Q Madama Butterfly Japan premiere @ Rohm Theatre:
A caterpillar pinned and wriggling: Sept 16,17 2022
https://rohmtheatrekyoto.jp/en/event/71137/
This shocking and fierce fantasy by female playwright Ichihara Satoko premiered in September 2021 in Switzerland, a collaboration of Ichihara’s Q company and the Zurich’s Neumarkt theatre, then toured Austria and German this spring. This review was written after viewing the premiere of Q Madama Butterfly in Japan at the Rohm Theatre, Kyoto on Sept 16 and 17, and chatting with some actors afterwards. There was little in the program notes or online, and I have not yet read the script (published in Mook Kotabato Vol. 3) http://www.kankanbou.com/books/kotobato/0455
so offer these immediate impressions hoping that my more experienced and fluent colleagues may correct me. As a compilation of two viewings, they are also a bit confused, stimulated but revulsed, applauding as it were with one thumb down.
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Bestiality, masturbation, escalating fantasies, gender-reversals,imploding cos-play conventions, oversharing monologues-this was unmistakably a new Satoko Ichihara play! I counted at least eight body fluids excreting from six body orifices (fortunately only described), although a hologram samurai sword cutting down a foreign priest was as shocking as any Hollywood splatter scene. This was the third play of hers I have seen live. Favonia’s Fruitless Fable (Translation in Engeki 4), more of a series of absurd sketches, and The Question of Faeries available with titles on Japan Foundation’s terrific Stages Beyond Borders). https://stagebb.jpf.go.jp/en/stage/the-question-of-faeries
And The Bacchae Holstein Milk-Cows, is available in Methuen translation:
For Faeries and Butterfly, I was fortunate enough to return to see the same play twice on consecutive days, with similar effects on my appreciation. The first time, I was shocked, embarrassed, confused, and disgusted, and wrote a rather negative note of non-recommendation to friends. However. on second viewing I began to appreciate the wit of the dialogue, the structure of the connected scenes, and the directorial technique that could make seemingly disparate elements come together (or not), an intellectual provocation rather than merely a stomach-churning one.
Of course, Ichihara must be applauded as a youngish female playwright-director recently entering the global arena, attempting to probe important questions of gender and nation, violence and trauma, prejudicial images and reality. Yet what is off-putting (to me) is that she seems to do so by wallowing in painful, private, and disgusting aspects of the human, especially female, body. These excursions are especially jarring as they employ medically precise or more often slang and vulgar words, involve all the senses, yet are spoken by a cute, young Japanese woman in girly lilts and tones. Or sung, or danced. Like hi-definition scenes in Netflix series featuring surgery, one wants to look away from these gratuitously exposed open wounds but are too fascinated/repulsed to do so. As a spectator ae slapped in the face with this vile and weird witch’s brew, one either reacts by waking to full concentration or turning off emotionally to protect oneself.
One must also admire Ichihara’s determined mining of the same seamy seam of misogynist dysphoria. As Mari Boyd puts it in her introduction to Aya Ogawa’s fluent translation of Favonia:
Subjects such as sex, mating, and cross-breeding are portrayed through the viewpoint of women, the audience is showered with physically stimulating verbal rampages, and the actors execute their lines using their entire body—at times in the manner of caricature, at times in the manner of bold confession. (Engeki 4, 154)
At the same time, her plays are cannily fractured and cunningly structured. Some monologs are clearly meant to shock; one thinks of teenagers throwing attention-getting tantrums. Yet other, seemingly tangential rants initially strike one as discordant only to be resolved later, as the knotted strands make sense only after you have stepped back like a haunting dream recalled the next day. One gradually learns to appreciate the remarkably rich trajectory of her work improving through her growing oeuvre of revived, revised, and Euro-Japan touring plays.
Ichihara seems to have an itch for insects and flying spirits. Q Madama Butterfly is the curious title. Q is her troupe’s name, which she denies having any special meaning (Queer? Questioning?) but a play on the insect mushi (虫),of her first play:
https://performingarts.jpf.go.jp/E/art_interview/2005/1.html
The leading lady in Ichihara’s plays is usually a hysteric woman: frantically seeking genuine leather shoes, confronted by a mysterious bull, with riffs on skin, breasts, feet, and body excretions. Deluxe The Question of Faeries was a tri-partite play that employed a manzai team (previously a rakugo storyteller) debating female ugliness and evolution, an info-mercial for “manghurt” made from vaginal secretions, and a tango musicals about cockroaches longevity and a disintegrating marriage.
Multi-lingual, multi-stranded, muli-media fable
With Q Madama Butterfly, she has produced a full-length play with three main characters, distinct threads interwoven through the convoluted story. Butterfly expands the playwright’s attacking of the status quo: towards arrogant Americans, mansplaining males, the European ideal of beauty, Christian imagery, females, Japanese especially inferiority complexes, lookism, the pain of sex and dirt of menstruation, getting old.
I had thought probing of the female psychosis mixed with deep misogyny (or perhaps misanthropy) were a cross between Sarah Kane and Neil LaBute, but saw here also the subsidized European theatre’s love of technology and Brechtian confrontation. Although a fascinating and funny thrill ride, i breaking of the fourth wall, CG mapping projections, diverse and multilingual cast, reversal of actor’s role, deconstruction of the well-known opera and legend, and vulgar in-your-face content and dramaturgy never quite gelled for me into a coherent piece of theatre, polemic or aesthetic. With only three actors and other characters projected, perhaps this pandemic version is not the ultimate one.
Play Summary (as much as I understood)
Spoiler alert: My Summary of the play follows (previously published text may have been altered during rehearsal/touring)
We are greeted by a giant projected woman’s face with a mouth moving to the strains of Maria Callas’ Un be dia aria from Puccini’s Madame Butterfly. The set is a center round sofa with project woodlands on all sides. A Woman (there were no names in the program so these are my own character monikers) sitting sloppily on a couch in hairband and housedress squints through clunky glasses at her own reflected face, bemoans her Japanese, mongoloid features, her narrow eyes and slight stature. She explains that she is from Nagasaki, where she was brought up to admire the iconic large sculpture of the Virgin Mary, explaining that although she is known for her gentle sainthood, she actually helped Christianity spread worldwide because she was “a typical Western beauty, American beauty.” And after all, how many men have secretly wanted to have their way with her? Abruptly to her right, a pixyish Japanese hologram schoolgirl appears, arguing that she shouldn’t despair, that cute kawaii Japanese girls are loved the world over. Throughout Asia, Japan is looked to enviously for its famous sushi, anime, and good economy.
Suddenly, on her other side another projection appears, a tall, blonde, ample bosomy American woman in a sexy red sheath dress. Surprised, the Woman and Pixie projection fall over rolling in Yoshimoto comedy farce style. The Woman whines how envious she is of the white skin and cool figure of the American woman, who consoles her repeatedly, with a dramatic flourish, “it’s what’s inside that defines beauty.”
The Woman, a direct Kansai-dialect speaking (later apologizing to Kansai audience for not being a Kansai-based actress so slaughtering the dialect), replies, “That’s easy for you to say. You’re a white American woman, and beautiful. Even ugly American women stride so confidently they look cool.” The Woman confesses that she cannot help but be enamored of European blonde, white-skinned, buxom beauty, having been raised on their images since youth. She pleads with the American buxom blonde to turn into Sailor Moon, the iconic anime character. “Even though it’s set in Japan and written by a Japanese, the heroine is a blonde, long-legged, American girl.” She wants the American to try performing Sailor Moon, since her outside would more closely resemble the true image, even though as a Japanese, her mentality would be closer. When the American Woman hesitates, the Woman insists, “Whitewashing is OK!” and with a flash, the American transforms into Sailor Moon, the blue-white outfit imposed over the red dress in the projection.
Next to appear is the hologram projection of Frances Xavier, explaining, in halting Japanese, Portugal’s early connection to Nagasaki centuries before Commodore perry sailed into Tokyo Bay with his Black Ships. The Woman and pixie yawn and giggle, “dasai”, bored by the pocket history. Then a foreigner dressed a Japanese politician kimonos slices him in two, the blood “splatters” on the projection wall. He is a Meiji journalist/politician who complained about the disrespect Westerners had towards Japanese, demonstrating with contemporary cartoons of the Western-fashion wearing Japanese gentlemen who see reflections in a mirror showed them simian at heart. Japanese aspiring to Western appearances through imitating their hairstyles and fashions could never succeed in winning Europeans’ respect.
However, the Pixie assures the Woman that she could attract foreigners; after all, Nicolas Cage and others had Asian girlfriends. All foreign music bands come to Japan with Yellow Fever. Japanese women have the image of being cute, easy to get into bed, and do everything you say. The Woman abruptly decides she wants to give her child a leg-up by having a “half” (mixed race) child by an American, blonde, blue-eyed man. That would help her “level up” (rise to Americans’ level). Her only problem now is how to get a foreign boyfriend. The Pixie advises her that, if she wants to attract foreign men, she has to look for her templates not to Demi Moore, Cameron Diaz in Hollywood’s Charlie’s Angels or other blonde Caucasians but to Lucy Liu for true Asian sexiness.
An infomercial disguised as a news debate then appears on a large center screen, as the Woman lolls, watching and occasionally commenting. A cutesy Japanese woman in a heart-filled background (title: Right Wing, domestically inward-turning) explains “how to attract men”. She is heavily made up, with pink hair, and speaks in the cloying, babyish voice of anime (or maid’s cafe) young women. Cutie urges paying special attention to the eyes and mouth. Shyly bringing in pseudo-anthropological theory, she coaches that wide-open eyes is an instinctual response to seeing something interesting and surprising; men are thereby aroused because they think that the one looking at them finds them fascinating. Pincers and mascara should be applied liberally.
She then turned to her pouty, pink lips. She lectures that the red-lipped mouth is the human-only evolutionary signal of femininity, not evident since humans got off all fours and covered up their pants. “You couldn’t see whether she was menstruating or ready for sex.” (Men wore beards as a curtain on their mouths, although rice stuck in it.) Painting the eyes brown and lips pink will attract Japanese men. “I pray for your successfully getting men horny!”
Now another long-haired, dark-eyed woman (live) “newscaster” (title: Left Wing, liberalizing outward-looking)) speaking English-inflected Japanese demurs, assuring us that this narrow view of cute Japanese girls is not enough to market themselves today. She should more ambitiously target the global market as an “Asian woman.” To attract foreign men, it is the long, dark-haired, red-lipstick Asian women look she must cultivate. Mascara should be simply applied, with little make-up, then a dark red lipstick. This is the iconic image of “Asia”, she snarls, tossing her wig to the Woman.
A young naval officer Gaijin appears in a church cloister, seen behind a veil, pleading for a Confession from a white-robed Priest. The man, who gives his name as Gaijin (Foreigner, a disrespectful term today), an AET English teacher based at a junior high school in Sasebo, Nagasaki admits he came to Japan because he heard it was a high-paying and easy job. He heard from a hometown buddy that Japanese girls swooned over even their fat, thirty-year old, living with his parents, anime-obsessed friend. So, he would surely be popular and screw lots of girls. He was hired easily and became a “clown” since the trained Japanese teacher taught all the grammar and he merely had to occasionally read from the textbook Even CDs could do his work, but he showed up and got paid for being a token.
At night, since Sasebo hosts a large U.S. army base, he dresses in navy whites to go to the “gaijin bars” and pick up Japanese girls who flock there to “hunt” Americans.
The now long-haired, heavily made-up Woman in a sparkling white kimono explains that she is a gaijin lover. She speaks halting English to ask if he can use chopsticks and other inanities before they decide to go to a nearby love hotel. He asks her to split the 7500 yen fee (to which her hearing suddenly goes bad, “Pardon.” Gaijin makes an aside to the audience that he has to read even the archaic “Pardon?” after being glared at by a teacher for mocking it in front of students once). She coyly flirts like a lion, saying “gao,” She then asks him in baby English to ejaculate inside her (your white liquid inside me) since she wants a blonde, blue-eyed son. He rapes her from behind and she faints from the size and pain.
The Playwright then appears on a screen at the center, a kind of ai-kyogen in the midst of this se rious tale. She complains about the ensemble of actors that she has been forced to work with, although none are American or tall or blue-eyed. She wanted a male for the Gaijin role but the only one in the company was in another play. The company demanded “diversity.” Two actors walk out, shouting in German, professionally offended.
She recalls going to Roppongi when she couldn’t speak English and American guys hitting on her even if they couldn’t communicate, saying “you’re so beautiful” and “your face is so expressive,” when she only blinked and nodded. And she wasn’t particularly pretty and wondered if they thought she would be pleased when someone took her photo and said “kawaii.”
There was an extended exegesis on the distinction between Japanese men, who never paid attention to her looks, and foreigners, so attentive, with a gentlemanly “lady’s first” attitude. Yet despite their penis’ thickness and length, gaijin were always soft, compared to the smaller but rock-hard Japanese men. (I was as uncomfortable listening to this as you are reading it!).
The Playwright complained of having to work within the strict regulations of the theatre, and they told her the issues of bullied blacks in Tokyo was too delicate an issue. Even though the post-colonial historic guilt in Europe is quite different than Japan, the theatre administrators lumped them together as “delicate problems”. Not being able to argue her point in English, she just gave up.
We return to the Woman, now the proud single mother of a mixed-race Son in Nagasaki. The American-Japanese Son was gulled by his mother into believing that he can learn English by osmosis, but actually cannot speak a word. When a cute girl at school flirts with him, she mentions foreigners’ B.O. and he worries about how to avoid it. She thinks it’s so cool he speaks English, so he doesn’t admit it. As the Son takes out his giant white American penis (his father’s legacy, the same white strap-on that was used to rape his mother), to masturbate. Miniature schoolgirls and Jesuit priests dance and clapp like faeries at the edges of the stage projections, and a post-modern dancer prances along the top edge.
He ponders the challenges of having a giant cock that won’t fit easily in a female pussy, but is assured by the reappearing Priest that women naturally get bigger in the moment to absorb one of any size. After all, the Son concludes, if the only dogs left on the planet were great dances and chihuahuas, they would find a way to survive. Even though his is bigger than any Japanese porn star, he finds his is on the same level of Americans and Blacks.
He complains that his mother tried to kill herself after he was born. Later, he had to take care of her in her old age, buying underwear for her on a miserable salary, since all four of her old ones were dirtied by brown and red stains. He’s asked her to stop using the bathroom sink to wash them as it was disgusting, but then she had just left it to him. He has an American face but can’t speak English, living at home taking care of his Mother.
His mother finally committed suicide and as Maria, beams down on her son assuring him that, if he speaks broken Japanese to say, “do you take this vow?” that he can get a job as fake priest, a dream job, looking like an American although he’s only half.
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Whew! If this elaborate, fantastic, stylistically varied, multi-media tale with tangential rants and musings wasn’t challenging enough, the casting seemed purposely obscurantist in actors’ appearance and languages. The Filipina-Japanese Gaijin (ironically dressing as a typical American Naval Captain) was played by a dark-skinned Uruguyan/Israeli/American actor speaking English; The Playwright was portrayed by a curly-haired American light-skinned black woman, Brandy Butler. The Japanese Woman/Mother was portrayed by a Japanese woman in Kansai-inflected Japanese, and the Gaijin AET teacher by a German actress of Turkish ancestry speaking English with a southern drawl. To give one example of confusion, the Japanese Playwright (portrayed by an American on film) says “I can’t speak English” in fluent English!
The actors were rather brilliant in interacting with projections and each other, changing character and style. Sascha Soydan’s Gaijin was in turn believably ashamed and boastful about his way with Japanese girls; Yan Balistoy’s Priest and Boy were both believably sincere; Brandy Butler’s Playwright (on film) was hilariously casually cruel. But Takenaka Kyoko was the star, shifting from victim to hunter to sacrificing mother seemingly effortlessly. The interaction with projections was surprisingly seamless, making me wonder at times if they weren’t actually streaming in live. Kudos to Ichihara the director and her team for the curtains, screens, sofa/bed and animated frame.
Although “a Japanese feminist’s deconstruction of Madame Butterfly” may have had promotional value, the story strayed far from the initial premise of a passive-aggressive Japanese woman’s ambition to offer a better life for her son. Although there are many contemporary Japanese playwrights who create knots that require careful unraveling, I feel that Ichihara unnecessarily complicates here plays with red herrings, forced segues, and inappropriate (to character, situation) comments that receive predictable cheap or uncomfortable laughter.
I wonder about all this thrashing around, biting the hand that feeds her (producing Swiss theatre) and protects Japan (American military). It seems to me that the “privilege” (white, male, Europeans) that Ichihara condemns with repulsive and violent vignettes is a poison she is able to spew from her privileged playwright perch. A white non-Japanese male playwright could never get away with the abuse she slings. She has government-funded (Aichi Triennale, Rohm Theatre here and German/European theatres support and Japanese Kishida Prize awards. Yet the dramatically mixed-up, deliberately confusing, in-your-face gaijin-bashing (especially Americans), makes me think of the play as a confession, rather than mere fiction. Is there a personal experience that she is trying to exorcise? Unfortunately, Art does not always work as a vomit of undigested dramatic ideas, flat acting, and fashionable multilingualism (see Drive My Car for a more delicate and intelligent use of it). Based on her previous works, I had high hopes previously but feel here she has somehow slipped down into the vulgar cliches she so despises.
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