A Night Thrilled by the Director's Subversions: PARCO Theatre's 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest'

I will be writing down my thoughts and feelings on theatre, art exhibitions, films, and more, in both Japanese and English.
Writing about art, theatre and film — in Japanese and English.

I went to see 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest' at the PARCO Theatre. It was directed by Suzuki Matsuo and starred Shotaro Mamiya.

After it finished, this was the first thought that came to my mind.

“The sense of this director!! I love it so much it gives me chills!”

Hooked on the 'subtle subversion' direction

When you are cornered in a hopeless situation with nowhere to run, what do you do? Cry, scream, faint... The tension is taut, and you can't escape anymore. What should I do... The direction of this play was to subtly subvert that feeling.

For example, in the scene where it is decided that the protagonist will receive electroshock therapy. During the transition to the next sequence, a nurse dances comically and cutely in the center of the stage. I thought, 'Huh?' but at the same time, I felt a thrill, thinking, 'Wow, here it comes!'

And at the very, very end. After the protagonist dies, the bed moves to the center, and a soft, warm song titled 'Good Night' plays—a song that is completely tonally mismatched. I couldn't help but grin, thinking, 'Wait, this song here?'

The director takes the audience to the peak of tension and then subtly lets it go. Before your emotions go too far and you faint thinking, 'What do I do...', he releases the pressure. This sense of distance, as if he has read the audience's hand, is what got me hooked.

Not a 'thud,' but a 'you got me'

'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest' is inherently a heavy story. A mental hospital in the 1960s. Control and domination. Electroshock therapy. And the death of the protagonist.

But thanks to this 'shifting' direction, the way the weight of the story reached me changed. I didn't go home feeling the heavy 'thud' of the story; I went home thinking, 'You got me.'

Come to think of it, I don't think there is any need to carry the weight of that era home with us anymore. There is a weight that can only be questioned now, in this time, which is different from that era. If that's the case, it's better to use the technique of subtle subversion so that we can think about 'why?' later. If there had been nothing, it might have ended in darkness and become an unpleasant memory.

People living their roles

Shotaro Mamiya's McMurphy was, above all, earnest. And I felt that the surrounding actors were warmly wrapping that earnestness in their own performances. I think that's what a protagonist is supposed to be.

Noriko Eguchi's Nurse Ratched was chillingly detached. The Ratched in the film was an 'enemy to be hated.' But watching her on stage, I thought: this person was just fulfilling her duties according to her own beliefs.

Ryuta Bando, who played the stuttering Billy, and Kota Yamaguchi, who played Chief the Indian, all the performers were truly living their roles.

The 'why?' I took home

In the 1970s, when the film was made, I believe electroshock therapy and lobotomies for psychiatric patients were likely common practice. There was probably no such thing as human rights for patients, and those around them didn't care. The convenience of those in control took priority, and that was the norm. That is perhaps why the film had the purpose of questioning that state of affairs and exposing the truth.

Today, if such things were to come to light, it would be a major issue. From the perspective of human rights protection, it would be absolutely unthinkable.

The "why?" I brought home from the theater was this: Why did such terrible things happen? When did we start talking about the human rights of people with disabilities? Perhaps the darkness still lingers somewhere, even in the modern day.

Instead of making us carry the weight home, he made us carry the questions. Perhaps Matsuo Suzuki's "sidestep" was for that very purpose. I was caught. And I want to go back to be caught again.
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Theatre Review: One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest — PARCO Theater, Tokyo

I saw One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest at PARCO Theater. Directed by Matsuo Suzuki, with Mamiya Shotaro in the lead.

The first words out of my mouth when the lights came up:

"This director's instincts — I love them so much they give me chills."

The art of the sidestep

Picture yourself cornered. No way out, nothing left to try. What do you do? Cry. Scream. Faint. The tension pulls tight, and there is nowhere to go.

That is precisely the moment this production steps neatly to one side.

Take the scene where they decide to put McMurphy through electroshock. In the set change that follows, a single nurse comes to centre stage and performs a small, comic, weirdly adorable dance. That was the first time it landed. There it is.

Then, at the very end. McMurphy is dead, the bed is wheeled to centre, and the music that rises is soft and warm — a lullaby, a goodnight song, in a key that has nothing to do with anything we have just watched. Wait. This song? Here? I caught myself grinning.

Take the audience all the way to the edge, then step aside. Release them before the feeling spills over, before they go under. There is a particular pleasure in that distance — the pleasure of having read your opponent's hand. I was gone. Completely hooked.

(In Japanese there is a word for this: zurashi — a deliberate offsetting, a shift away from the expected. It is a technique, but it is also an aesthetic.)

Not crushed. Caught.

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest is a heavy story to begin with. A psychiatric hospital in the 1960s. Control and submission. Electroshock. And then the death of the man at the centre of it.

Because of the sidestep, the weight arrived differently. I did not walk out flattened. I walked out thinking: he got me.

And I think that is right. There is no need to carry the weight of that era home in its original form. There is a different weight available to us now, one that only the present can ask about. If that is true, then a director who slips the punch — who lets the question surface later, on the train, in the days afterwards — is doing something more useful. Without it I might have left in the dark and filed the whole evening away as an unpleasant memory.

Actors living their roles

Mamiya Shotaro's McMurphy was, above everything, wholehearted. Trying with everything he had. And the company around him seemed to hold that effort, warmly, from all sides. I suspect that is what a leading role actually is.

Eguchi Noriko's Nurse Ratched was maddeningly level. In the film, Ratched is someone to hate. Watching her on stage, I thought something different: this woman is carrying out her duties according to her own convictions.

Bando Ryota as Billy, who stutters. Yamaguchi Kota as Chief Bromden. Every performer on that stage was living their part.

The question I carried home

When the film was made in the 1970s, electroshock and lobotomy were presumably ordinary practice for psychiatric patients. Patients had no rights to speak of, and no one outside was troubled by it. What mattered was what made things easier for the people in charge — and that was simply common sense.

Which is surely part of why the film exists: to put a question to that world, and to expose what was inside it.

Today, anything like it would become a scandal the moment it came to light. From a human rights standpoint, unthinkable.

So the question I carried home was this. Why was any of it allowed to happen? When did we begin speaking about the rights of people with disabilities at all? — though I suspect there are still corners, in some institutions somewhere, where the dark has not entirely lifted.

Send the audience home with a question rather than a weight. Perhaps that is what Matsuo Suzuki's sidestep was for.

He got me. I would happily be got again.