KABUKI’S SCHOOL OF ACTING
A high standard of acting is maintained among the actors of Kabuki.
It is an hereditary profession; the actors, trained from childhood,
are brought up in the atmosphere of the theatre. Tamura Nariyoshi,
the theatre manager of Meiji, described the circumstances of the
actors’ growth when he once likened them to farmers who plant rice but
know nothing of chemistry, watch the plants shooting up yet have no
scientific knowledge of the alchemy of water, sun, or fertilisation.
In the same manner are the talents of the actors cultivated. They are
entirely unconscious of the laws that govern their art, and when they
reach a high position among their fellows it is but the flowering of
natural genius.
Should an actor be fortunate in having sons of his own, he early
apprentices them to the stage. He is a protecting spirit, watching
their efforts, disciplining, encouraging. His sons are to inherit his
mantle, and therefore he gives abundantly of his experience, seeing
that they are given the proper advantages, for although young they are
the heirs of to-morrow, and Kabuki is careful of the type.
When an actor has no son, he adopts a successor from among his pupils.
He takes a number of youths who wish to study his stage methods, which
they learn by constant association with him on and off the stage.
As they progress in their work they are advanced, and carry on his
traditions when he has passed away.
It is the custom for children of seven, or even younger, to be
placed in the care of a leading actor, since Kabuki plays have many
child-rôles. A few trials in juvenile characters with which the
audience are thoroughly familiar, and it is easy to predict whether the
youthful player has a future or not.
The cleverest boy-actor on the Tokyo stage to-day is Nakamura Matagoro,
who holds his audience in a surprising manner, his voice, bearing,
and face all marking him as a future star. The son of an actor who
possessed much talent but never rose to the top, Matagoro, on his
father’s death, was taken under the wing of Nakamura Kichiyemon, a
young actor of acknowledged ability, whose patronage assures the lad’s
career.
Thus the youthful actor begins to associate with his elders in a
natural way, and has no opportunity to gain the idea that he is a
prodigy. He gazes up into the faces of men who have been acting for
half a century, and old age looks benignly down as the small tot speaks
his first lines.
Even mediocre talent can grow and expand in an atmosphere of
calm confidence. The child is not forced or abused, but grows
up in a Montessori fashion. When the youth reaches a state of
self-consciousness and its attendant awkwardness, this is taken as a
matter of course. The audience tolerate his gaucheries, knowing that
he will one day bloom as a full-grown actor. Had the training and
discipline of the actors been otherwise, Kabuki might have experienced
a different fate.
This is but the education of Old Japan, the apprentice to the arts
and crafts growing up from childhood with a master, profiting by his
experience, encouraged by his guidance and protection. In contrast
there are the doubtful benefits of modern education that does not
prevent the tragic waste of the finer forces of human nature; art
impulses and aspirations of the souls of the young, thwarted and
hampered, untrained, unregarded, until the neglect of their true
development makes the world for them a desert rather than a paradise.
[Illustration: Nakamura Matagoro, the leading boy-actor of the Tokyo
Stage, in the rôle of a girl-pilgrim, O-Tsuru.]
The young actor not only has the daily experience of facing the
audience, but he takes part in the busy life behind the stage, and is
like a member of a big family. His work does not end in the theatre,
for instruction under a dancing master is a necessary part of his
education. He visits the dancing teacher’s house daily, and undergoes
a training that exercises every part of his body, and gives him that
remarkable control which is one of the assets of the Kabuki player. In
addition, he must learn many stage accomplishments, especially if he is
intended to become an onnagata, or specialist in women’s rôles.
The impersonal East has had much to do with the actor’s power to efface
himself, and his lack of concern for self is one of his distinguishing
qualities. No doubt the marionette has exercised full sway over him,
for in acting in plays written originally for the dolls he is quick to
imitate their movements, and sometimes gives the impression that he
has made himself into a puppet and is standing behind manipulating the
strings.
Again, the exaggerated acting of the imaginative characters of the
jidaimono, or historical plays, with the elaborate kimono, covered
by striking designs, the peculiar fashion of the hair, and strange
mask-like make-up, have proved a perfect disguise for the actor’s
personality, leaving him free to emphasise his art and to lay aside
personal considerations.
His gestures may be those inherited from the dance, or movements from
the Nō; they may have a direct relation to real life or be copied from
the marionettes. He has also a wide range in styles of acting. In one
piece he is the centre of a music posture dance—masses of men on either
side in a straight line, diagonal or curving, or in a pyramidical
group. Next he is a lone figure on the stage in a descriptive dance
that causes every person in the audience to be absorbed in his least
movement.
He may strut bravely as a grotesque character; as a hero, symbol of
loyalty, in an historical piece; or as a melancholy lover in a play
of the people. His best acting may, however, be in the display of
skill in fencing, jujitsu, or swordsmanship, and in the thick of a
fight he captures his audience by an equally matched combat, or thrills
it by a one-man performance against an overwhelming number. Part of
a stage fight is in reality an acrobatic display, but a chief actor
always leaves such tactics to the minor players, since it is beneath
his dignity to tumble about the stage in mere physical displays.
Perhaps one of the most interesting things in the whole realm of Kabuki
acting is the manner in which he holds the audience for long periods
without speaking by the power of suggestion, a legacy from the Nō
performers.
In _Kochiyama_, a play by Mokuami, there is a long scene in which the
actors utter no words. At night, on the outskirts of Yedo, a samurai
lies in wait for a passing palanquin. As it comes into view his sudden
rush and gleaming sword frighten the bearers, who make off hastily,
leaving their passenger to shift for himself. From the palanquin there
is nothing but an awesome silence. The samurai expects to find some one
he wants, and cautiously lifting the curtain with his sword he scans
the occupant, asleep.
One look within and the would-be assassin sees that the crest on the
sleeve does not belong to the man he seeks, and as he withdraws, the
slumberer awakened sees the flash of the samurai’s sword and says: “Is
that a falling star?” He little dreams that his friend’s overcoat lent
to keep him warm has saved his life. One line only is spoken in this
wordless drama.
Defeated by a court of justice, a villain is sitting in a dejected
mood. A page brings him a cup of tea, and silently leaves a short sword
as a sign that the sooner he takes himself away from the world the
better for all concerned. The condemned person drinks his tea slowly,
then regards the sword, and understands the message conveyed to him. He
picks it up, and leaning upon it shows by the expression of his face
that he is making up his mind in a very different direction, and
intends to use it upon some one else.
Delicate and dainty, a charming heroine assists her warrior husband to
don his armour, for he must not lose a moment in preparing for battle.
She attempts to lift his helmet, but it is too heavy for her, and
placing it with difficulty on the long sleeve of her kimono, she drags
it across the stage. The audience is interested in how well and how
long the onnagata is able to give the impression of a frail young woman
struggling with the ponderous weight of a golden helmet.
Perhaps one of the best uses to which suggestion in acting is put is in
the play _Sendaihagi_, in which Masaoka, the faithful nurse, prepares
the food for the little prince in her charge, as his uncle wishes to
poison him that he may administer the wealthy fief for his own purpose.
Masaoka unfolds a low screen that discloses a black lacquer table,
under which are a gilded rice pot and water jar, and other kitchen
utensils for boiling the rice and making tea. Those accustomed to
realism will question how real food is to be cooked with such gorgeous
and apparently theatrical stage furniture, and then will become lost in
admiration, for the actor suggests all the necessary movements without
actually resorting to them. The gold water ladle is used to dip up
imaginary water, and the uncooked grains of rice are seen as though
the water had all been poured off. Masaoka’s task comes to an end.
The bubbling of the steam against the lid of the rice pot is imitated
behind the scenes, and a black-robed property man is plainly seen to
move a screen in such a manner as to place within easy reach of the
faithful nurse the food that has taken fully an hour to prepare.
The actor plays many a rôle in his time, but it is given to those of
Kabuki to play many rôles in a day. He may act as a humble servant,
then as a robber, a resplendent priest, a drunkard, an upright samurai,
and terminate his day’s work by appearing in a comic or picturesque
dance.