The Black Ship’s Second Coming

PACIFIC OVERTURES makes spectacular debut in Tokyo

The idea of a Tokyo production of Pacific Overtures has something of a “Victor/Victoria” quality about it: a
Japanese production of an American musical about the Japanese reaction to the arrival of Americans in Japan.
This is not quite like bringing a Japanese Pearl Harbor Memories to Honolulu, but it is true that the momentous
changes that Commodore Perry’s arrival helped foment, a quaint story for Americans, are a vital part of the
Japanese national identity. Indeed, many of the events and characters portrayed in the show – Japan’s self-
imposed isolation from the world, Manjiro, the Tokugawa shogunate, the Meiji revolution and its consequences
– are as familiar to any Japanese schoolchild as George Washington and the Revolutionary War are to
Americans.

Even so, this is not like Americans enjoying a production of 1776. As the show was written by Americans for
American audiences, the different perspective makes a Japanese production a challenge in some unexpected
ways. Amon Miyamoto’s October production at The Pit, a 342-seat space in Tokyo’s New National Theatre,
was the first ever in Japan for this 24-year-old musical and an unquestioned critical and popular triumph for
Stephen Sondheim and John Weidman as well as the Japanese creative staff. It certainly shed new light on the
show, and the authors themselves, who attended the final performances, declared it among the best productions
of the show that they had ever seen. Watching “Someone In A Tree”, the first-act song about varying
perspectives, I had a sudden image of Harold Prince in a tree and Miyamoto under the floorboards, both looking
at the script. In any event, judging from the video of the original Broadway production and the text (used here)
of the off-Broadway version, I can say that the Japanese show is a radical rethink.

The most interesting question is how the Japanese themselves viewed the show. But that ties in important ways
to the text and production, so let’s look at those aspects first.

Physical production

In terms of design, Miyamoto’s production seeks to highlight the distinction between the Japanese (“us”) and
the rest of the world (“them”). His approach was already suggested in the poster art: as opposed to the
American logo featuring a kabukiesque figure, the advertising here had a realistic (and none-too-flattering)
rendering of Commodore Perry by a 19th-century Japanese artist

A visible metaphor for this division was established in the very structure of the set. The stage was a square
platform surrounded on three sides by water, looking very much the “floating island” in the text. It was
reminiscent of a noh stage, including the use of unvarnished pine-like wood for the set. The stage was framed
by two giant torii, the large crossbar-like structures that mark the entrance to shrines, thus suggesting the
“sacred” nature of Japan. In the back was a wooden lattice frame with doors in the centre that opened to reveal
two more sliding doors, which were used for scenes such as those with the emperor. This gave a feeling of
multiple layers, of another world within. Screens were also introduced, in extremely inventive ways, for many
scenes. During the first act, before the nation was “violated”, Japanese characters all remained within the
confines of the stage proper, an effective symbol for the nation’s isolation.

In contrast, the hanamichi, the walkway extending to the back of the theatre, represented the sea and more
generally the world outside. The Black Ship never appeared as it did so dramatically in Harold Prince’s version,
remaining an abstract presence, and foreigners initially stayed exclusively on the hanamichi. Thus, the
hanamichi was used not just for entrances and exits, but for entire scenes involving the foreigners, who
delivered their lines essentially from the middle of the audience. This made for some uncomfortable head-
turning, particularly for those (like me) towards the front of the theatre. On the other hand, it gave an other-
worldly quality to the foreign invaders, and added a three-dimensional quality to the show, effectively pulling
the audience into the action. In the real payoff, it also heightened the drama significantly in moments when the
gap was breached, such as Kayama’s venture onto the hanamichi to confront the Black Ship as well as the
eventual entrance of foreigners onto Japanese soil. The invasion of the foreign ambassadors in “Please Hello”
put an end to the divide, with foreigners and Japanese alike then appearing on both the stage and hanamichi.

More strikingly, the director abandoned the kabuki style of the original production for a more naturalistic
approach. He reasoned for one thing that Japanese audiences do not see Japan as particularly exotic – even the

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19th-century setting is standard fare for television samurai dramas. Moreover, as kabuki is a well-entrenched art
form here, expectant audiences might hold acting and production standards to levels that ordinary musical
actors could not hope to meet, akin to judging Ethel Merman by the standards of grand opera. (Miyamoto
himself was raised next door to one of Tokyo’s major kabuki theatres.) In any event, a kabuki version would
have required an entirely different style of acting and language that would have been more alienating than
enlightening. To encourage the empathy that Japanese audiences quite naturally feel for the Japanese
characters, a more natural presentation seemed an appropriate choice.

Thus, the Japanese scenes were generally acted, spoken and costumed in a fairly standard manner, as a kind of
costume drama. The Reciter was portrayed in rokyoku style, a kind of traditional storytelling. The role was
played in fact by a well-known rokyoku comedian, Takeharu Kunimoto, who was able to interpolate some of
the tricks of his trade in a way that made the role completely his own. Overall the Reciter played a more
dynamic and physical role than the stationary narrator in Harold Prince’s famous version. The rest of the cast
played their roles as appropriate. In the impressive opening scene, the cast, all dressed in nondescript black
outfits, appear slowly on stage as a loinclothed figure beats a taiko drum. As the Reciter takes over, they
gradually rise and, using screens, disappear and reappear in their costumes. The director thus established
immediately the abstract feel of the overall piece as the Reciter tells the story, even as the individual scenes
themselves are realistically presented. In another example, “There Is No Other Way” is not so much danced as
intricately staged to the music, with Kayama and his wife slowly preparing for his journey in a natural yet
highly evocative manner. In “Four Black Dragons”, the actors again play their roles straight, but are backed by
an innovative use of wooden screens, which almost become characters on their own: unseen actors not only
slide them across the stage but bring them forward, turn them on their sides, and weave them in to accent the
music and action on stage. The director’s own favourite point of the show is “Someone In A Tree”, where he
was taken by the simultaneous representation on stage of past and present. He interpolated this idea into other
moments, such as introducing Tamate as a ghostly vision in the early stanzas of “A Bowler Hat”.

Overall the presentation was straightforward; the sets were clean and spare, and even the exquisite costumes
were generally a subdued tone, mainly white (lords and high officials), blue (townspeople) and black
(foreigners). The austere look of the show actually brought out the humour in a highly effective manner.
Director Miyamoto is an old hand at comedy, and made the most of his opportunities here (helped, again, by the
presence of an actual rokyoku performer). The tone of the book lent itself very well to this treatment, a tribute to
John Weidman’s skills.

Having ditched the kabuki style, Miyamoto also abandoned the concept of an all-male cast, using females for
the more serious female roles such as Kayama’s wife Tamate. This changes the dynamics of such scenes as
“Welcome to Kanagawa”, which uses only two men in drag in Tokyo along with three women. We are also
deprived of the sudden jolt in the original production when women suddenly appeared on stage in the final song
“Next”. Worse, many women in the audience expressed offence at what they felt were stereotypically weak
female characterisations, especially Tamate’s Butterfly-like suicide and the “Pretty Lady” sequence. The use of
men in these roles, as in kabuki, would have injected a layer of fantasy that might have made such scenes easier
to accept. Still, this also involves questions of modern women’s image of themselves, which is a matter for
another article. (It should be remembered here that the director, while Japanese, is also male.) Whatever the
differences between Japanese and non-Japanese cultures, we seem to share at least the same gulf between men
and women. This may be the real twain that will never meet.

Miyamoto had his real fun with the foreign characters in the show. As opposed to the authentic costumes and
look of the Japanese characters, the foreigners wore frightening half-face masks with huge noses and wild wigs,
resembling the contemporary drawing used for the poster art. As that drawing suggests, foreigners must have
been perceived as monsters, and the production shows this very humorously. Miyamoto gave Commodore
Perry this same look rather than the lion-like kabuki figure described in the original script, and made him into a
awesome seven-foot figure. The director further preserved the Japanese/foreign divide by having the American
characters on the Black Ship speak English as per the original script. Manjiro interprets back into Japanese for
Kayama – and, therefore, the audience – which actually makes more sense than the original version. Miyamoto
gets terrific mileage out of this at the end of the scene: When the Americans threaten to “blast [Japan] off face
of earth”, Manjiro is speechless for a moment, leaving the expectant Kayama and audience hanging before
interpreting the news. This adds a wonderful comic touch that would be impossible in an English production.

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In a major change, with the lion gone, Miyamoto cut the Lion Dance at the end of the first act, jettisoning much
of the music and reworking the scene (with the author’s permission) so that the foreigners were back on the
hanamichi and the entire Japanese cast gathered on the stage. The invaders then scream, somewhat
histrionically, “Remember America!”, followed by an immediate blackout. This seemed to me a bit overdone
but did bring the first act to a dramatic close.

The subsequent arrival of foreigners in “Please Hello”, when the various admirals bounded from the hanamichi
into “Japan”, was done appropriately broadly and very humorously. It was here that the Japanese audiences
perceived most clearly where the show was going, providing what was certainly among the most popular scenes
in the show. The various foreigners all had the same frightening masks as the Americans, with only different
coloured wigs to distinguish them. They had Lord Abe sign not documents but large national flags that they
carried in with them, an interesting variation that again shows the stylised nature of the foreign scenes versus
the more realistic Japanese scenes.

As opposed to the lovely and historically accurate Japanese costumes, there was a curious choice in terms of
the foreign costumes. Rather than using the various uniforms of the nations represented, costume designer Emi
Wada (an Academy Award winner, no less) dressed all the ambassadors in the same undefined outfits in a more
unified approach. I suppose the intention was to play down the differences among the various foreigners in
order to preserve the stress on the Japanese/foreign gap. However, the Russian ambassador’s repeated warnings
not to touch his coat are much funnier when he’s wearing mink rather than a normal jacket (he had only a thin
furry thread running down the front). Also, the Dutch ambassador was strangely wearing normal shoes even as
he refers specifically to his wooden clogs. I’m not sure if these were intentional touches or oversights.
However, less forgivable was ”A Bowler Hat”, when Kayama refers to a cutaway even as he holds a normal
jacket. Since the Western items referred to in this scene are highly symbolic of the great changes in Japanese
society at the time, it would seem wiser to stick to the real thing.

All in all, Miyamoto’s confident production worked superbly for Japanese audiences, playing ingeniously on
their familiarity with the Black Ship incident. I thought many touches were at least equal to the original
production. The initial isolation of the Japanese was splendidly drawn, giving great power – and, in the end,
poignancy – to the nation’s gradual emergence into the modern world. Additionally, the choreography, in such
scenes as “Four Black Dragons” and “Pretty Lady”, made skilful use of screens and the small stage and was
wonderfully integrated into the story. I’m not sure how the show would work for overseas audiences , who
generally lack a knowledge of Japanese history, but Miyamoto has at least proven definitively that the show can
stand on its own without the kabuki elements that defined the original production.

Textual issues

There were certain elements in the script that were strange or unclear for Japanese audiences, though Miyamoto
was able to direct around most of these. For instance, he simply excised the sumo wrestlers, who would not
have played any part in the shogun’s household or politics. Also, in the original script, the procession in the
opening scene introduces the emperor first, followed by the shogun and then the feudal lords. Miyamoto
reversed the order to present the emperor last for reasons of respect and Japanese tradition. Unfortunately this
goes against the music, as pointed out by Sondheim himself, but is probably a correct choice given the
expectations of the audience, not to mention the continued presence of an emperor in Japan today.

However, other difficulties inherent in the text proved impossible to get around. The shogun’s murder in
“Chrysanthemum Tea” was already considered pretty farfetched even for a fictional treatment, but worse, the
idea of Lord Abe taking over as shogun would be akin to England’s Prime Minister Blair becoming king after
the death of Queen Elizabeth. As audiences are well aware, the shogun would be chosen strictly from the
Tokugawa family. Faced with this clear impossibility, the translator suggested making Abe a representative of
the shogun. Miyamoto, however, made a deliberate choice in this case to retain the original script. He felt
interestingly that an obvious fabrication of this scale would help audiences see the overall musical as an
invention, allowing them to accept other historical inaccuracies more readily.

Another tough case was Tamate’s suicide, which puzzled many viewers here. They saw no clear reason for an
action so desperate. Had she borne her worries stoically and waited patiently for her husband to return, she

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would have painted a sympathetic and indeed more “Japanese” picture (as seen by the Japanese). Then, if he
had failed in his mission, her suicide might have been understandable. As it is, her death seemed to come from
nowhere. When I explained to my friends the presumed motivation behind her actions, it prompted amused
comments regarding foreign stereotypes of the Japanese committing suicide at the drop of a hat.

Still more troublesome was the portrayal of Manjiro. Audiences could forgive as dramatic license the concept
of Manjiro as an intermediary with the Americans, though the real Manjiro, suspected initially as a spy after his
return from the U.S., was never allowed anywhere near the invaders. The real problem was his transformation
from a fisherman to a samurai, which was difficult to swallow in the form presented here. (The actual Manjiro
served honourably in the Meiji government after the demise of the shogunate and lived a long peaceful life.
Incidentally, prior to the production, the producers visited Manjiro’s descendants bowing and bearing gifts to
apologise for the show’s treatment of their ancestor.) Audiences here are aware that social boundaries in feudal
Japan were not crossed that easily in terms of either actual rank or sensibility; even if Manjiro was accorded
samurai status in name, which appears to be true, the idea of a fisherman turned killer brought the portrait at
times closer to caricature than character. It doesn’t help that the Japanese have an image of Manjiro as a
Westernised character, indeed Japan’s first “international” figure, rather than a rabid samurai.

Miyamoto’s approach to the issue illustrates his meticulous concern for detail in realising his overall vision.
First, against the explicit directions of the script, Manjiro, glimpsing into Kayama’s home, becomes aware of
Tamate’s suicide. Miyamoto felt that this would set off doubts in Manjiro’s mind about whether the
involvement of foreigners in Japan is really for the good. Later, when Manjiro is granted the status of samurai,
he does not immediately change into the appropriate clothes as on Broadway, as this was felt too sudden.
Similarly, during “A Bowler Hat”, he does not do the refined art of tea ceremony as in the script, but stares
blankly at the sword placed in front of him as if contemplating the meaning of his new position. It is only then
that he changes outfits, accepting gradually if reluctantly his new role. (This also makes a nice contrast with
Kayama, who changes into Western clothing in the same scene.)

A more substantial change – and, I think, an improvement – was Manjiro’s final confrontation with Kayama. In
the original production, Manjiro, having taken the side of the anti-Western forces, attacks and kills Kayama
with a sword. Given the fact that Kayama has earlier saved his life, this has a false feel to it in a country where
loyalty is valued above all. In the Tokyo production, it is Kayama who challenges first, and not with a sword
but a gun, a symbol of his Westernisation. Manjiro thus takes up the challenge only in defence, which gets
around the problematic image of the sword-happy samurai. When he tells Kayama to “draw your sword as a
samurai”, he is telling him to put away his gun, effectively challenging Kayama’s very identity as a Japanese.
Despite the unlikely picture for audiences of Manjiro as assassin, the scene rings psychologically true. I would
not be surprised if this were introduced into future versions of the show as the definitive interpretation of this
scene.

As opposed to these difficult elements, the Japanese language and perspective added immeasurably to several
scenes that might not be replayable elsewhere. The humorous confrontation between Kayama/Manjiro and the
Americans on the Black Ship has already been mentioned. In another splendid example, the metaphorical story
told to the Emperor about Korea was done in the tradition of ancient kyogen theatre (a relative of noh) in an
exceptionally well written and beautifully danced scene. Miyamoto was able to take advantage of a certain level
of knowledge here regarding kyogen conventions and language. Similarly, the rokyoku tradition involves a
certain way of singing and narrating that were perfectly adapted to the show’s needs. More generally, the
audience’s familiarity with the show’s story allows many short-cuts. The mere mention of the Emperor Meiji,
for instance, immediately evokes images both of Japan’s rapid modernisation and the growing dominance of the
military in that era, affecting the director’s choices in the final scene.

There was a major addition by Miyamoto during the final song “Next” that was certainly not imported. The
song begins as in the original, but as Japan hurtles forward in its modernisation and the music intensifies, the
performers, dressed in black as in the show’s opening scene, appear on the stage with rifles in hand,
representing the militarisation that eventually carried Japan into World War II. Then Commodore Perry makes a
dramatic appearance, walking slowly and deliberately down the hanamichi towards the stage. He is the same
monstrous giant as in the end of the first act, but his eyes this time are two bright lights. When he reaches the
end, facing down the guns that are now pointed at him, the stage suddenly explodes in a bright flash of light,
with the torii dramatically toppling and people on stage collapsing in death – this is the explosion of the atomic

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bomb, a moment in Japanese history as pivotal and symbolic as the arrival of the Black Ship. It was a moment
that felt necessary in the show and was brilliantly realised. Sondheim noted that the original production was
criticised severely for leaving out World War II, which wasn’t the initial intention: he had originally conceived
“Next” as a series of images that would cover Japan’s entire history from the Meiji era to the present, including
the war and atomic bomb. Ultimately the creators discarded this as unwieldy. (Weidman recalled wryly that the
first question asked by numerous viewers was “What happened to Pearl Harbor?” They were essentially
accusing the musical of letting the Japanese off too easily, thus displaying their own fundamental
misunderstanding of what the show is all about.)

The Japanese, of course, knowing full well the tragic course of their own history in the first half of the century,
did not need such things spelled out, and could appreciate the scene in the larger context of their own relentless
pursuit of progress. The characters at this point rise slowly and move back into the number, but the lingering
image of the bomb makes clear the price that Japan has had to pay for its journey into the present. (It should be
said that Japanese writers and directors rarely pass up an opportunity to feature an atomic bomb scene, but
almost invariably to highlight their status as victims. Fortunately, the context here and Miyamoto’s direction
avoid this trap.) The performers subsequently shed their jackets to reveal black tanktops, and the pace gradually
picks up to a powerful crescendo. The narration within the song, which included updated references to Japan’s
ubiquitous cellular phones and the Internet, was dominated by an unbroken recital of numbers – dates, sales
figures, production volumes, share prices – while the images of numbers were flashed onto the set. This was
Miyamoto’s own comment on Japan’s race to the top in the postwar era . It was a marvellously accomplished
number.

Book and songs

Weidman’s book plays remarkably well in Japanese, even out of its kabuki context. The progression of the
story, relationships between the characters and overall tone of the show, with the significant exceptions
mentioned above, were very satisfying to Japanese audiences. This was helped as well by the smart directorial
vision of Miyamoto, who made certain adjustments to fit his audience’s understanding and perception. To an
extent, the reception of the book was affected by the awareness that this was a Western creation. For example,
whatever the feelings towards Manjiro’s presentation, which might have been rejected in a Japanese version,
audiences could appreciate the idea of a character who becomes more Japanese in spite of (or because of) his
knowledge of the West, as opposed to the gradual Westernisation of the very Japanese Kayama. Much of the
charm of the English book, of course, was the “Japanese” feel of the dialogue. This has necessarily been
affected by the translation, as the language has to sound natural in order to work here. Still, the flow of the piece
remains smooth, and the reception to the story was quite positive.

Sondheim’s music, removed from the familiar context of its English lyrics, is cast in a particularly new and
unexpected light. The orchestra, outstandingly conducted, had only seven pieces and two percussionists, yet
sounded absolutely thrilling. The music itself is neither Japanese nor pretending to be so, but the composer has
found an idiom that wonderfully suits the Japanese sensibility. The songs appear to be composed for the most
part in a limited range, without showy leaps up the scale or belting endings. Whatever the effect in English, this
fits precisely the Japanese fondness for more controlled emotions, giving the lyrics a perfect underpinning. The
opening number works exceptionally well with the rokyoku style of narration. Since audiences here are
expecting a “Broadway” sound, the opening number is crucial for preparing them for what’s to come, and I
think the result is very successful. Other standouts include “There Is No Other Way” and “Chrysanthemum
Tea”, which sounded almost as they had been composed for the Japanese lyrics. The more melodious “Pretty
Lady” and “Next” convey nicely the feel of Japan’s increasing Westernisation after the restrained sounds that
have preceded them. If the Japanese production has done anything, it has highlighted the genius of the music,
and makes a strong case for the score as perhaps the best that Sondheim has ever composed.

The lyrics were, unusually for Sondheim’s shows here, superbly translated by Kuni Hashimoto. This is an
impressive feat considering the complexities of the Japanese language, encompassing 19th-century court
dialogue, kyogen theatre, traditional poetry and more, which have to sound fairly authentic yet still
understandable to Japanese ears. I was particularly impressed by “Chrysanthemum Tea”, which, sung by the
mother of the shogun, needed to be in a very specific idiom while still dealing with the intricate word play of
the English lyrics. The result remarkably covered all these bases. As it turns out, though, Hashimoto says that

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such densely worded songs were actually easier than the sparer sound of, for instance, “A Bowler Hat”, which
he cites as the biggest single challenge. I also enjoyed “There Is No Other Way”, whose title is translated nicely
as “The Bird Waiting For [Someone’s] Return”.

I suppose it helped that Hashimoto was dealing with his own culture, as opposed to recent Japanese productions
of COMPANY and A LITTLE NIGHT MUSIC, which other translators attempted with less success, to put it
politely. Hashimoto, who played the Reciter in a Sydney production of the show some years back, has a clear
feel for the work as a piece of theatre, and his contribution to the show’s success is significant. Amazingly,
most of the songs even rhymed, a real rarity for Japanese music given the limited sounds in the language.
Generally, the complexity of Sondheim’s lyrics does not give itself over to translation into Japanese as easily
as, say, the broader sentiment of Oscar Hammerstein. Sondheim has been a major influence on musical theatre
here, but this has been due almost entirely to the huge success of WEST SIDE STORY and, to a lesser extent,
GYPSY. Maybe this production will win a few converts for the real Sondheim. I hope they remember the
PACIFIC OVERTURES translator if they ever decide to recreate SWEENEY TODD (anyone out there
listening?).

The Japanese, known for their perverse interest in how the world views them, seemed to respond very
favourably to the production as a whole, especially the second act. Musically, the comic numbers “Welcome To
Kanagawa” and “Please Hello” were big crowd-pleasers, expertly translated and inventively staged (including a
novel use of ropes in the former – don’t ask). Most popular seemed to be the “Bowler Hat” sequence, which
appeared to strike a particular chord with its depiction of a world in gradual but inexorable change. (FIDDLER
ON THE ROOF, another show about the inevitable passage of tradition, has been a tremendous favourite in
Japan for decades.) The final moments of the show, when Kayama and his wife reappear quietly in a moving
reminder of what has been lost, were also considered supremely effective. It is always difficult to gauge a hit in
Japan, since runs are typically limited to a month or two; this production played for only 25 performances.
However, the half-empty theatre at the start of the run soon gave way to capacity houses, indicating that word-
of-mouth was strong and that audiences were approving. The final performance earned loud bravos and a
standing ovation, almost unheard of among the typically more restrained audiences here, and Sondheim and
Weidman were brought onto the stage to wild cheers. Reviews have also been enthusiastic. The show definitely
deserves a wider audience here, and a revival would appear a certainty.

I once asked a Japanese friend why Commodore Perry bullied himself into Edo when he could have simply
sailed a bit further down to Nagasaki, where the shogun was already allowing limited foreign trade. She
considered briefly, then answered, “Because he was American.” This production marks, finally, the true coming
of Sondheim to Japanese musical shores, and I can only hope his stay will be as long and influential.