Film History Essentials: Momijigari (1899)
(English: Maple Leaf Hunters)
Tradition holds that Japanese kabuki theater was invented at the beginning of the 17th century by Izumo no Okuni, a shrine maiden. It was performed exclusively by women for over a quarter of a century, until women were banned from performing (ostensibly due to concerns about excessive eroticism, though there were other class and social factors in play). Kabuki was already too popular to die out, though, and by the mid-1600s, the form was thriving with all-male performers, establishing a tradition that continues today.
Kabuki combines highly-stylized and often exaggerated dramatic performances with traditional dance. The actors cover their faces in makeup, using specific patterns to represent different character types, and wear lavish, elaborate costumes. Kabuki includes three main types of plays: jidaimono (historical plays), sewamono (contemporary, domestic dramas), and shosagoto (dance-dramas).
Originally, although many were incredibly popular celebrities, kabuki actors were also social outcasts, and could generally only marry others from the theatrical world. This led to strong traditions being passed down through generations of acting families. Kabuki actors perform under a stage name (often a whole series of names across their careers), and many of these are passed down from father to son or from mentor to student.
Many of these names have hundreds of years of history and tradition attached to them. They are also frequently associated with a particular style of acting (like aragoto, an exaggerated style, or wagoto, a more naturalistic style) or type of character (such as onnagata, a male who performs female roles, tachiyaku, young male roles who are often the hero, or katakiyaku, the villain role). In the 19th century, two such actors were Ichikawa Danjūrō IX (see left) and Onoe Kikugorō V, the most popular and celebrated performers of their day.
Danjūrō was descended from the first Ichikawa Danjūrō, who had performed under that name beginning in 1675. Born in 1838, Danjūrō IX took his name in 1874, after nearly 30 years as an actor. He lived at a key moment when Japan was rapidly changing from an isolationist, feudal society, to a modern, industrial society. As a representative of over 200 years of theatrical traditions, he is largely credited with helping to preserve the prominence and popularity of kabuki during the Meiji period. His legacy is carried on today by Ichikawa Danjūrō XIII, who took the name in 2022.
Onoe Kikugorō V (see right) began performing under that name in 1868, when he was 24 and already a 20-year veteran of the stage. The first Onoe Kikugorō established the name in 1730. Kikugorō frequently starred in plays by Kawatake Mokuami, the most prolific, and some say the greatest, dramatist in kabuki history. Kikugorō’s legacy also continues today, with Onoe Kikugorō VII, who took the name in 1973.
Momijigari was originally a play written for noh theater, a distinct and much older Japanese form that incorporates masks and follows a rigid set of performing traditions. However, in 1887, Mokuami adapted the story as a shosagoto for the kabuki stage, in which Danjūrō played the demon-princess Sarashina. The Emperor Meiji himself attended a performance, the first time an emperor had ever visited a kabuki theater.
The emperor’s patronage was a triumph for Danjūrō’s efforts to reform and revitalize the art. Mokuami’s adaptation of a work from the more prestigious noh tradition may have reflected a similar spirit. The response to these efforts was somewhat mixed among kabuki audiences. However, performances by Danjūrō and Kikugorō during this time would become models for the future of the form, thanks in part to the arrival of film a decade later.
Projected films were immediately popular as a brand-new form of entertainment when they first appeared in Japan in 1897. After Lumière technician François-Constant Girel returned to France, Shibata Tsunekichi (see below) shot some films for the Lumières early in 1898, reportedly becoming the first native Japanese filmmaker. In early 1899, he also filmed a series of geisha dances for Komado Koyo, a popular benshi (Japanese narrator of silent films).
Shibata’s experience is likely the reason he was approached, late that year, for a particularly special and sensitive project. Danjūrō was at that time appearing alongside Kikugorō in a revival of the 1887 Momijigari show. As the most celebrated actor of his time, appearing in one of his most celebrated roles, the potential as a subject for film was clear. There was just one problem: Danjūrō wanted nothing to do with the cinema.
Danjūrō’s distaste seems to have gone beyond mere contempt for film as an art form. He apparently referred to it with the pejorative “ship-brought” (i.e., foreign), as well. However, his manager and others managed to convince him of the value of preserving a record of his performance for posterity. He reluctantly agreed, but only on the condition that the film would not be shown while he was still alive. The result, shot by Shibata in November 1899, is the oldest (surviving) Japanese film.
Screening:
Momijigari couldn’t be filmed during an actual performance inside the theater, due to the lack of natural light. Instead, the scenes were shot on a small outdoor stage behind the theater. According to Shibata, it was so windy that several stagehands had to hold the backdrop in place. Afraid Danjūrō might change his mind at any moment and scuttle the whole project, they went ahead anyway and began filming the actor’s dance as the princess Sarashina.
Unfortunately, partway through Danjūrō’s dance, a sudden gust of wind whisked one of his fans away and off the stage just as he threw it into the air. Danjūrō barely reacts, flipping the other fan and pausing only briefly while the kuroko (the stagehand dressed in black, understood by the audience to be invisible) rushes forward and retrieves it. Because Danjūrō would only allow one take, this moment was preserved for all-time along with the rest of the performance.
What’s interesting is how little the effects of this strong wind are visible otherwise. Note particularly the small tree next to where the kuroko is sitting. It appears completely still until he jumps up to go retrieve the dropped fan, and then again when he returns to sit down. His movements alone seem to be enough to cause that tree to sway visibly, yet it is totally unaffected by any wind. The tree’s smaller branches and leaves don’t seem to so much as stir, even though some of them are above the backdrop and not sheltered from any direction.
Is it possible Shibata came up with this story after the fact, as a way of covering for the great actor’s mistake? After all, the shadows make it clear that Danjūrō is facing into the sun. Could it have just been a slightly miscalculated toss? Looking closely at that moment, it does genuinely appear possible that some exterior force nudged the fan out of his reach. Perhaps the most likely explanation is that the wind was responsible for the dropped fan, but the amount of wind that day was exaggerated in the telling, whether inadvertently or otherwise.
The film’s second scene depicts the Yamagami (mountain god) sent by Hachiman to warn and arm the sleeping Koremochi. Note not only how different the dance is, but also even the types of movements, particularly of the head. They effectively convey the impression that this character is not human. Several of the moves look quite demanding, requiring a great deal of acrobatic and athletic skill. Some could even cause injury if done poorly, such as when he lands on one foot with the other placed topside down against the floor, ankle bent awkwardly, then proceeds to swap positions with each hop.
The scene ends with Koremochi waking up and girding himself for battle, then the film cuts immediately to his faceoff against the demon. Again, although it is obviously very stylized, it is easy to see the sophistication of this combination of dance and fight choreography. The demon begins by tearing a few small branches off of the tree and throwing them at Koremochi. Watch how the kuroko looks for his moment, then darts around the combatants at the first opening to retrieve these branches (presumably to avoid any potential for a hazard).
The action of the fight is clear and easy to follow, but also exciting. This portion requires tremendous coordination. It isn’t just that the combatants are moving in sync. As they slide past each other, they barely seem to touch, even though their costumes are very bulky. The demon’s hair also drags on the floor, but without even looking, neither of them steps on it. It must be firmly attached, too, given the way the demon swings it at Koremochi near the film’s end.
The film ends with the battle unresolved. In the original play, just as Koremochi seems to have gained the upper hand, the demon immobilizes him with its cursed gaze. However, the divine sword fights on without him and defeats the demon. It would be interesting to see how that effect was accomplished. It may have been as simple as having the kuroko wield the sword. It’s possible to find short excerpts of modern performances of Momijigari online, including part of this scene, but Danjūrō’s manager was right: None of them is a match for this incredible artifact from 19th-century Japan.
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