Nips at Play

Korero (AEWS), Volume 2, Issue 7, 10 April 1944, Page 27

Nips at Play

By

Dr. Peter V. Russo,

, in Salt, Journal of the Australian Army Education Service

Now a Melbourne Journalist, Dr. Russo was Professor of Modern Languages, Imperial University of Commerce, Tokyo

When we felt we might be getting into a rut in those days in

Tokyo we would go and watch the British Empire being shattered for the equivalent of is. yd. By paying a trifle more we could take in also the sinking of the American Fleet, and there was no extra charge for annexation of California and two cups of green tea. It all happened daily on the stages of Asakusa, the theatre centre of Tokyo. The military boys were keen on selling the idea of what a push-over the AngloAmerican combination would be, and they mobilized script-writers and actors to help them do it.

The theatres were always crowded, probably because there wasn’t much else to do. Pretty well everything in the way of entertainment, such as billiards, mah jong, cabarets, dancing, and foreign sport, has been found lacking in virtue, and banned.

Of course, there was always the Happy-Willow-and-Joyous-Frolic quarter, providing a traditional relaxation and therefore conforming with New Order require-

ments. But the gentlemen were quick to discover that too much devotion to the ancestral hobby, without the replenishments of good food they were once accustomed to, tend to diminish their already depleted reserves of vitamins.

So they went to the theatre, which was probably more expensive but less exhausting. And there was a good deal of pleasant titillation to be had in anticipating the happy times in store when the Army turned from stage presentations to real action.

Under the supervision of Government producers, the playwrights wrote drama that described past victories and made accurate forecasts of victories to come. Commander Ishimaru’s restrained writings on how to restore order in the British Empire and America formed a colourful background to the finale of bring Eight-Corners-of-World-Under-Japanese-Roof, a world-salvation process known as HakkoItchu.

But the people who were most moved to receive official recognition were the actors. And to understand why we must

know something of the background of the popular theatre in Japan.

During the old Japanese regime actors were included in the census under the heading of live-stock, a designation much resented by pious Buddhist farmers with a high regard for animals. Indeed, the general opinion regarding actors seemed to be that their proper animal-grouping was something between a skittish monkey and the more debauched species of tomcat.

Curiously enough, the founders of the Japanese popular theatre, or Kabuki, were two women, named O-Kuni and O-Tsu. O-Kuni, being a priestess by trade, was naturally a good girl and remained faithful to her husband and the priests of the temple which employed her.

O-Tsu, on the other hand, second leading lady of Japan’s first popular troupe, was what might be called a good sort, with a strong affirmative reaction to characteristic male queries. It is not surprising then that the unlicensed activities of these ladies soon attracted the notice of the authorities. The Tokugawa Government, deploring the loss of revenue resulting from unregistered backstage performances of actresses, thereupon prohibited women from exhibiting themselves on platforms or stages.

But the show had to go on ; and some one had to play female parts, particularly in the favourite scenes where the conscientious samurai killed off his wife and her spare parts before going to the wars. So producers looked round for comely young men with the required inclination and aptitude. There was a surprising response from types who had hitherto blushed unseen behind haystacks or in less conservative monasteries.

Thus originated the Kabuki tradition of “ Onna-Kata,” or male actors taking the part of females. They were known as Wakashu, and began to perform in Kyoto, the old Imperial capital, under the famous producer Dansuke.

So skilfully did these lovely young men portray the graceful turns, side-twists, and knock-knee trot of the lady of fashion that ambitious young damsels, eager to qualify for matriculation at the

higher-class frolic quarters, became regular Kabuki patrons in order to learn how to comport themselves gracefully and seductively. And, as we shall see, the popularity of these male actresses brought more than mere box-office returns.

Japanese laugh affably over the way we do things back to front. A foreign practice that has amused them more than others is the one that prompts elderly but enterprising gentlemen to hang around backstage entrances. In Japan, obviously because of respect for the Onna-Kata tradition of male actors, this sort of thing is done only by wealthy widows and' prosperous geisha. The enraptured ladies first win their way into the heart of a female impersonator by sending him a gift of flavoured seaweed or a carton of raw fish, and then pick him up after the show to take him to supper, or elsewhere. When the New Order got well under way, the custom was frowned upon, but it did not bring down official wrath until the famous Tsuneko case in 1938. Tsuneko was an alluring geisha of rather jealous disposition who had bestowed her heart and seaweed on Zaemon, a note male-female. Arriving one evening at the stage door, she was pained to discover that another lady had got there first. Tsuneko, spurred on by a base passion, forgot the seven rules of gentle persuasiveness, and struck her rival harshly and frequently with a heavy parasol.

Tsuneko’s side of the argument was taken up and supported by the Yomitm Daily (circulation 1,000,000), while the rival found enthusiastic, though numerically inferior, support in the Teido Daily (cirulation 250,000). It was not, however, until leading critics and stage managers, violently controversial in their reactions to the Tsuneko case, began taking up space which should have been used for reporting the final annihilation of China, that officialdom stepped in and forbade further backstage penetrations.

The official repertoire restricted subjects from which playwrights might draw inspiration. Boy-meets-girl-wacko! themes were definitely out, as the militarists wanted to direct their ardent young men into more warlike channels.

But virtuous emotion as exemplified in the famous Kabuki story “ Komatsu, or War Horse ” was highly approved. It showed the spirit to be encouraged in warrior-women as well as men. If we tell you the story, we know you will understand. Rescuing damsels fair and plighting troths used to be a full-time job for our romantic knights of old. In far Nippon the gallant samurai also had his sentimental moods, although his attitude towards his lady-love was far more practical. The story unrolls : —

Ikuzo, a samurai of the Tsushima clan, was invited to a battle that was being held some distance away, but his horse was old and weary, and he could not afford to buy another one befitting his rank. Besides the reluctant horse, his only possession was a beautiful commonlaw wife, a Niigata maid with lovely black tresses that reached to the ground, and about which he loved boasting to his friends.

His anger was terrible, therefore, when he returned home one day and found that Komatsu, his love and pride, had cut off her hair. Her only reply was to point sadly outside at a magnificent champing r _steed that was being led

through the courtyard by a groom from the famous Yuri stables. Komatsu had sold her beautiful hair so that her master might have his horse and not be late for the battle.

(Let us sip a little green tea while the huge Kabuki stage revolves to the second, act. We need the refreshment, for it is now that the inspiring part of the drama begins.) Alas, Ikuzo’s satisfaction was shortlived. His new charger was so stately and handsome that it was out of the question to use the old shabby saddle and bridle. Once again he became fitful and morose, and, to escape the sneers of his friends, he seriously contemplated taking the logical way out and killing his horse, Komatsu, and himself. Returning from another fruitless visit to the money-lenders, he found, this time, no Komatsu at all, but instead an exquisitely inlaid saddle, expertly armoured, and all the accoutrements that went with a dashing war horse. A letter nearby explained all. To make Ikuzo completely happy, Komatsu had sold herself to the local licensed quarters, naturally at some discount owing to the loss of her hair, but for enough to provide the equipment desired by Ikuzo. The curtain falls on Ikuzo riding away in full martial splendour, soliloquising on the superior qualities of the women of Yamato (Old Japan) : "If all women were as noble and virtuous as my Komatsu, what a happy world this would be.”

The last time we saw this moving drama in Tokyo we were able to meet Utaemon who took the part of Komatsu and who specializes in depicting famous women of history. He was actually a very sweet boy, and he told us that the secret of his success was the many opportunities he had of rehearsing his stage parts in real life. And it is indeed only a short while ago that police regulations were enacted forbidding Kabuki female impersonators from dressing up as geisha and playing obvious practical jokes on short-sighted old gentlemen who really wanted to be entertained in an orthodox manner.

But to get back to the New Order trend of the popular theatre in Japan, let us remember that its effect has been startling even for those whose faculty for being surprised has been numbed by years of residence in various parts of East Asia. Since the outbreak of the Pacific War several cases have been reported where young Japanese, moved by a popular military stage theme, have killed their wives and children before proceeding to the front. Their excuse, nationally applauded, was that they could not concentrate whole-heartedly on the war if they were disturbed by domestic preoccupations.

And the modern Komatsu has not been wanting. Japanese women are still mortgaging and selling themselves to give male relatives the patriotic face that goes with a classical sabre of Old Japan or an extra piece of superior equipment. And the playwrights continue plugging out stories for stage and radio, all designed to strengthen those medieval samurai codes without which a militarist Japan could not survive.

The militarists have brought the Japanese stage into its own —as a war weapon.