Lost Japan by Alex Kerr Page A

they have something in common with a drag show. From English pantomime to traveling performers in India, the desire to see male actors dressed up as women seems to be universal. In China and Japan the primeval drag show developed into art. The
dan
(Chinese
onnagata
) have largely disappeared (although they may be making something of a comeback), not because the public gradually lost interest, but because the Cultural Revolution dealt such a blow to traditional theater; once a tradition like
dan
is weakened, it is difficult to reconstruct. Japan, however, escaped the turmoil of the Cultural Revolution, and so it is only here that the tradition survives in healthy form.
    Development into high art meant that
onnagata
concentrated on the romantic rather than the comic, the essential feminine rather than the physical body. This is why Faubion values older
onnagata
: the fact that they are old and unattractive allows their art to shine unadulterated by common sensual appeal. According to him, ‘The art of old Kabuki actors is like sea water which has been sitting in the sun. As actors get older, more and more water evaporates, and it gets more and more salty. In the end, only essential salt remains.’
    Due to their exact preservation of details of the old lifestyle, Kabuki plays may be seen as a ‘living museum’. How to light an
andon
(paper floor lantern), open a
fubako
(lacquered letter case), arrange hair with
kanzashi
(hairpins), handle a scroll – these and countless other techniques live on in Kabuki’s use of stage properties. Kimono fashions, shops and houses, prescribed movements of hands and feet, the ways to bow, the ways to laugh, samurai etiquette and many other aspects of Japan that existed prior to the arrival of Western culture are all reflected in Kabuki’s mirror. Kabuki is one giant nostalgia for the past; I cannot think of
any other theatrical art form that preserves ancient daily life so thoroughly.
    Especially in the light of the modernization that has swept over Japan in recent years, the world of Kabuki seems particularly poignant. There are, of course, no longer any
fubako
or
kanzashi
(except as souvenirs in tourist shops in Kyoto), but the disappearance of these things is no more significant than the disappearance in the West of the bustle and fringed parasol. In the West, modernization, while drastic, did not wipe away every single reminder of what life once was. But in Japan, cities and countryside alike have been bulldozed. Even the trees and rice paddies painted on backdrops are fast vanishing from day-to-day surroundings. Only in Kabuki does the dream world of the past live on.
    Over eighteen years have passed since I first went to meet Jakuemon, and since then I have entered the backstage door countless times. Yet even now I get butterflies in my stomach every time I approach it. I live in fear of the doorman, I wonder if I am neglecting some bit of backstage punctilio. Kabuki’s window into Japan’s traditional lifestyle does not end on the stage.
    Lesser actors make the rounds of greater actors’ rooms, entering on their knees to make official greetings and to ask for good wishes before they go onstage. Actors are addressed by titles that sound strange to modern ears, such as ‘Wakadanna’ (‘Young Master’) for an
onnagata
like Tamasaburo. (‘Danna’, or ‘Master’, is the title for an important male-role player, but an
onnagata
, no matter how old he gets, remains ‘Young Master’.) Each backstage room is decorated with banners carrying the distinctive emblems of the actors, just like aristocratic heraldry. There is a constant exchange of gifts: fans, hand towels or rolls of fabric, all of which carry symbolic significance. It is a truly feudalistic world, far removed from that of ordinary mortals. Once, when I told Tamasaburo about my trepidation on going backstage, I was surprised when he answered, ‘I feel exactly the same way!’
    I sometimes think that what bewitched me