If you were to exit the main train station in Kotohira earlier this month, you would have been greeted by thousands of colorful nobori (banners) lining the streets that lead to the town’s famed Konpira Shrine.
The man behind these nobori is fourth-generation artisan Atsuhiko Ohno, 44, of Sensho Yoshinoya. His family’s studio has been making art for kabuki festivals and traditional ceremonies since 1919.
“From the first performance, (Sensho Yoshinoya) has been creating a kabuki nobori that heralds the arrival of spring in Kotohira along with the cherry blossoms,” Ohno says, proudly noting that each nobori is made by hand using a regional dyeing technique called Sanuki norizome.
For a fortnight each spring since 1985, Kotohira, a small town of roughly 8,000 people in the Nakatado district of Kagawa Prefecture, has welcomed kabuki’s most renowned actors to perform at the Konpira Grand Theater. Built in 1835 and christened an Important Cultural Property in 1970, it is Japan’s oldest surviving complete kabuki theater. This year’s pageantry comes after an especially long winter, figuratively speaking. For the past five years, the theater has been unable to hold its spring performances due to COVID-19 restrictions and seismic retrofitting.
For Ohno and many others in town, the five-year absence of the Shikoku Konpira Kabuki Oshibai (“ōshibai” means “grand play”) was financially challenging. Yet, they’ve come out the other side of the pandemic with a strengthened commitment to protecting, continuing and sharing the town’s cultural heritage, of which traditional arts like kabuki and nobori play an integral role.
Even nature seemed primed for a triumphant return as the cherry trees burst forth with peak blossoms timed perfectly for the start of the event on April 4 — an auspicious sign of new beginnings and a return to the natural rhythms of the past.
Let us entertain you
Even without kabuki, Kotohira draws its fair share of tourists. Many of them are wanderers trekking along the Shikoku henro, a 1,200-kilometer pilgrimage that involves some 88 “official” temple stops and 20 bekkaku (exceptional) temples.
The largest draw, however, is Konpira Shrine (also known as Kotohira-gu or simply, Konpira-san), which venerates the Buddhist deity Konpira Gongen. It is noteworthy for its arduous climb up a 1,368-step staircase built into the slope of the sacred Mount Zozu. Those who cannot make it up the staircase use dogs, called “konpira-inu,” to take their prayers to the main hall (mercifully located only 785 steps up).
But as far back as the artistically ebullient Genroku Period (1688-1703), Kotohira has gladly played the role of welcoming host. In fact, its reputation for “entertaining” guests led, in part, to the initial ban on women as kabuki actors in 1629, as prostitutes and geisha also worked as actors.
In an ironic twist of fate in 1835, it was that community of geisha — women who could still not become actors themselves over 200 years later — who would raise the necessary funds (nearly half a million dollars in today’s money) to construct Konpira Grand Theater, known more colloquially as Kanamaruza. They’re said to have done this by clipping the incense that marked the time, thereby systematically shortchanging customers. It was a mitzvah to the community, meant to finally replace the ramshackle kabuki houses in use at the time, which were often dangerous fire hazards.
While noh theater is the purview of the elite, kabuki was long viewed as the bawdy entertainment of the merchant and peasant classes — a sort of vaudeville for the Edo Period (1603-1868), rather than the staid, inscrutable image many have of the art form today.
“While I think we are in a blessed environment with Kanamaruza and Konpira-san, I also feel that the town as a whole needs to think about creating an environment in which kabuki can be maintained and continued,” says Ohno, who is concerned about losing traditional art forms like kabuki and Sanuki norizome, just as shipbuilding, once a major industry of this landlocked town, was eventually left in the past.
Despite his heavy workload making banners and other products, Ohno volunteers at Kanamaruza during the entirety of the two-week ōshibai.
While artisans like Ohno rely on maintaining cultural heritage and traditions to make a living, so, too, do commercial enterprises in Kotohira. After weathering the pandemic, many entrepreneurs here see real value and opportunities in promoting traditional arts like kabuki to international visitors and young artists.
Taijiro Kusunoki is the CEO of Kotobus, a regional transportation provider. He is betting on Kotohira’s cultural history to attract tourists. Travel agency JTB reports an estimated 33.1 million inbound travelers are expected to come to Japan in 2024, though most of them will limit their exploring to the urban centers of Tokyo, Osaka and Kyoto.
Kotohira may not yet offer the contemporary cool of nearby Naoshima island — home to Yayoi Kusama’s famous pumpkin sculpture and numerous other art installations — but it is easily accessible by train from Takamatsu Airport or by bus for those traveling in the region.
In response to the projected rebound of tourism and new initiatives like Japan’s digital nomad visa, Kusunoki recently opened an affordable hostel and co-working space in downtown Kotohira called Kotori. He is also planning to start an art residency and open studio spaces in a formerly abandoned shopping center — all in hopes of attracting younger artists to the region. Kusunoki thinks these affordable, youth-focused accommodations and offerings will help shed the stuffy image of temple towns and kabuki culture that many young Japanese people still hold by making the arts and Kotohira more accessible.
“Konpira kabuki has returned this spring, and it feels like the coronavirus period has finally come to an end. I really think this is the start of a new era,” Kusunoki says. “Before coronavirus, there were not many Westerners here. But now at least it seems like the number has increased.”
And now, the main events
The day before the opening performances of this year’s Shikoku Konpira Kabuki Oshibai, Kotohira is packed with thousands of kabuki lovers and hundreds of volunteers in colorful happi coats. The fans have come to catch a glimpse of some major stars from the genre — Matsumoto Koshiro X (formerly Ichikawa Somegoro VII) and his 19-year-old son, dubbed the “Prince of Kabuki,” Ichikawa Somegoro VIII — who are in town to take part in a parade before hitting the stage.
Kabuki is by tradition hereditary, with sons following in their father’s footsteps. Stage names are also inherited and retired, which can be quite confusing for those trying to keep track.
Seven other renowned headliners have joined the father-and-son team; they are escorted through the streets in rickshaws lined with red velvet as part of a traditional Shinto parade known as an “o-neri.” In addition to the rickshaw-riding actors and portable shrines, Awa odori dancers in their colorful costumes — some sporting folded amigasa straw hats — flash their decorative uchiwa (fans) as they march down the streets, adding to the feeling of a summer festival taking part in early spring.
The parade culminates with a gathering inside the open-air courtyard of Kotohira Brewery under the shade of an impressive 900-year-old camphor tree. There the actors take the stage, making short speeches of appreciation and admiration for the history of the theater and hospitality of their hosts, before the traditional kagami biraki (literally “mirror opening”): The guests of honor strike the lid of a wooden Kinryo sake barrel with wooden hammers, toasting to a successful ōshibai.
The following day, the Konpira Grand Theater welcomes the actors, theater staff and, most importantly, legions of kabuki fans through its hallowed doors for the first time in five years. Five years is, strictly speaking, a long time for a kabuki theater. The average lifespan of a premodern Japanese theater has been estimated to have been only about 10 years, as most were shabbily built. That makes the long history and immaculate upkeep of Kanamaruza all the more unlikely and impressive.
In the courtyard, kabuki-goers, some in elaborate kimonos, mill around chatting excitedly and buying souvenirs, drinks and traditional snacks from the many shops in tents erected for the occasion. Tickets to the first show sold out fast, and the second looks to be full as well despite ticket prices ranging from ¥4,000 to ¥20,000 ($30 to $130).
To enter the theater, guests must first bend down and pass through a low door known as a nezumi kido (mouse door). Those familiar with the entranceways in Japanese tea houses will recognize this trick. But unlike the role they play in tea ceremony, these doors are not meant to symbolically humble all those who enter. They once acted as a form of crowd control — a bottleneck to keep the rabble of the past from entering without a ticket.
Back then, upper classes entered through separate doors, though they were still at the front of the theater. VIPs entered through ōkido (big doors) to the right, while those associated with the local temple, Kamemitsu-in, entered through the go-yō kido (literally, “honorable-use doors”) to the left. Nowadays, all but the actors enter through the nezumi kido. A subtle reflection, perhaps, of the flattening of Japanese society since the time of the theater’s construction.
When Kanamaruza was remodeled in 1976, it was unique in maintaining a traditional masuseki seating style — four people separated into boxes by the same wooden guardrails you would see at sumo matches — as other theaters were moving to plush, cinema-style seating. The masuseki formation has since been altered again, dividing the boxes with long wooden benches, like a high school gymnasium, allowing more spectators to attend.
This new linear arrangement allows for thrilling entrees by the actors, who bring their performances off the stage and into the crowd, shuffling along the horizontal planks and pathways. The entire building thus becomes an intimate performance space used by the actors, musicians and stagehands in which the audience can be both viewer and, occasionally, extra.
Once inside, the confines of Kanamaruza offer a folksy, authentic intimacy rare in modern entertainment venues. Many newer theater spaces, in Japan and abroad, are largely devoid of character and alienating-ly modern. Entering Kanamaruza feels like traveling back to a more familiar time, when the required formalities of theatergoing were second nature to the common folk.
Removing your shoes, volunteers in navy blue uniforms and red-and-green obi quickly offer dustbags, attending to each visitor who passes through. Overhead are the names of the great actors of past and present, emblazoned on wooden kanban (placards) that hang alongside hand-painted signs reading “ōiri” (full house) in kanji.
Guests are greeted and instructed or led beyond the vintage cloakroom and humble souvenir area to their seats to start the show.
An ode to the lived experience
Attempting to explain the intricacies and symbolism that lie behind a kabuki performance defeats the purpose for most viewers. Much like an opera, kabuki is a sensory experience more than a literal or didactic one. Just as we might not understand every euphemism and reference in a Shakespeare play, yet, still fully enjoy it, kabuki (for all but the most rabid of fans) can be enjoyed for the sheer intensity of the sensory experience.
Even the show titles can bewilder: “Igagoe Dochu Sugoroku: Numazu (Act 1) Hagoromo (Act 2),” why bother? Kanamaruza’s comeback performance was a simple-to-understand “Romeo and Juliet” love story set in ancient Japan, with some added comic relief and action scenes provided by Matsumoto Koshiro as the swashbuckling rapscallion Beniya Chobei.
That’s not important. What is important is the craft of the players and the interplay between performer and spectator — the one-of-a-kind lived experience.
In kabuki, the story merely provides a structure for the spectacle: the costuming, the musicianship, the boisterous acting and powerful voices. Kanamaruza allows for close proximity to all of these things and more, awakening the senses in a way no 4K OLED home entertainment system ever could.
Digital media is an abstraction of reality. It heightens some of our senses at the expense of others, creating a technological border between the creation and the viewer.
Kabuki is a poetic invocation of reality. In which every vibrant costume, every pluck of a shamisen, every clap of hyōshigi wooden blocks, every cry or acrobatic move of the actors on the stage, every whiff of tatami and creak of wood under foot, blends together to become a raw and visceral whole. Many of us have forgotten that intercourse with reality in our algorithm-driven dopamine quests on Netflix and Spotify. Our substitution of communal, lived experiences for solitary simulacrum during these years of lockdowns and isolation has, in some ways, numbed our desire to participate in the real. Like literature and poetry, kabuki leaves space for our own interpretation in ways Marvel blockbusters, which explain every motivation in dialogue and exposition, fill in for us.
Watching a kabuki performance, the viewer is compelled to feel empathy for both the character and the performer. The vacillation between the reality of the performance and the fantasy world of the story allows an uncommon tension to build in us. We find ourselves asking questions: Will this young woman find the treasure she needs to save her lover before he is honor-bound to kill himself? Will the onnagata (male actor playing the female role) pull off the difficult costume change with the aid of his kurogo (stage assistants dressed in black)? Did that stagehand just miss his cue?
Our empathy is activated for both the fictional and the real experiences we’re witnessing at the same time. That’s the unique power of the theater. The human investment of time and attention. The interplay between performer and audience. It’s that human element that keeps kabuki relevant, and as we veer further into artificiality in our waking lives, it’s the imperfect humanity of creativity that makes this art form, and others like it, more precious than ever before.
After the performance, the audience began to exit the theater in an elated state. Women in kimono snapped selfies as they shuffled along the wooden floors. Once outside, almost no one seemed in a rush to leave the grounds. Our temporary community of shared experience mingled in the courtyard. Some bought beers and others souvenirs. A few stuck up conversations with strangers, introducing one another, asking for opinions and sharing their own. An unseasonably warm sun shone over the tiled roof of Kanamaruza. It wasn’t hard to imagine that the ōshibai of the past were probably much the same. A scene of continuity and traditions of the past here in the present — and the promise of a brighter future ahead.
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