If you love the theater and you happen to be in Japan, the obvious choice is to go see some Kabuki, the classic Japanese-dance drama extravaganza. But the fringe in Tokyo is quite vibrant as well. One major, time-tested name to have emerged from this scene is Issey Ogata, a solo performer who has staged more than 600 character vignettes to date. His portrayals range from the mundane, such as the bartender lubricating the denizens of late-night Tokyo, to the esoteric, such as the reclusive illustrator self-exiled in New York.
Apart from his one-man shows, he is also internationally recognized for having played the role of Emperor Hirohito, the ceremonial monarch of the Showa era (1926-1989), in Russian director Aleksandr Sokurov's 2005 film, Solntse (The Sun)
I had the good fortune of interviewing Mr. Ogata for a Japan Times Weekly piece several years ago. It delights me to no end that he continues to be active, updating his acts, and in the process, reflect the new ebbs and flows of life in contemporary Japan through his art, which thanks to his genius, continues to strike a universal chord.
The following article is a slightly altered version of the one mentioned above. It is dated, as you can see, but nevertheless suitable, I believe, for introducing the legend, whose portrayal of an anguished businessman the UK’s Observer View declared, "the metropolitan version of Munch's Scream.”
The man of 300 faces
(The Japan Times Weekly, July 6, 1996)
The American press recently labeled Issey Ogata as Japan's Eric Bogosian, the actor/director known for his shocking portrayal of a misanthropic radio-talk show host in the movie, Talk Radio. Like Bogosian, he makes social commentary through the theater. But unlike Bogosian, Ogata is not vindictive. From his portrayals of the salaryman to the waitress working at a Denny's restaurant, Ogata's one-man vignettes are compassionate reflections of the contemporary Japanese experience.
Having spawned over 300 unique characters, Ogata has cultivated his craft over the years with his friend and now partner in success, his director, Yuzo Morita. They became acquainted with each other in the early 70s, when Ogata used to spend his days as an acting student by night and construction worker by day.
"When I observe people, I look at their build, and imagine what they're like. And, beyond that, I contemplate their occupation. You know how people behave the way they're supposed to. For example you have teachers, water-trade people (red-light district workers) and salarymen all behaving how they are expected to behave. Salarymen have to bow so it shows in their posture. Bar-hostesses, on the other hand, have their unique way of relaxing and so on."
The first character Ogata portrayed was a bartender, a sketch that lasted for two hours. The response was mixed, but it was Ogata’s first taste of artistic achievement. "Through the bartender, I was able to present a microcosm of society. It was really about discovering what it is to be human."
Recently Ogata took his one-man exhibition of characters, A Catalogue Of City Life, to the US and Europe. One of his shows was performed in the basement of the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C. "I found it a challenge because people were moving in and out of the room, and there was even a baby crying there. But that didn't seem to bother the audience. They were really attentive despite the distractions. So I think I tried harder than ever."
Although the language barrier, which was tackled by providing simultaneous translations through headsets, appeared daunting, it didn't hamper Ogata's genius from transcending national barriers. The Observer View, a UK publication, described Ogata's frenzied performance of an anguished salaryman riding the train during rush hour as the "metropolitan version of Munch's Scream."
Ogata feels confident that after a few successful performances abroad, he has contributed to shedding stereotypes of the Japanese. "I have been told by many people that Japanese are this sort of unfathomable mystery. But then again, we Japanese have these images that all Americans are perpetually cheerful, all Germans are difficult, and the British are all pompous. But in the theater, stereotypes do break down."
For the Japanese people, though, he obviously strikes a more resonant chord. Since the art of parody, which edifies people when it works, is usually lost here in Japan, where the genre of comedy has been stagnating at slapstick levels for very long, the public has never been treated to a looking-glass view of themselves in the way Ogata allows. Perhaps for this reason, the domestic TV world has never quite accepted him fully, labeling him a subversive. After Ogata performed his politician sketch for NHK, in which he abandons words for sheer gibberish lasting 10 minutes, an NHK senior producer warned him, "The trouble with you is that you tell the truth too often", according to an article in the Guardian newspaper.
This truth can be stranger and sadder than fiction, as seen through Ogata's eyes. While making us laugh, he asks the perennial question through his craft, “Who am I?” In Japan, where the banner of individuality, or kosei, is being waved almost fanatically to escape the specter of institutionalized uniformity, the question has never been more urgent.
Probing into such quantum realms of the human psyche, Ogata recently showcased his new creations at Shibuya's Jean Jean Theater. There was the obnoxious teenage waitress, triggering gut-wrenching laughter, thanks to her slightly hairy legs and masculine jaw. In essence, she was a rugged individualist, adept at dishing out reprimands from her boss like someone dishing out scrap to a dog under the table. "I really feel that young kids today mix up assertiveness with aggressiveness. It’s assertiveness that makes an individual individualistic, and not aggressiveness," says Ogata reflecting on the character, who was most popular with girls, according to a post-performance survey.
After a curious portrayal of the salaryman, Ogata treated the audience to a grand finale with the Western Man sketch, a portrayal of a man in love with the spirit of the Wild West. Aged around eighty, a guitar in hand, he cranked out some weepy tunes, singing for an imagined group of captive children and their parents at an amusement park. He had the looks and charm, but the music was out of tune, betraying the wounded yearnings of an unrequited romance, made even more poignant in his singing that was tinged with echoes of enka, Japan's form of sentimental ballad music.
Ogata, who lives in Tokyo with his wife, enjoys a fan club numbering around 40,000 nationwide today. But unlike many stars, who regret the loss of anonymity, such stellar fame is not a problem in the least for him. "I have no problems walking outside or riding the trains. Nobody recognizes me." For a man of 300 faces, that seems hardly surprising.
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