City Lights ⎯ To the Bunraku Summer Festival ⎯

I went to see Bunraku with my mother during summer vacation. This year, instead of the Summer Late Show, the Summer Festival featured "City Lights," based on Charlie Chaplin's film of the same name.

I had previously seen dolls from a Shakespeare Bunraku performance in a book, and I was intrigued by the idea of Western-style dolls performing with the narration in the Osaka dialect, so I had been wanting to see one. I watched the original Chaplin film for the first time, laughing until I rolled on the floor at its humor, and was looking forward to the performance.
When the flyer arrived, I couldn't help but burst out laughing, as I had only been thinking about the Shakespearean precedent. What appeared was the usual Bunraku doll in tattered kimono, but with its face painted with characteristic eyebrows and a small mustache, it was unmistakably Chaplin. I never imagined they would translate it into a Japanese style, complete with kimono.
I couldn't help but feel affection for the doll's appearance, which already seemed to tell the story.

In the play I was looking forward to, the unveiling of a new city monument became a Great Buddha eye-opening ceremony (the stage set of the Great Buddha's large hand was charming; when the curtain fell on the unveiling, the protagonist, Yojiro, appeared sleeping in the palm of the Buddha's hand. The theater was filled with the scent of incense), luxury cars became palanquins, and the boxing match became a sumo booth... The cleverness of the parody and translation, along with the humor, highlighted the cuteness of Bunraku as a "puppet show."
However, despite the cleverness of the production, the narration felt somewhat detached... I couldn't quite immerse myself in the world on stage. There was a sense of frustration, as if I were just one step away from being fully drawn into the play. During the intermission, I asked my mother, who was sitting next to me,

"It's interesting, but don't you think the charm of the classics still shines brighter?"

When I asked her that,

"Hmm, maybe it's because there's something new about the language?"

With that, we both agreed that the classic pieces were superior.
It was like the difference between a new desk made of very good core material and a desk that has been used for many years, touched by many hands, and has absorbed various things over time, giving it a dark, lustrous sheen. It was as if the density and gravity of the space where the desk sits had changed.
It is surprising to think that the classic masterpieces were once new works, but I think we are seeing a different kind of interest in them than when they were first created.

I am still captivated by the charm and density of classical performing arts, which are not works of a single generation, and by the depth and the splendor that such depth creates, which cannot be newly produced today.

However, in the second half.
From the sixth act, the "Hozenji Sumo Scene," to the finale, the performance raced forward in one breath. The puppeteers, who had been dressed in black until then, revealed their faces, and the Gidayu narrator changed to Toyotake Wakatayu.
Suddenly, the narration and the puppets on stage became one. The musical phrases that were so impressive in the film were colorfully and briskly played on the shamisen between the Gidayu lines, and unlike before, we were suddenly sucked into the play.

Usually, one would think that younger performers would better suit a new production, but I was made to realize the greatness of the old master's technique through this "new thing."

In particular, Gidayu has long been the subject of much debate among literary masters regarding whether it is beautiful or worth listening to, but that is surely as nonsensical as trying to judge whether the raspy blues of Osaka singers like Masaki Ueda or Mitsuki Kimura are "pretty" or not. The inflections and rhythms of Wakatayu, who sings of the emotions of Osaka, and the poignancy of his strained female voice certainly have a harshness to them, but even for a Bunraku lover like me, it was full of discoveries, making me think, "Was it always this interesting?"

In classical works, I think that as time passes, the individual expressions of each puppeteer and Gidayu narrator can become a single "form" (kata).
I think this has both good and difficult aspects, but I believe that the beauty of these expressions, which have become like forms through layers of generations, has always attracted people while compensating for the youthfulness of younger performers. In fact, it is not something individual, but rather a sense of breathing that lives in that land.

The final scene shows the protagonist, Yojiro, who was framed as a thief and sent to prison, finishing his sentence and trudging across Tenjin Bridge along the Okawa River. It is the time of the Meiji Restoration, and there are rumors that a building has been erected in Tenjimbashi, where the Great Buddha's eye-opening ceremony once took place.
People passing by are wearing suits and hats, holding canes, and doing business with "fabric imported from England." (The movements and gestures of the dolls in Western clothes were so good that I secretly hope that various programs will be performed as a "puppet show," not just the old forms.)

On the long, narrow stage, on the stage left, with the Okawa River in the background, are Tenjin Bridge and Yojiro in his tattered clothes. On the stage right is a storefront lined with bright spring flowers like peonies and rape blossoms, where Hana, who regained her sight with the money Yojiro gave her, is working diligently. She is wearing a purple striped kimono with a white apron and has her hair tied with a red ribbon.
The theater erupted in thunderous applause for the two who had a moving reunion in a scene beautifully colored by spring.

I was filled with new discoveries about Bunraku, which has been loved by the common people of Osaka, such as its lightness in incorporating Western elements and the charm of skilled artistry. I gave my applause not only to the Chaplin Bunraku but also with my feelings for the classics.
In the end, I think it's more than just liking the classics; it's that I simply "cannot beat" the classics.

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