Cherry blossoms in amber

Charlie Stross' recent musings about his Japan trip, combined with Cory Doctorow's recent story featuring the Carousel of Progress, reminded me of an evening at the theatre.

In the Gion Corner theatre in Kyoto, Japanese Culture's Greatest Hits are performed assembly-line style twice each night. The facility has a well-worn burnish that somehow holds off shabbiness, but only just. The show is a veritable smörgåsbord with seven courses of traditional Japanese performance art; and like a smörgåsbord, it is all about the variety and quantity, not the quality of any given dish. The tea ceremony was performed with a curious mixture of precision, care, boredom and indifference, and an absolute absence of passion. The floral arrangement segment befuddled me: surely the product is what is appreciated, not the process? The thespians were variously talented and not, and the works presented in pre-digested, bite-sized chunks.

The tableau vivant rolled forward under the muted crackling of the soundtrack, the performances variously talented or not, but all held under the threat of preëmption by a fearsome narration with the comforting, terrifying verbal pacing of a postwar Westinghouse infomercial on nuclear power. The sound system had an oppressively vibrant analog complexity and gave the impression of ginormous drums of magtape rumbling inexorably in the basement.

The presentation was courteous and boring in the way of traditional tourist fare, yet it carried a dark undertone of sorrow, despair, hatred and reproach. The notes and movements seemed cast as pearls before contemptible, invading swine. I loved it.