CONVENTIONS OF KABUKI
While the development of the popular theatre of Japan has been
co-existent with that of England and Europe, and fundamentally it is
the same, there are striking differences in the conventions. These are
the result of the isolation of Kabuki, due to the seclusion policy of
the shogunate which endured for two centuries and a half.
Kabuki conventions appear at first sight so different from our own that
it takes time to understand and appreciate them. Familiarity, however,
reveals the taste and sincerity of the Kabuki collaborators, who, far
from the influence of the theatres of other lands, worked out their own
salvation.
One of the most interesting conventions to the Occidental is the
hanamichi, or flower-way. It is an extension of the stage proper to
form a path through the audience. There are always two hanamichi in a
theatre, one on either side of the stage, that on the left being the
wider and more important, that on the right smaller and less used.
Some of the most vital principles of Kabuki are at work when the
hanamichi is employed. The modern playwrights who ignore it, not only
rob the actors of something strongly theatrical, but at the same time
take away from the audience the keen delight that comes from close
contact with the creations of the stage.
Pageantry and ceremonial claim the hanamichi as their own. Sweeping
over it come processions of gay courtesans; priests in stiff brocades
chant as they march solemnly to some ornate stage-temple; daimyo trains
wind their way with all the pomp of feudal days; the whole theatre
becomes a stage and every person in the audience feels his connection
with the play and players.
A company of courtesans enter by the hanamichi and fill it with as
brilliant a blaze of colour as it is ever possible to see in a theatre
that is justly famous in this direction. The grotesque personages of
the prints, the taiyu of old Yedo, are reproduced, the glittering robes
of gold and bright embroidery, the elaborately decorated headdresses,
and heavily padded brocade rolls to their many kimono, making them the
most topheavy persons that could ever be imagined, balancing themselves
on their stilt-like black geta, or high footgear, as they lean on the
shoulders of their male attendants for support. A whole hanamichi of
these extraordinary creatures, men bearing large lanterns, and little
maids in scarlet, following in the wake, makes a picture that fairly
dazzles.
Many priests with an aged abbot at the head pass through the audience
in great dignity and enter a golden temple in the gloom of tall trees,
the incense, wave on wave, rising into the air and spreading out over
the audience. Fighting men in armour suddenly swarm over the two
hanamichi, right above the heads of the bewildered people in their
small boxes in the pit, and the whole audience is taken by surprise at
the number of men rushing towards the stage.
The greatest variety of entrances and exits is made possible by the
hanamichi. A hasty messenger chooses this way for entrance; and a
slow exit is made by a melancholy lover with downcast head and folded
arms, determined to depart this life. There is the splendid, imposing
entrance of a shogun, prince or brave warrior, or the striking exit
of some masquerading fox or demon, while the actors are fond of slow
introductions, standing for a long time in the most conspicuous
position on the hanamichi that they may be viewed from every vantage
point in the theatre.
Tall autumn grasses on each side of the hanamichi, prepare for the
entrance of a hero playing on his flute in the moonlight, an
assassin creeping behind him. If the scene upon the stage is that of
winter there will be a snowdrift on the hanamichi, and blue and white
cotton will transform this narrow audience-path into a stream of water.
An umbrella lies carelessly outspread on the hanamichi; it gently moves
as though by its own volition, then there is a puff of smoke, and out
springs a beautiful maiden, who dances. By the same trap-door issue
forth such characters as Nikki Danjo, magician and conspirator, who
transforms himself into a rat that he may steal a family document, and
then assuming his own form, although still resembling a rat, stands in
the midst of the people, and the next moment mysteriously disappears
through the hanamichi.
Armour-clad fighters perched high upon velvet stage-horses thrill
by their nearness, and long-lost brothers find each other on the
hanamichi. With rapture lovers are united; a wounded hero, shot by an
arrow in the eye, reels and sinks down with exhaustion, and two comic
old females go out talking volubly to the amusement of the audience.
Such are the characters, gay or grave, who have been brought into
existence by the hanamichi.
As a means to further characters on their way, the hanamichi is most
useful. Two actors will leave the stage taking the hanamichi, and cross
over by a narrow footpath into the centre of the pit, where they stand
and act. Meanwhile a bridge has been pulled off and a red shrine pushed
on, and by the time they wander back to the stage proper they have
travelled a long way on their journey.
Travellers, servants, court ladies, peasants, and vendors,—they make a
motley train as they pass over the hanamichi and are so near the people
that they might, if they wished, reach out and touch their garments.
Interpretative music forms part of almost every play. To produce
certain moods in the audience, the drummers and samisen players are
accustomed to make sounds and rhythms to increase the emotion or
picturesque effect of a scene. These men are called hayashikata, or
musicians, and perform on a number of instruments, furnishing
Kabuki’s incidental music. They are stationed to one side of the stage
and concealed from view, but as a concession there is an opening in the
painted scenery, or screens, that they may survey the stage and keep in
close relation to the action.
To accompany conversation there are irregular notes of the samisen,
and when the characters are thus engaged and what they say is of great
interest the audience is so hushed that the stray notes of the samisen
sound like dripping water in a silent house. At other times this
samisen accompaniment to dialogue is more of a hindrance than a help.
For people walking or marching the samisen has another rhythm, and
certain variations of measures suggest a lonely farm house.
When two noble persons converse together, the flute, sho (an ancient
reed instrument), drum, and samisen are played softly. Rippling sounds
convey the merriment of a feast, and excited rhythms are heard as a
combat takes place.
For battle there is the confusion made of quick beats of the big drum.
To increase the sound of the warlike preparations, a metal gong is
struck rapidly, there is a clash of cymbals, and the blowing of a conch
shell.
To make more solitary a lonely mountain scene, a horse-driver’s song
is sung to the jingle of horse-bells, and when an echo is required
two small drums answer each other. Gay and lively festival scenes
are accompanied by intricate interweaving of light drum-beats. Crazy
persons make their appearance to irregular notes of the samisen, while
regular rhythms of the big drum suggest wind. Falling snow is made by
soft, muffled, regular drum-beats. Waves are suggested by a vigorous
stroke on the big drum, and then a quiet tap, in imitation of the ebb
and flow of the tide.
At sunset there is the deep boom of a temple-bell, when lovers are
parting, or the approach of some tragic _dénouement_ in deserted temple
or country cottage. For harakiri scenes the piercingly sad flute
and subdued samisen express the regret of the dying, and for tragedy
there are sad little ripples of the samisen in a high tone.
Soft samisen measures accompany melancholy moonlit scenes, and the
striking of a wooden gong used in Buddhist worship suggests the
appearance of something frightful. Light taps of the big drums make
known a sinister motive, and the big drum beaten quickly announces
impending evil, while the clatter of the geta, or wooden clogs, on the
hanamichi, to the thumping of the samisen and the light tattoo of the
small drums, conveys an impression of light-heartedness.
Most of the conventions in regard to make-up have been handed down
by word of mouth from one Ichikawa Danjuro to the other, and form a
complicated subject. Dead white, with broad black eyebrows, and touches
of red to eyes and corners of the mouth, has long been the accepted
stage mask for samurai, or persons of high degree. White also forms the
established make-up for women. Villains are generally made up with red
faces, country people are tanned brown by the sun, and comedians paint
their faces with red, white, and blue.
In the exaggerated rôles created by the Ichikawa house, the
countenances of these imaginative personages give scope for the most
daring attempts. This elaborate design for the face is called kumadori
(lit., to-make-borders).
Brave men who have fought a good fight and lost, confront their
enemies with an expression of retaliation, broad red lines around the
eyes, nose, and chin, with red forks over the forehead. Again, such a
character is made up with light pink shading out from the red strokes.
Strong and courageous warriors, undismayed although in the hands of
their enemies, have chins of grey, red lips bordered by white, broad
upward strokes of red from eyes and cheeks to forehead, and raised
eyebrows like the antennæ of some black beetle, the whole giving the
impression that the hero is bristling with anger; his hair standing on
end.
Benkei, the warrior-priest, loyal to his young master, Yoshitsune,
is represented with a grey chin, no eyebrows, two curved lines on
forehead, outlined in pink.
A villain of wrathful mien is made up according to the Ichikawa
convention with the lower part of the face black, a black and white
design on the chin for a beard, the upper portion of the face covered
with a network of purple veins, and for eyebrows the antlers of a
deer in dark blue. A villain of a different description appears with
a bright red face, a pink nose and mouth, and thick black elevated
eyebrows.
Most of the conventions for the making up of ghosts have been created
by the Kikugoro family, their specialty being the weird and ghostly.
A Kikugoro ghost has a branching design of blue veins, a red mouth
outlined in black, and eyes painted with red and black. Another
apparition has an indistinct blue tinge over the face, the features
slightly touched with black. The face of a fox in human disguise is
white with sharp pink points upward from the bridge of the nose, and
slanting black eyebrows. The spirit of a frog has sharp curved lines of
dark and light green about eyes, mouth, and forehead.
Not unlike the clown of the Western circus, the Kabuki comedian makes
up with a white ground on which lines of red are painted about the
nostrils and eyes, while a red circle between the eyes supports a heavy
horizontal line intended for eyebrows. The cheeks are decorated with a
blue curved design, suggested by a squirming eel, which represents a
moustache.
The modern actors are not slaves to the conventions, but depart from
them whenever they feel inclined, making up to suit their own ideas
of the characters they take. The actor performs this elaborate duty
himself, laying on the lines with brush and finger tip. Matsumoto
Koshiro, of the Imperial Theatre, is acknowledged the most versatile
and original in his making up, always creating something new and
astonishing.
[Illustration: Onoe Kikugoro as a brave samurai woman mounted on a
white velvet stage steed.]
One of the most striking conventions of the Japanese theatre is the
Kabuki horse, supported underneath by two minor actors who specialise
in supplying legs to make-believe steeds. It waves its mane, kicks and
steps about to show its mettle, or jogs along, a patient pack animal.
But always it forms a necessary part of the action of a play, as well
as an important feature of the stage picture.
This remarkable quadruped with the very human legs and knees occupies
a distinct place of its own in the old plays, and its prestige is not
dimmed even in the latest productions. Its ancestor may be seen on the
Doll-stage, prancing about among the puppets, but the velvet mount of
Kabuki is much more dignified, and has advanced a great deal since it
ceased to associate with the marionettes.
In a music play, _Omori Hikoshichi_, by Fukuchi, the horse becomes one
of the chief characters. The hero, Omori, while assisting a young woman
to cross the ford of a river is suddenly attacked by her. He finds that
she is trying to recover her father’s sword, and having it with him, he
generously gives it up. To hide his act from his men, he pretends to be
overcome by uncanny influences, but this excuse does not satisfy the
retainers, and when Omori jumps upon his horse, they pull the bridle
this way and that, the restive animal rearing and plunging to the
strains of the samisen. At length Omori frees himself and appears in
the background on a hill, his war-fan upraised in triumphant attitude,
the very intelligent stage-horse pawing the ground, apparently sharing
its master’s triumphant emotion.
Acting a horse rôle is not so easy as it may appear, since the fore and
back legs must by some stage legerdemain perform in harmony. The front
legs take the initiative since to this actor is given the position of
look-out. There is a window in the throat of the horse that allows
the chief interpreter a partial vision of the stage. The hind legs
must follow blindly, and moreover this actor is in a stooping position
and apparently has little air for breathing purposes. How the two
players enter the outward frame, and how they get along inside, remains
a mystery to playgoers, who do not inquire about the matter too closely.
When the young hero, Atsumori, in bright armour, makes his entrance
upon the hanamichi riding on a white velvet horse, he has attached to
the back of his saddle a series of black lacquered hoops, from which
is suspended a long, loose covering of thin orange silk, that streams
high above his head and floats like the train of a lady at court far
behind the horse. Kumagae, a grizzled warrior, is magnificent on a
black horse that tosses its head as though it were truly a fiery steed.
He wears gold armour, rides on a black velvet mount, and the streaming
silk is of purple. They follow one another into the sea, and the two
horsemen are seen in the perspective surrounded by conventional blue
and white waves, crossing swords amid the surges. The young hero is
overcome. Then the riderless horses, like real runaways, dash along the
hanamichi, making a grand exit.
There seems no danger that the Kabuki horse will ever become extinct,
for it is employed with too good effect in many of the best plays. A
samurai escaping from a battle leans with fatigue on his horse. The
enemy are upon him and he must say farewell to his dumb friend, which
shows affection for its master by rubbing him with its nose, while the
actor without words expresses the sorrow he feels at parting from his
faithful companion. Again, the central figure of a dance may be a white
horse, with gay trappings of red fringe and brass ornaments.
Some day this interesting quadruped may be considered too antiquated in
the pitiless glare of the progressive present, and, ashamed of itself
for being a hoax so long, slink away into oblivion.
But it cannot be supplanted by a real one, so long as it forms an
important part of the pageantry of the hanamichi, when resplendent
daimyo ride in state through the audience in the midst of the little
boxes crammed with their human occupants craning their necks to see
the passing show.
It would be hard to imagine Kabuki without its devoted kurombo,
or property man. Concealed from head to foot in black, the face
covered by a flap, which he seldom raises except in an emergency,
the kurombo (lit., black-man) serves the stage unselfishly, claiming
no recognition, pleased to put his own personality completely in the
background; withal he is a most important personage. The variety of
his tasks gives him an entire familiarity with the stage. He is a
super-actor and stage-manager, entrusted with the smooth running of the
performance, responsible for a hundred details, and yet remains the
humble menial of the theatre.
A queer profession it seems, to flit about the stage so unobtrusively
that the audience is not aware of his presence; yet always engaged
in making inanimate objects significant. He holds a piece of silver
paper on the end of a long pole and a fish jumps before the eyes of
the audience. Hiding behind a thicket of bamboo, he causes the long
feathery plumes to sway in a wind storm. The pendant branches of the
weeping willow are suddenly agitated by the kurombo in anticipation of
some ghostly event, or he squats down behind a clump of grass making
it shiver to reveal the concealment place of some desperate character
about to come forth.
What magic he effects by means of his long pliable rod! At one time
butterflies flutter from the end, or a white moth is suspended over the
face of a sleeping man near a white paper lantern, awakening him in
time that he may protect himself from danger.
It is the kurombo who causes snakes to glide upon the scene and wriggle
in the most realistic manner, while cats, rats, and even crabs make
their appearance at the psychological moment at his bidding.
Sometimes he remains so quiet that he appears to be nodding or napping,
but the next moment bounds away accomplishing his purpose. Always on
the alert, he watches for sliding screens that do not open, or
gates that are about to topple over, and holds up a curtain that a
dead man may disappear since he is no longer needed on the stage. By a
dexterous touch behind, he changes the neutral costume of an actor to
one all gold and silver, or gives the right tug that brings the long
hair of a distraught heroine all dishevelled about her.
His solicitude for the infants of the footlights is touching. Crouching
behind a boy actor, he guides his actions and gives him his cue,
waiting to escort him on and off. And when the feet of the old actor
become feeble the kurombo is close at hand to assist, knowing his least
movement from long association.
Silent observer of the great men, the actors, creeping on all fours
behind some gorgeous figure in gold brocade, the kurombo is conscious
of the sins and omissions of the players, and he is the humourist of
the situation. But he never shows that he is human. The audience seldom
if ever catch a glimpse of his face, perhaps only in profile as he
takes up some partially exposed position, with book in hand, prompting
the actors whose memories are not trustworthy.
The boy kurombo begins to learn the mysteries of the stage at an early
age. His father brings him to shibai when he is a mere baby, not more
than four years of age, and he may be allowed to go upon the scene
and take away a pair of sandals, or other small property, in order
that he may begin to learn his life’s duties. Small actors and equally
diminutive kurombo thus grow up together.
It is customary for the kurombo in his novitiate to sit at each side
of the stage unconsciously taking in every detail. These children soon
become accustomed to gaze in a detached way at the audience, which
must make a vast impression on their minds, and at the same time they
evince a lively interest in all that concerns the stage. Their eyes,
round with wonderment, look at a play as though it were a fairy tale
unfolding before them,—the ghosts and demons, samurai and peasants
of Kabuki passing near. It is small wonder that the kurombo, whose
taste for the theatre is bred in the bone, stays with it until old age
claims him—always a shadow.
The most perplexing convention of the Japanese theatre to the
Occidental, long accustomed to mixed players, is the fact that
Kabuki is the possession of actors, and that women characters are in
consequence in the hands of males. If this seems a strange business for
a man, it must be remembered that Shakespeare’s heroines were played by
youthful English actors.
Moreover, it is realised that the peaceful atmosphere and orderly
regime behind the stage,—the environment in which the actor lives and
works, is in many respects like a man’s club in the West. This freedom
to work unhindered by the opposite sex gives the Kabuki actor a greater
opportunity to be himself, and the remarkable calm that seems to
permeate all that takes place on the stage may be one advantage of the
pure male theatre.
Masks and marionettes have had a large part in the shaping of Kabuki
conventions. Many of these conventions, that seem so strange and very
often absurd upon first acquaintance, become more intelligible in the
light of the debt the popular theatre owes to the Doll-stage and to the
still older form, the Nō.
Stepping in imaginary waves, washing the feet in water that does not
exist; cooking food without fire, drinking tea from empty cups; blows
that do not touch; cold steel that does not clash,—all these have come
to Kabuki out of the inexhaustible suggestiveness of the Nō. Rhythmic
movement to express emotions resulting in symbolic gestures, pantomime
and postures of the puppets, were the contribution of the Doll-theatre
to the development of Kabuki.
Without these two restraining influences there would have been nothing
to prevent Kabuki from following the same realistic route as that of
the Western stage.