“The Emissary” Leaves The Page Behind
Evan Gilman
After seeing Opera Parallele’s production of The Emissary, I took it upon myself to read the source material, Yoko Tawada’s book of the same name. The contrast between the opera I attended and the source material I was reading snapped to like an ice cube in hot tea, even a week later.
This opera’s production was lovely, with a cast comprised mostly of the Student Chorus of Lick Wilmerding High School. The two main characters were played by more experienced vocalists but the student chorus held their own. Of particular note was Cayden Sewell’s rendition of the knifemaker. The 7-piece accompanying orchestra provided an almost cinematic score that flowed along with the cadences of the vocalists, and emphasized their movements across the stage. I would hazard that Kenji Oh’s composition even brought to mind some of my favorite moments of Joe Hisaishi compositions with their lyricism and dramatic, flowing piano motifs, while uniquely providing a varying yet reliable palette for the vocalists to work with.
The music and narrative was one of hope in dystopian times, and of holding out for a brighter future through the new generation, enfeebled as they might be by a disastrously polluted environment. In this story, children are born fragile and stay that way, while the older generation persist in their strength, and must look after their grandchildren, and even great grandchildren. Mumei is one of these unfortunate children, and Yoshiro, his great grandfather, struggles to feed him and keep him healthy. Finally, Mumei’s teacher is approached by a secret society, and Mumei is given the opportunity to be an Emissary to the forbidden world outside Japan. The opera ends on the oft-repeated canon, a sorrowful yet hopeful tune where a dragonfly flies across the sea.
Upon reading the book, I was submerged in an entirely different set of emotions. While I’m familiar with the literary and activist works of Kenzaburō Ōe (who recently passed at the age of 88) and surrealist works of Kōbō Abe, I had not yet read Yoko Tawada. I am comfortable saying that the Opera Parallele’s production did not prepare me for the grotesque illustrations of living in an isolationist, dystopian future that lay within this book.
Tawada’s writing spares no description, giving frank detail on the political, social, and emotional effect that the unnamed disaster has had on Japan. From a past of corporations making money hand over fist by poisoning of the water, air, and land springs a pastiche of nation states selling their native languages as commodities. While monolingual, isolationist Japan is relegated to poverty, countries like India and South Africa have thrived selling languages. Twists and misunderstandings of language are central to the written story, but nowhere to be found in the opera. Yoshiro constantly fears persecution from a byzantine set of laws policing language, especially foreign languages.
Shikoku (coincidentally Kenzaburō Ōe’s birthplace), is the only center of industry, selling fresh fruit to the rest of the islands. The secret organization that offers Mumei the opportunity to be an Emissary (which, in the book itself, turns out to be more of a medical test subject), also hides in Shikoku in a series of 88 independent cells, reflecting the Shikoku Henro pilgrimage to Buddhist sites associated with Kōbō Daishi, a notable monk from the 8th century. Even the knifemaker in Tawada’s writing is rumored to have connections in Shikoku.
Missing from the opera is the raw desperation of Yoshiro as he comes to grips with Mumei’s innate acceptance of his lot in life — he knows nothing else. The dysphoria of inhabiting a body that changes sex without cause, in a world that is constantly adapting to environmental toxins. The debilitating confusion of awakening from a seizure, and of young love, unrequited. Without spoiling the book, I can tell you that the conclusion is not one of hope.
An appreciation of the darker things in life allows us to revel in the bright spots more thoroughly, when we find them. What would this opera have looked like with Mumei’s teeth falling out, or with him coughing to the point of vomiting? With Yoshiro growing breasts in the last act, or with Mumei experiencing menstruation unexpectedly? Certainly I wouldn’t wish such a Lynchian turn of events on this cast, though I can always look forward to the day when I can see an adaptation of this novel by Takashi Miike or David Cronenberg.
Evan Gilman is a musician, photographer, and coffee professional living in Oakland, CA. He has performed with Gamelan Sekar Jaya at ODC, the SF Symphony, the SF Ethnic Dance Festival, and many other engagements. His passion for both contemporary and traditional music has informed his travels, his photography, and his own compositions for guitar and percussion.
