At first it seems a bizarre idea--an all-male Japanese acting troupe performing Medea, a woman's story par excellence--until one recollects that for many centuries in ancient Greece all female roles in the great dramas of Euripides, Aeschylus, Sophocles were acted exclusively by men.
To this day, the Japanese in their classical theater, the celebrated Noh plays, assign female roles to men. Consequently, the transition necessary for a Japanese actor to play a female part is obviously much more natural than it might be for an actor trained in the Western theater.
The production of Medea by the Toho Company from Tokyo has been presented in the West on only three occasions: at the open-air Delacourt Theatre in New York's Central Park under the auspices of Joseph Papp's Shakespeare Festival this fall to capacity audiences; earlier this summer at the Edinburgh Festival, where critics unanimously hailed it as the most exciting artistic event of the season; and at the recent Vancouver Exposition.
The Oriental Medea is nothing short of spectacular. A wondrous fusion of Eastern and Western theatrical techniques under the direction of Yukio Ninagawa, the production succeeds in illuminating the ancient tragedy in unexpected ways.
Mikijiro Hira, a strapping six-foot, forty-two-year-old actor, using elements from Noh, Kabuki, and Martha Graham, projects a Medea who Michael Billington, theater critic of The Guardian, justly said "moved and convinced" him more than any actress he had ever seen in the role.
Indeed Hira--who first appeared on stage in a huge, cushioned glittering headdress, a sumptuous multi-colored robe with antique sashes, stylized naked breasts like those of some Minoan snake goddess, and strands of green glass tears dangling on his cheeks instantly created an utterly convincing, almost magical sense of womanhood. The deep male voice was only momentarily disconcerting. After a few minutes it seemed merely a natural part of the distancing effect often created--and desired--by Oriental theatrical techniques.
The staging was simple yet dazzling. The chorus members--in flowing robes, wide-brimmed hats with veiling draped over Oriental masks, and playing shamisens (balalaika-like instruments)--glided out onto the stage as if in a ballet, making patterns and regrouping as the action built. In the scene where Medea makes the terrible decision to slay her children, Hira cast aside all the splendor of a barbaric queen and stood revealed in a stark, close-fitting, blood-red gown.
As Medea sprang forward and seized the fatal dagger planted at the front of the stage, then slowly moved upstage with awesome deliberateness, her back to the audience, a shudder ran through the audience sitting under the moonlight in Central Park. The chorus swirled about the stage, huddling close to the wall behind which Medea had exited. As the cry "She is killing us" went up from one of the children, the chorus in one instant fluid movement reversed their robes, facing the audience in the dark crimson of the blood drawn by Medea.
The originality of the production lies in its ability to singularly concentrate one's attention on the character of Medea, a
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