Realism and Unreality in Japanese Storytelling

A dream trip through anime, theatre, and medieval pop literature

After chatting with

Elle Griffin

and others about Asian TV and literature—and getting my hands on Haruki Murakami's latest novel The City and Its Uncertain Walls—, I stumbled upon some of my old notes on Japanese storytelling and how it differs from its Western counterpart. There is a specific mixture of realism and unreality that Japanese storytelling is very adept at that I find fascinating.

Literature, too, can fall anywhere on the spectrum between realism and fantasy. Since I believe that we can keep our own stories fresh by taking inspiration from other cultures and traditions, I decided to dive deeper into this aspect of Japanese storytelling.

Anime & traditional theatre

Anime might just be the most accessible and widespread part of Japanese culture. Whether it's Your Name or Spirited Away, most people have likely seen at least one animated film coming out of Japan. If you grew up with Pokémon and Sailor Moon like me, you know that many anime feature supernatural elements like intelligent creatures the protagonists live and do battle with or magical girls who change into cute costumes to save the world every night. You are familiar with its highly stylized art.

If we’re talking Studio Ghibli, I prefer Howl’s Moving Castle to Spirited Away.

Stevie Suan discusses this particular brand of realism and unreality in his book The Anime Paradox¹, pointing out that it is common not only in anime but also in traditional Japanese theatre.

When watching the productions mentioned [in the book], first time viewers may initially be struck by the performances' embrace of unreality (i.e. not aiming at verisimilitude or a strict imitation of reality in their presentation). Heavily stylized, in a swirling mixture of unreal and real components, fanciful worlds are created before us. Within Asia's artistic traditions, there is a long history of unreality in "art", and Japan is no exception. (171)

However, realistic unreality is apparent not only in the stories themselves but also in how they are performed, creating another layer. Suan goes on to quote Donald Keene² describing that in Bunraku puppet theatre, puppeteers are always in full view of the audience. Spectators know to overlook them, focusing only on the puppets. In Kabuki theatre, too, black-clad stage hands can be observed placing or taking away props or otherwise assisting the performance in full view of the audience. Like in Bunraku, their black clothing signals to the audience that they should be ignored.

According to Keene, a scholar of Japanese literature, art, and history, this is a central element of the country's philosophy and culture.

The great plays of the Japanese theater have always combined realism and unreality in intimate conjunction. It may be that the Japanese have permanently lost their taste for this unique variety of theater; certainly their films, for all their excellence, show few of the old traditions. I think it more likely, however, that the combination of the seeming opposites which has proved so congenial to Japanese audiences over the centuries will again exert its appeal, and add to the generous contribution Japan has already made to the theater of the world. (70)

Keene also quotes the famous playwright Chikamatsu Monzaemon on how unreality is used in literature and theatre.

If, when one paints an image or carves it of wood there are, in the name of artistic license, some stylized parts in a work otherwise resembling the real form, this is, after all, what people love in art. The same is true of literary composition. While bearing resemblance to the original, it should have stylization. This makes it art and delights men's minds.

Both traditional theatre and anime strike a very particular balance between realism and unreality. Suan mentions as contrasting examples the Evas, huge battle mechas starring in the anime Neon Genesis Evangelion, and the Yakan demon mask of Noh theatre. The Eva is clearly a concept of science fiction animation but still constructed as convincing bio-mechanical humanoid robot with details such as glowing eyes and ergonomic grooves. Similarly, the Yakan mask is meant to evoke specific emotions and create a stylized image of a demon while at the same time allowing the actor wearing it to portray that demon more convincingly than he would be able to without the mask.

Left: Eva mecha from Neon Genesis Evangelion; right: a Yakan mask from Noh theatre—two sides of the same coin?

The realism in the details

Ironically, Noh masks might have been originally used to promote realism: As Noh acting is a male-only profession, masks might have been created so that female and non-human roles could be played more convincingly.

Kabuki theatre—originally meant as light entertainment for the common folk as opposed to the more aristocratic and stately Noh—features wonderfully diverse casts of not only humans but also ghosts, demons, spirits, and deities, but it, too, was very realistic in portraying everyday life at the time most of its plays were written. As a result, it is largely thanks to Kabuki that we know how pipes were lit, food was prepared, or make-up was applied in premodern Japan.³

In anime, too, realistic portrayals of details, characters, and worlds can be observed, even to the point of being over-the-top or grotesque. This is especially apparent in titles for more mature audiences, such as the noir space western Cowboy Bebop or the dark fantasy Attack on Titan. Again, Suan finds the right words.

There is a predisposition towards precise detail and realistic depiction of objects that are completely unrealistic, often fringing on the absurd and grotesque. Anime expression is paradoxically realistically unreal, or unrealistically real. (314)

Arguably, even Pokémon, the world's highest-grossing entertainment franchise⁴, is grounded in realism as the first games were famously inspired by the creator's real-world childhood hobby: bug catching and collecting.

I've been enjoying the new Pokemon Horizons anime.

Premodern literature

These comparisons got me thinking about other instances of this reality-unrealism mixture I knew about. The first that came to mind were Kaidan, traditional Japanese ghost stories originating from Edo-period folktales. Many of them, such as Banchō Sarayashiki (The Dish Mansion at Banchō) or Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan (Ghost Story of Yotsuya in Tokaido), were made into Kabuki plays as well.

The most important literary example is Ugetsu Monogatari (Takes of Moonlight and Rain) by Ueda Akinari, a collection of supernatural tales first published in 1776. Its stories feature ghosts of loyal warriors, vengeful spirits, supernatural beings disguised as beautiful women, and dream visions. In typical folktale tradition, these beings appear as a matter of course, like honorary residents of the land⁵—quite appropriate for a country dominated by not only Buddhism but also Shintōism, an animist folk religion that venerates streams, trees, rocks, and many wild animals.

Another popular genre of Edo-period literature, known as Ukiyo-zōshi (literally Books of the Floating World), was doubtlessly inspired by these folktales but marked a shift towards greater realism, as mentioned by Charles Shirō Inouye and Haruo Shirane in Early Modern Japanese Literature: An Anthology 1600-1900.

One important characteristic of ukiyo-zōshi is its intense realism. (…) [I]t was not until ukiyo-zōshi that Japanese prose literature approached true realism. Ukiyo-zōshi is markedly less sentimental and reveals a more objective and cynical perspective. For example, many of [Ihara] Saikaku's stories end tragically and are written in a detached, ironic tone. (Wikipedia)

Many Ukiyo-zōshi also feature ghosts and supernatural beings, as for example the story of the doll who fell in love with two beautiful Kabuki actors in Ihara Saikaku's Great Mirror of Male Love.

Only a dream within a dream?

Where did this tradition of realistically unreal storytelling originally come from? Identifying the answer would likely exceed the scope of this post. However, I believe it might be closely tied to the concept of ukiyo that Edo-period Japan, the heyday of both Kabuki theatre and the literary genres I just mentioned, seems to be so obsessed with.

Ukiyo 浮世 literally means floating, fleeting or transient world. In medieval Japan, it was associated with Buddhism and meant "this transient, unreliable world". Written with different characters, it can also mean "sorrowful world" and refers to the earthly plane, i.e. the cycle of death and rebirth that Buddhists seek release from. In the Edo period, the floating world could also mean the gated pleasure quarters of Edo (now Tokyo) and Kyoto as those places were potent representations of the impermanence of all things. Without going too deep into philosophy, all this can be traced back to the fundamental Buddhist dichotomy of samsara (the material world, full of suffering by definition) vs. nirvana (the place one goes after achieving enlightenment, thus escaping the cycle of death and rebirth).

Cherry Blossom Time in Nakanocho of the Yoshiwara, ukiyo-e by Utagawa Hiroshige, ca. 1848-1849

This dichotomy, with ukiyo also referred to as dream or dream within a dream, has become a subtle trope in Japanese storytelling. I'm not sure where I heard it for the first time—it might have been in Shōwa Genroku Rakugo Shinjū⁶—but I was curious about it long before I knew what it meant. It is mentioned, for example, in the tragic Kabuki play Kasane⁷.

The showers are endless; so is one forever lost in this dream of a floating world, suffering eternally without waking. (3)

If all things are transient, if everything is a dream, might we not invite a little unreality in the shape of ghosts and other supernatural beings, of highly stylized stories and art into our lives to ease our suffering?

Whether we are really dreaming or awake, I believe appreciating and analyzing Japanese storytelling like this can teach us valuable lessons about the purpose and nature of stories all over the world. We need realism to relate them to our lives but we also need unreality to escape the real world for a while, to soothe and comfort us in our suffering.

1. Suan, Stevie (2013): The Anime Paradox. Patterns and Practices Through the Lens of Traditional Japanese Theater

2. Keene, Donald (1971): "Realism and Unreality in Japanese Drama" in: Landscapes and Portraits. Appreciations of Japanese Culture

3. Cavaye, Ronald (1993): Kabuki Pocket Guide, 36

4. According to Wikipedia

5. I am reminded of my first Japanese-German tandem partner—hi, Megumi!—who told me about ghosts and hauntings in previous apartments of hers so casually, as if they couldn't be anything but real.

6. An excellent anime that plays with ghost stories and the floating world concept on multiple levels of narration.

7. Brandon, James R. and Leiter, Samuel L. (Eds., 2004): Masterpieces of Kabuki. Eighteen Plays on Stage, chapter translated by Mark Oshima