Mikhail Baryshnikov in The Hunting Gun. (Photo: Pasha Antonov)

 

The Hunting Gun

 

By Deirdre Donovan

 

Whether one surrenders or not to Yasushi Inoue’s The Hunting Gun, this two-hander serves as a poignant study of love, loss, and the secrets one keeps.  Directed by François Girard, in an adaptation by Serge Lamothe, it stars Miki Nakatani and Mikhail Baryshnikov in a non-speaking role at his namesake theater.  Based on Yasushi Inoue’s 1949 novella of the same name, it is presented entirely in Japanese, with English subtitles projected onto a scrim on stage.

 

The Hunting Gun has a Zen vibe for the duration of the work.  That it is its strength and weakness.  Some theatergoers will immediately take to its Eastern look and feel; others might find it too esoteric for their Western palate.

 

Structurally, The Hunting Gun is a monologue in three voices, each voice offering a viewpoint that is distinct but inextricably woven into the other two.  There’s no conventional plot.  But the character Josuke Misugi receives letters from three different women: his wife, Midori, his mistress, and her daughter.  Nakatani performs the women and, Baryshnikov, silently standing behind a scrim on a raised platform, inhabits the character Josuke Misugi.

 

The action takes place on François Séguin’s sublime set, which enhances the Zen aesthetic by artfully incorporating the basic elements of water, stone, and wood as the action unspools:  The young Shoko wades through a lily pond; Josuke’s wife Midori traverses through shallow water with black rocks underneath; Saiko, Shoko’s mother and Josuke’s mistress, walks on a wooden deck as she recites her suicide letter.  Watching the set physically transform itself at the beginning of Midori’s and Saiko’s monologues is fascinating; it also alerts the audience to the mood of the next monologue and the new persona that Nakatani will inhabit.

 

The split-level stage that sets Baryshnikov’s character Josuke apart from the women speaks volumes in this tragedy.  Indeed, it effectively reflects the traditional Japanese culture, in which men and women occupy different worlds, with men held in a superior and more powerful position than women.  And though Baryshnikov’s Josuke isn’t physically interacting with the women during the play, he is ominously priming his gun as the women write their sorrowful epistles to him, and at a pivotal point, will aim his double-barreled Churchill at his wife.

 

A mood of lost innocence pervades the opening scene.  Young Shoko is dressed in a no-nonsense schoolgirl’s uniform, her hair braided, her voice sharp, clear, and staccato.  When she discovers in her mother’s diary that she has been having an affair with Josuke, she is utterly distraught.  No question the image of her mother, in her young eyes, has been sullied and the sanctity of marriage tarnished.  But when she picks up a pen to write to Josuke, instead of immediately lashing out at him in anger, she simply writes about her feelings of being disoriented and perplexed: “All sorts of sorrow come rushing upon me from every direction, like the white waves at Ashiya on windy days, and these sorrows confuse me.” 

 

 

 Miki Nakatani in The Hunting Gun. (Photo: Pasha Antonov)

 

If Shoko gives us a picture of lost innocence, Midori shows us a wife betrayed.  Nakatani sheds her schoolgirl clothes in a nanosecond, morphing into Midori, dressed in a flaming red dress (costumes by Renée April).  As Nakatani’s Midori dives into her monologue, the audience has an opportunity to eavesdrop on how this Japanese wife sets about obtaining a divorce from her faithless husband: “It’s very hard to write a farewell letter.  I don’t like to be maudlin.  But I don’t like to be too plain either.  I would like to make my request for a divorce gracefully and without our hurting one another.”  Of course, Midori’s anger eventually creeps into her voice.  But it’s highly significant that Nakatani’s Midori is composed as she starts her monologue, much in keeping with the demeanor of a dutiful Japanese wife.  What’s more, it also dramatically works, like that proverbial calm before the storm.

 

Miki Nakatani in The Hunting Gun. (Photo:  Pasha Antonov)

 

After Midori’s turbulent monologue, Nakatani strips off her red dress, revealing a simple white shift.  It is the perfect look for Saiko, Josuke’s mistress, who recites her suicide letter, her final testimony to the world.  Although her death is the focus of the letter, Saiko also will reflect on how her affair started with Josuke and the secret words they exchanged.  She also brings morality to the fore and ponders her adulterous affair with Josuke.  Or as she puts it: “You used the word sinner for the first time at the Atami Hotel and you said, ‘Let’s be sinners.’  Do you remember?”

 

The Hunting Gun is a tragedy but it’s also a memory play.  And the memories of its three women, painstakingly told, make this drama so compelling.  Josuke’s visible presence, as embodied by the physically poised Baryshnikov, ratchets up the tension and underscores the women’s sorrow.  Alexander MacSween’s original music punctuates the language like exclamation points, intensifying moments without overshadowing Nakatani’s voice.

 

This exotic drama delivers with its eloquent language, excellent acting by Nakatani and Baryshnikov, and its author’s astonishing gift for portraying people with candor.  Those theatergoers who yearn for an authentic taste of Japanese theater can’t go wrong by visiting this production.

 

Through April 15.

At the Baryshnikov Arts Center in Manhattan, 450 W. 37^th Street, Manhattan.

For more information and tickets, visit www.thehuntinggun.com

Running time:  1 hours; 35 minutes, with no intermission.