Staging
tradition: The Nomura Festival Hall kyogen performance
Osaka
Festival Hall April 26 2019
“This
is the biggest kyogen performance in the world,” declared Mansai Nomura, famed
scion of the Nomura family of the Izumi school. It wasn’t a joke: he was
introducing the all-kyogen production at the Festival Hall, Osaka. At a
capacity of 2700, and towering
up three large, circular rings, the Asahi Shinbun owned hall is the
well-attended center of Osaka cultural life. It hosts international and local
ballet and orchestra companies, including the Osaka Symphony. The audience were
dressier, younger, and less chatty than typical kyogen performances: this was a
grand event, with tickets accordingly priced towards the 10,000 yen level (not
quite the 20,000 yen and up level of the Bologna opera, but airfare for 50
doesn’t compare with bullet-train for 10.
Another unusual feature of the
production were the careful program notes. In addition to the usual casts,
program greetings, and profiles of performers, there were the full lyrics to
the songs sung in the plays, as well as a mini-dictionary of kyogen terms that
might not be so familiar to contemporary Japanese: Daijo-sai harvest rite,
Hohacho, and their modern definitions.
The plays chosen were, according to
the notes by Nomura Mansaku, Living national treasure, were chosen for their
timeliness—the old Emperor Akihito will accede and new Emperor ascend the
throne in a few days, May 1st.
“This is the last Heisei recital” said Mansai, as the start of the Reiwa era in
3 days. Mansaku also noted the plays’ appealing to the seasonal awareness of
Japanese people, as well as showing the change of generations. This refers to
both the Imperial throne and the Nomuras themesleves, for both Mansaku’s son
Mansai and his grandson Yuki were prominently featured.
Echigo Jishi, a dynamic folk-dance
that is incorporated into a kyogen play about a Bridegroom’s suprising
performance on meeting his Father-in-law for the first time, opened the
production. This was followed by a variant version of Higeyagura featuring
six halberd-threatening Wives protecting their abused friend from her Bearded
Husband. And finally the main attraction: a revised version of the 1956 new
kyogen Narayamabushiko, from the famed novel and later Cannes
Golden Palme-winning film.
While normally performances of noh
and kyogen held at public theatres create a noh stage with a backdrop pine-tree
and special stage laid on top of the existing proscenium stage. This time,
however, they spared no expense in using the full stage wisely and well. For
the traditional kyogen, the pine-tree background, fence along the Bridgeway,
and stumpy short pillars in the front and flute-place gave the semblance of a
traditional stage, but with better sightlines. For the first piece, a central
Bridgeway was made so that when one, abstract pine curtain was raised, the
actor dressed as Echigo Jishi (The Echigo Lion) came out from directly central,
to perform his acrobatic dance. According to Amano Fumio, before the Edo castle
stage fixed the Bridgeway, various entranceways were used, more for convenience
than set convention: stage right, left, and center.
Watching the performer appear
mysteriously after a quick rise in the center curtain then come straight out
towards the spectators was an effective moment. Two bridgweays, right and left,
allowed singers and chorus to enter and exit separately, sitting deep in the
back to allow the solo dancer to take up the stage, and evoking a ritual
performance close to Bugaku solemnity. Yuki danced cleanly and with great
acrobatic skills, but seemed to be following the kata rather than informing
them—understandable with the poor sitelines that the “fan” and wig costume
provided. As he approached the corner of the main stage near the Bridgeway
fence I thought he had made a mistake but then he leaped over it onto the
Bridgeway clean, an acrobatic leap more associated with kyogen’s sangaku
origins than usually performed today. It was Mansai’s much missed cousin Kosuke
(Mannojo) who tried reviving pre-noh and kyogen spectacle, and it’s nice to see
it as a continuing family tradition.
In Higeyagura (The
Fortified Beard) the Man’s flaunting of his beard, pushing it
out to taunt the Wife to trim and clean it properly was exaggerated than
versions by the Shigeyamas. The Man’s hitting of the Wife twice, on the back,
rather than once, on the shoulder, drew a shudder of surprise and disgust from
the audience, especially when the Wife fell to her knees after the second
attempt. And the halberd fight with the women, comic and sometimes even
dangerous, were much more spectacular than the usual stylized attack and parry
to noh music of the original. Certainly it was new for the sharp hook of one attacker
got stuck in the top of the short waki-bashira! The arrival of over-sized
tweezers to rip off the beard and triumphant parade of Women seemed to be
cheered as just desserts by the largely-female spectators.
For Narayamabushiko,
the stage began in darkness. Then the central square lit and the play began on
a regular noh stage, the Son steadying the Old Woman down the Bridgeway.
Villagers coming in down the Bridgeway to say goodbye to the Son and Old Woman.
This was not kyogen though, but a new play: she sat stage left, upstage,
opposite the normal Jo-za position. And although she was the main character,
spoke not a word throughout the play.
The mystery of the “fourth”
Bridgeway that Mansai had spoken of as his invention in his preamble turned out
to be a horizontal playing space behind the noh stage: think of a cheese-slicer
with the noh stage as handle. This allowed for increading and decreasing depth,
and the Son to stand directly in back of his Mother, throwing her into
spotlight by his great distance. The Bridgeway to the stage was again used,
this time for a Crow, who cawed and nervously flew, watching the scene, a sort
of Death-god. An argument could be made that there was even a fifth entrance:
down the mountain, as the recalcitrant Grandfather was tossed, ruthlessly, by
his Son to appease the Mountain Goddess of Narayama.
The silent Mansaku was a marvel of
controlled determination, pushing her son on to take her to the mountain by
slapping his back. Then when they had reached the top and he had said his
farewell, shooing him off like a pest as she knelt to pray.
Each of the plays ended with an
otherworld sound. The Lion Dance with the call and strike of the taiko player;
the unbearded Husband let out a loud “Kusame” sneeze. And the fade-out on the
snow-covered Orin, ascending to the goddess of Narayama was accompanied by the
stage-center raven crying, “Ko-kaaa!” It was a fitting ending to a bittersweet
play, and solemn event.
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