet, just as Nureki Chimou still considers “Kitan Club” his home, Fukujiro forever regarded the Tsurukame and Shirahige theaters as his home, and in his heart, he takes pride in having been a disciple of Ichikawa Fukunosuke.

(Both the Tsurukame Theater and the Shirahige Theater are, of course, long gone now. They’ve vanished without a trace, replaced by entirely new buildings, and the scenery has surely changed. Yet just a few days ago, I made a promise with R-san, that we would walk together to find that place, which certainly existed sixty-five years ago.)