An Invitation to Kagura

Take the suburban train north from downtown Hiroshima about forty minutes and you will arrive at the sleepy town of Kabe, a whistle stop with so little traffic that the ticket gate is often left unmanned. If you time your visit to coincide with the evening of the annual shrine festival in early summer however, you will find the middle of nowhere transformed into little Tokyo. Train platforms overflow with visitors of all ages, dressed in sheer summer yukata and carrying sparklers and box lunches. Teenage guys, wearing hachimaki to hold back their fashionable blond hair, squat waiting on the steps of the station for tardy friends to arrive. Older couples and families hurry past the biker gangs that are now a fixture at public gatherings such as this, as police set up barricades to control the traffic. The crowds spill out into the car park, and press onward, up the road leading to the shrine grounds. Food stalls offer passersby fried squid, vegetable pancakes, and icy vats of canned drinks, adding to the carnival-like atmosphere.

The kagura stage at the Kabe festival is a make-shift affair, erected in a small public park adjacent to the shrine. Planks are mounted on a two-story scaffolding of iron pipes, and the whole arrangement is curtained over and protected from the rain with sheets of blue canvas. The rear of the stage is decorated with heavy fabric bearing an image of a large pine tree, a faint echo of the decoration usually found in the noh theater. The name of the troupe, the inaugural date, and a list of sponsors is woven into the curtains, between dragon motifs and swirls of ocean waves. The ceiling struts are decorated with bamboo sprigs and fresh sakaki branches, and multicolored strips of paper hang down from a wooden frame suspended above center stage. Illumination is provided by a string of naked bulbs running along the perimeter, and two loudspeakers are perched on a pole at downstage right. At stage left, a long carpeted runway, flanked by red and white banners, leads off to the actors’ changing tent. This ramp is the kagura version of the hana’michi, the space for entrances and exits in the kabuki theater. No seating is provided for the audience, and so people claim a spot by spreading newspapers or plastic sheets over the grass. Cushions and snacks are brought from home, in anticipation of the four- or five-hour performance.

The action begins at dusk with the arrival of the musicians, who make their way onstage through the back curtain. They are dressed like the clergy at the local shrine in saifuku (white robes), eboshi (black cap), hakama (pleated skirts) and tabi (split-toed socks), lending a touch of formality to the carefree atmosphere. The conductor/troupe-leader arranges a large taiko drum on a dais at stage right, and waits patiently for the others to get organized. While the ko’daiko (small drum), chappa (cymbals) and fue (flute) are being prepared, a simple wooden altar is placed upstage center for use during the opening ceremonies. It is adorned with a votive offering of rice wine, and a gohei (prayer wand), the wood and cut-paper hand implement that figures so prominently in many kagura plays.

When the preparations are complete, a vertical banner is posted at downstage left, indicating the name of the inaugural dance (in this case Shiho’nuke or the “Cleansing of the Four Directions”). The opening melody is introduced by the flute player, and is gradually embellished by the other players. The solo dancer for the piece appears, dressed in a suikan, a typical kagura
costume of jacket and pants, modeled on a hunting uniform from the middle ages. The lush material of the jacket is lined with red satin, and is decorated with bold geometric patterns embroidered in gold and silver. As the actor dances the ritual cleansing, he carries the gohei in his left hand and an open folding fan in his right. The intricate spirals of the choreography develop gradually, based on circular floor patterns with invisible axes running north-south and east-west. When prayers-in-motion have been made to each of the four directions, the rite is complete.

The signboard indicates that the first theatrical presentation of the day will be Takiyasha’hime (“Princess Takiyasha”), a relatively new work written around the end of the 19th century. The story deals with a rebellious warlord who declares independence from the emperor and ends up paying the ultimate price for his defiance. The kagura version is set in the period shortly after his execution, and centers on the fate of his embittered daughter, Takiyasha. In the play, the princess becomes crazed with grieve, and in desperation turns to the black arts to satisfy her thirst for revenge. She is transformed into an evil sorceress and wrecks havoc on the simple villagers until finally being dispatched by two heroic royal guards. It is easy to understand why the troupe leads off with Takiyasha, as it provides all the color and excitement that audiences have come to expect from contemporary “Hiroshima-style” kagura. There is stylized swordplay, quick changes of costume, beautifully synchronized dances, and a climactic showdown choreographed to the frantic beat of the taiko.

As a definitive change of pace, Takiyasha is followed by an interlude of largely improvised banter, courtesy of Hyottoko, the country bumpkin. In Japanese mythology, Hyottoko is correctly speaking the God of the Hearth, but in kagura is portrayed much like the simpleminded kyogen characters one finds in the noh theater . Tottering along, balancing on a walking stick, the actor taunts and is in turn taunted by the many children that clamor around the foot of the stage. At rural fests the role is often played provocatively, as the trickster embarrasses the women in the audience with off-color jokes and a large wooden phallus; fortunately Hyottoko behaves himself on this occasion.

When Hyottoko has had his fun, the troupe continues with Yumi’hachiman (“Hachiman the Archer”), a classic kagura dating from the 17th century. This simple tale of heroism deals with an ancient leader who defends Japan from invasion by a scourge of demonic warriors from another realm. Hachiman is followed by Rashomon, a supernatural folk tale from the days when the capital was Kyoto in central Japan rather than Edo/Tokyo . Warriors of the Genji clan wait at Rashomon gate to ambush Ibaraki, a demonic creature that comes down from the mountains at night to prey on Kyoto residents. The ensuing battle is played out as a choreographic tour de force, complete with swordplay, smoke, and the pounding rhythm of the drums. It ends abruptly with the adversary losing a hand, and in the final scene, the villain retreats to the shadows, vowing a rematch when the time is right.

The excitement of the kagura festival continues with a succession of plays, from about five in the afternoon until long into the night. Although the crowds begin to thin in order to catch the last train back to the city, there are still a number of locals around for the final send-off by Ebisu, the most beloved of the Seven Lucky Gods. Like a rock star, the appearance of the god generates a ripple of excitement, especially among the younger people in the audience. To the faithful who remain for this final performance, a very tangible blessing is offered in the form of sweetened rice cakes, which the actor and his assistants distribute by pitching over the heads of the audience. The good-natured scramble to retrieve the sweets is a fitting end to a satisfying night’s entertainment.

The Well-Tempered Body: Expressive Movement for Actors, Improvisers, and Performance Artists

Physicality is the basis of performance. It is hard to argue otherwise: yes, voice is important, costumes are important, scenery is important, but rapport with the audience is established primarily by what performer is doing and how it is being done. The reality of the body - the way that it moves, and the way that it reacts to context (real or imaginary) – engenders a sense of presence, especially in the absence of dialogue.

One need only think of the great actors of the silent screen to know that characterization does not require a word to be spoken. Beyond this, a skilled improviser has the ability to suggest a mood or a place, a status relationship or an enduring friendship, simply by relying on our ability to “fill in” the background to the behavior we are witnessing. And the performance artist can create a powerful experience, transforming private vision into feeling and physical action. Even in the wildest experimental theater, where the inner logic of the scene is initially baffling, the presence of the actor’s body can be enough to lend structure and coherence, and to encourage the audience to give the presentation a chance.

In this fragmented age of ours, the genres of conventional acting, improvisation, and performance art may sometimes appear to be worlds apart, but they are linked inextricably by reliance on the expressive power of the human body. The reason is simple: theater in whatever guise is fundamentally a stylized social exchange, and the “decoding” of movement is always a part of the dialogue we establish with other people.

This process of nonverbal communication is actually a very familiar aspect of everyone’s life. Whether at home or at work, at rest or at play, we are continuously gauging personality (i.e. long-term temperament and short-term moods) based on holistic appraisals of physical presentation. We know when the boss is unapproachable even before he opens his mouth, just as we know if a first date is going well or badly. And the reason is our innate sensitivity to subtle (and none-too-subtle) behavioral cues.

For the actor, mastery of stage presence is thus intimately connected with the investigation everyday action as a communicative device. Nonverbal dialogue shapes all of our lives, and appreciating the way in which behavior clashes with or conforms to context is part of our heritage as a social animal. But as the consummate physical performer, the actor needs to take this process to a new level, harnessing the nuts and bolts of “impression management” and applying them to artistic ends.