And that is how I found myself, a few weeks later, attending one of Hanako’s plays. She had written an original work called The Bottomless Well, and she was appearing in the leading role. It was no small matter that this production was at the Pasadena Playhouse, which was already one of the theater’s most respectable venues. But Hanako’s reputation had grown to such an extent that even theaters which didn’t normally feature Japanese topics were clamoring to present her latest work.
It was a beautiful night in early June. The air was cool and the San Gabriel Mountains hovered so close that you could see their dark shapes against the sky. I was almost reluctant to go inside, but I slipped into the theater—as I always did on such occasions—just as the lights went down, in order to avoid the stares of curious fans. At Hanako’s request, the management had reserved a seat for me in the exact center of the theater, close enough to discern the expressions on all the players’ faces, high enough to take in the entire stage. I had not seen Hanako perform in a play for almost a decade, since I was a student in Wisconsin. So much had changed for both of us in the intervening years that it was as if we’d both become different people.
And yet we hadn’t. For when Hanako stepped out onto the stage and the spotlight focused on her, it was as if time had collapsed and I was a college boy again, watching the work of an accomplished professional. And for the next ninety minutes I was utterly transported, completely captured by this woman and her story.
The play was set in a small fictional town in rural Japan. Hanako’s character, Reiko, was a young woman of eighteen, living with her parents and younger brother on a small and struggling farm. Then her father is killed by a member of the yakuza in a dispute over land, and the yakuza, played convincingly by Kenji Takizawa, sets his eyes on the young girl’s mother. It is clear that if drastic measures aren’t taken, the women will lose the farm. But Reiko, who is a talented artist, begins teaching calligraphy to the children of the wealthy citizens in the nearby town. After many months of tireless work, she begins instructing not just the children, but also their parents; and then starts selling some of her own work to wealthy families in Kyoto. In this way she is able to support her family and save the farm. When a young nobleman comes along and finally scares off the yakuza, it seems inevitable that he will ask for her hand in marriage. He does—but in the play’s most unusual development, Reiko declines his proposal. She does not wish to desert her mother or brother, and refuses to put her fate—or that of her hard-won farm—into the hands of a total stranger. In the end the family stays just as it was—mother, daughter, and son—still working diligently to keep their small farm, and remaining independent.
As the play unfolded before me, I grew more and more impressed—by Hanako’s writing, by the actors who brought the other characters to life, by the simple but effective sets that evoked a farmhouse in the country, even by the subtle, effective lighting. I was surprised by the plot she’d constructed, and realized that the content of the play—and not just Pasadena’s interest—affected Hanako’s decision not to present it in Little Tokyo. It was a risk both personally and theatrically, and I greatly admired her courage.
And her acting! Because I had only seen her in pictures for so long, I’d forgotten about her sheer presence on stage. She played the part of the grieving but determined Reiko with such love and conviction that the audience—even I— forgot she was acting. Indeed, the scene where she comforts her mother after learning of her father’s death, only weeping when she is finally alone; and the scene where she walks the three miles to town, determined to find employment to save the farm, were both played with such sincere and believable emotion that I wondered inevitably how much of them were drawn from life, were created out of her own losses. But Reiko showed more emotion about the events that befell her family than Hanako had ever displayed. There was an openness and vulnerability in the character on stage that was never evident in the actress who portrayed her.
I was, quite simply, in awe—of Hanako’s acting, of the courage and grace of the story, of the fact that she had written it at all. There was something so stripped down and pure about her work, a quality not present in the gloss and artifice of her films. This, I thought, almost trembling, is a true work of art. And Hanako, a genuine artist.
After the play was over—after a standing ovation and three drawn-out curtain calls—I was ushered into a hallway backstage. I waited patiently for perhaps twenty minutes or so, signing autographs for the Playhouse staff and congratulating Kenji Takizawa and the other actors as they left to go home for the evening. Then, finally, Hanako emerged.
She had totally changed in my eyes—not just from the part she had played on stage, but from the person I had known even hours before. She looked the same, and yet everything about her—her eyes, her expression, even her posture—was infused with a different meaning. As she approached me, she looked cautious, as if bracing herself
