(I wrote this piece a few months ago for Suki, the magazine of Japan Foundation Manila.)
“We are here,” announced Koga-san as the bus slowed down on Harumi Street in the heart of ultra-chic Ginza, in Tokyo. As soon as the bus door opened, there was a surge of cold wind assaulting my lungs that are accustomed only to a staple mix of pollution and tropical humidity. Grateful as I was to the change of air, the need to wear layers of clothes for winter as soon as I arrived in the city was becoming a burden.
“I could only imagine the weight of those multiple kimonos Kabuki actors wear during a performance,” I muttered to myself as I alighted from the bus into the street. It was four in the afternoon; the sky was turning grey as neon signs of buildings around me started to come alive, shyly at first, then taking a cue from the others which welcomed the winter nights early, the entire street was lit with a conflagration of electric lights.
I catch my breath, and composing myself, I looked at the building directly in front of the spot where the bus left, and marveled at its simple elegance; it didn’t seem to belong in this very modern part of the city. It was the Kabuki-za Theater.
“All these people are old,” one of the delegates of the forum that I was attending whispered to me, referring to the crowd gathered in front of the theater waiting for the afternoon performance.
“Look at the kimono that old lady over there is wearing,” I pointed to a pink and blue kimono clad matron with a chignon, “she is beautiful.”
“Uhmmmm….”
“One benefit of Japan’s old population is that there is still an audience for Kabuki. So for now, there is no need to worry about the extinction of this art form.”
“Who said that only old people watch Kabuki?” another delegate joined in. “Look at those two young ladies. They’re also in kimonos.”
“They look like characters in an Anime cartoon…”
The gates of the theater opened. We joined the throng of people going into the hall. It was warm and cozy.
For someone brought up in a dizzying visual culture characteristic of MTV, I thought that sitting through a three-hour movie like Lord of the Rings was exhausting considering all those epic battles such as the one at Helm's Deep. But enduring a four-and-half hour kabuki performance, with the pace very slow at times, was truly an unforgettably wonderful experience. There are elements in live theatrical performance that movies just cannot match. When the character of Matsuomaru emerged from hanamichi, there was a thunderous applause accompanied by kakegoe (appreciative shouts).
Later I learned that Matsuomaru was played by Kanzaburo, one of kabuki’s well-respected actors. A sort of Harvey Keitel of the Japanese stage.
With only a short intermission, the production would change costumes and set design while members of the audience have the chance to compare notes, go to the toilet, smoke or get something to eat. With the exception of a few, Kabuki goers are mostly senior citizens. The forum delegates were among the young crowd in the audience. The guy to my left, the Indonesian delegate at the forum, was snoring fifteen minutes into the performance. Ten minutes later, the Cambodian delegate a few seats away was asleep with his mouth wide open. With an earphone guide carefully tucked in our left ear, we listened to the English translation while trying to catch the haunting sound of the shamisen with our right ear. At the end of the classic Sugawara Denju Tenarai Kagami (Sugawara and the Secrets of Calligraphy), the delegate from China and myself were wiping away our tears, discreetly.
The performance was over shortly before ten, and after a brief exchange of notes, the audience rushed to the gates, resuming their normal lives, away from the majesty and pomp of the kabuki stage. As I prepare myself for the cold bitter winds outside the theater, I promised that I would be back again.
Meanwhile, I adjusted my scarf and coat, relishing the sensuous treat of almost four hours gone by. As I walked towards the street, the neon sights already held dominion over the the nightscape. From a distance, a familiar face in a billboard smiled at me.
It was Takuya Kimura in an ad for a mobile phone company.
“We are here,” announced Koga-san as the bus slowed down on Harumi Street in the heart of ultra-chic Ginza, in Tokyo. As soon as the bus door opened, there was a surge of cold wind assaulting my lungs that are accustomed only to a staple mix of pollution and tropical humidity. Grateful as I was to the change of air, the need to wear layers of clothes for winter as soon as I arrived in the city was becoming a burden.
“I could only imagine the weight of those multiple kimonos Kabuki actors wear during a performance,” I muttered to myself as I alighted from the bus into the street. It was four in the afternoon; the sky was turning grey as neon signs of buildings around me started to come alive, shyly at first, then taking a cue from the others which welcomed the winter nights early, the entire street was lit with a conflagration of electric lights.
I catch my breath, and composing myself, I looked at the building directly in front of the spot where the bus left, and marveled at its simple elegance; it didn’t seem to belong in this very modern part of the city. It was the Kabuki-za Theater.
“All these people are old,” one of the delegates of the forum that I was attending whispered to me, referring to the crowd gathered in front of the theater waiting for the afternoon performance.
“Look at the kimono that old lady over there is wearing,” I pointed to a pink and blue kimono clad matron with a chignon, “she is beautiful.”
“Uhmmmm….”
“One benefit of Japan’s old population is that there is still an audience for Kabuki. So for now, there is no need to worry about the extinction of this art form.”
“Who said that only old people watch Kabuki?” another delegate joined in. “Look at those two young ladies. They’re also in kimonos.”
“They look like characters in an Anime cartoon…”
The gates of the theater opened. We joined the throng of people going into the hall. It was warm and cozy.
For someone brought up in a dizzying visual culture characteristic of MTV, I thought that sitting through a three-hour movie like Lord of the Rings was exhausting considering all those epic battles such as the one at Helm's Deep. But enduring a four-and-half hour kabuki performance, with the pace very slow at times, was truly an unforgettably wonderful experience. There are elements in live theatrical performance that movies just cannot match. When the character of Matsuomaru emerged from hanamichi, there was a thunderous applause accompanied by kakegoe (appreciative shouts).
Later I learned that Matsuomaru was played by Kanzaburo, one of kabuki’s well-respected actors. A sort of Harvey Keitel of the Japanese stage.
With only a short intermission, the production would change costumes and set design while members of the audience have the chance to compare notes, go to the toilet, smoke or get something to eat. With the exception of a few, Kabuki goers are mostly senior citizens. The forum delegates were among the young crowd in the audience. The guy to my left, the Indonesian delegate at the forum, was snoring fifteen minutes into the performance. Ten minutes later, the Cambodian delegate a few seats away was asleep with his mouth wide open. With an earphone guide carefully tucked in our left ear, we listened to the English translation while trying to catch the haunting sound of the shamisen with our right ear. At the end of the classic Sugawara Denju Tenarai Kagami (Sugawara and the Secrets of Calligraphy), the delegate from China and myself were wiping away our tears, discreetly.
The performance was over shortly before ten, and after a brief exchange of notes, the audience rushed to the gates, resuming their normal lives, away from the majesty and pomp of the kabuki stage. As I prepare myself for the cold bitter winds outside the theater, I promised that I would be back again.
Meanwhile, I adjusted my scarf and coat, relishing the sensuous treat of almost four hours gone by. As I walked towards the street, the neon sights already held dominion over the the nightscape. From a distance, a familiar face in a billboard smiled at me.
It was Takuya Kimura in an ad for a mobile phone company.
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