Nakamura Ganjiro III greets me with a pulverising handshake and plonks himself down on a sofa. To look at this bright-eyed, stocky figure, you'd say he was a builder or a weight-lifter. And definitely prosperous: I've never seen a chunkier gold watch, or a bigger pearl tie-pin. He talks about his art: how it must seem natural and unforced, and how the romantic role he's going to play for the 1,100th time still feels fresh after 48 years. His first stage-lover was his father; this afternoon it will be his son. "But I have never felt that I was playing opposite my own flesh and blood. We are all simply actors." Nakamura Ganjiro III greets me with a pulverising handshake and plonks himself down on a sofa.
To look at this bright-eyed, stocky figure, you'd say he was a builder or a weight-lifter. And definitely prosperous: I've never seen a chunkier gold watch, or a bigger pearl tie-pin. He talks about his art: how it must seem natural and unforced, and how the romantic role he's going to play for the 1,100th time still feels fresh after 48 years. His first stage-lover was his father; this afternoon it will be his son. "But I have never felt that I was playing opposite my own flesh and blood We are all simply actors." Then he starts to make up Wax all over the face, then lashings of white paste. Next, red lines round the eyes, and delicate black streaks high above the hidden brows. The full and fleshy lips are reduced to a minute pink rosebud.
When he is finally ready to appear, like a ship in full sail in his wig and robes, his whole physique has changed: his shoulders slope, his neck bends demurely, his stubby hands become infinitely expressive, his turned-in toes make tiny steps, and with every move the fabrics draped round him suggest graceful sculptures. And his forceful baritone has risen to a falsetto coo.No Western cross-dresser ever aspired to this. The garden of mankind may be crammed with delights, but the Japanese onnagata is indisputably its most exotic bloom. When this 67-year-old master brings his company to Sadler's Wells next week, London will get its first ever chance to savour this particular flower's perfume.I'm catching it in the Japanese city of Fukuoka, where the audience predominantly female, but evenly spread in age have gathered for what feels like an act of communal worship. Those sitting next to the hanamichi the "flower-path" along which the stars progress within touching-distance have paid £200 for the privilege.The play by Chikamatsu Monzaemon, dubbed the Japanese Shakespeare by his compatriots is called Love Suicides at Sonesaki, and was a shock-hit when first produced 300 years ago.
