Noh means...Noh.

A mystery in a mask at Aldeburgh Festival

Jul 20, 2024

I remember attending a Noh play many years ago, in Japan. My memories are not specific, but what I do recall is the dreamlike state it drew me into.

Last month, I had a similar experience at the Aldeburgh Festival, in the concert hall of the rambling red-brick complex that is Snape Maltings in Suffolk, resting by the soft, muddy banks of the River Alde. Noh is not familiar to many, I would say - it occupies a small, rarefied niche in theatre arts - and I am not sure whether it is going to become fashionable, any time soon. Which is probably a good thing, as it might well be ruined. Visions of cultural appropriation…

So, the performance was “Sumidagawa” (the Sumida River, which runs through present-day Tokyo). The play inspired Benjamin Britten’s “Curlew River” - composed mainly in Venice and premiered in Orford Church in Suffolk in 1964. The simple story is exactly the same as its Japanese counterpart, although personally I don’t like that Britten “Christianised” the story. It is very much Buddhist. The tale of grief and loss was introduced in an English-language monologue by an actress. She was perhaps a little too whimsical in her interpretation, but her heavily embroidered gown, portraying the river waters (and on her back, the sun, a symbol of hope) swung around beautifully.

To the Western audience, Noh may seem strange, other-worldly. The friends I was with found it almost undecipherable, puzzled by the extraordinary vocalisations of the ferryman, the ritualistic gestures, the off-beat tap of the hand drum and the shriek of the flute, with the chorus quietly kneeling at the side (the passengers on the ferry). The story centres around a woman (played by a man) searching and then grieving for her lost son - at first described as “mad” but finding her redemption. She appears, startlingly from the wings in her white mask. She passes her hand in front of her face - she is weeping. All the movements are slow and stylised. At times there is a moment or two of complete silence. It’s contemplative (like Britten’s monks, perhaps).

Oh, there should always be a ghost in Noh plays - and/or a monster of some kind. In this case, the ghost is the woman’s son, who in traditional manner has long, trailing hair and is dressed in white. I was told in Japan that you are more likely to see ghosts in the rainy season, and that they have no feet. They float.

Noh is one of those things that, to me, should be preserved in a lacquered box, to be opened and savoured on occasion. I believe it is one of the oldest theatrical forms that is still regularly performed (over 200 texts are still in the Noh repertoire). It encapsulates the spirit of “yugen” - something mysterious, beautiful, that you can only catch a glimpse of. It’s an ancient song, from a world long gone.

As such, it is a dream. It is a treasure.