THE TESTING OF KABUKI’S NEW KING

Danjuro I (1660-1704) was stabbed to death in the middle of a performance by a jealous fellow actor.

Danjuro V (1741-1807) ended his years in a Buddhist monastery.

Danjuro VII (1791-1859) had 12 children by various “wives” and was banished from Tokyo for living like a potentate.

Danjuro VIII (1825-1854), fearing a decline in his powers, committed suicide so as “to save my father from reproach.”

Kabuki fans know these stories as well as students of the English royalty know what happened to the little princes in the Tower. Now they are following the latest chapter in the world’s oldest backstage chronicle.

Danjuro is the greatest name in Kabuki acting--as if Olivier, Irving, Booth and Garrick all harked back to the same ancestor. But no actor has borne the name for the last 20 years--in fact, for most of this century. Now Kabuki’s elders have selected a new Danjuro, Danjuro XII. For the moment, he is the king of Kabuki. Can he live up to his title?

“I am nothing,” says the new Danjuro in the investiture ceremony that is part of the Grand Kabuki’s program Wednesday through Sunday at Royce Hall, UCLA. But this is a manner of speaking. Horikoshi Natsuo--Danjuro XII’s real name--started in the Kabuki theater as a boy actor of 7. Now he is 39, and ready to be tested against his mighty forebears.

It is a critical test, for Kabuki as well as for Danjuro. Just now, the box office back home in Tokyo is booming, thanks to a three-month “Danjuro Festival” that followed the actor’s assumption of the title in April.

But those traveling with the Grand Kabuki on its current American tour acknowledge an uneasiness about Kabuki’s future in the new Japan. How can its stylized tableaux of love and violence compete against the flick of the rock video? How can the twang of the shamisen drown out the electric bass?

“Kabuki mustn’t become a museum,” the new Danjuro cautioned the other day as he posed for photos in Central Park. His remark surprised an American reporter who had always assumed that this was the very point of Kabuki--to serve as a repository for the old legends, the old outsized acting style.

Hadn’t the new Danjuro spent years training himself in the swaggering aragot o style devised 300 years ago by the very first Danjuro: the foot-stamping, the sword display, the bragging soliloquy, the cross-eyed glare ( mie ) that turns the villain to water? Wasn’t the highest compliment that a Kabuki actor could receive the traditional cry from the audience--”Just like his father”?

True, and this Danjuro has particular reason to be moved by that cry. His own father was Danjuro XI, a superb Kabuki actor who died in 1965, only three years after receiving his title. It was a shock both for the world of Kabuki and for his 19-year-old son, robbed of “my sternest teacher.” To be worthy of his father is his aim.

Yet he knows that Kabuki could die of the “just like his father” syndrome. He knows the need in today’s entertainment market (a phrase that doesn’t offend him) for Kabuki to prove itself as a living art. Not by updating or debasing the ancient modes but by fusing them with the personality of a performer shaped by the modern world--not the world of 1685.

“If Kabuki simply replicates the old forms, the performances won’t be exciting and we’ll lose our audience,” he said through his interpreter, Peter Grilli. “It’s true that the actor has to start by learning the forms. You learn to put out your arm in a certain way by imitating your teacher as best you can.

“But at the same time, you’re asking yourself: ‘What do I feel when I put out my arm?’ The point of mastering a gesture is to make it your own. The more times you repeat a role, the more it becomes a part of you.

“The outline in Kabuki is fixed. The interest is what the actor does within it. As an actor, I’m not my father, nor anyone else. I’ll give every ounce of energy to preserving the forms of the Danjuro style of acting, what we call ‘the house art.’ At the same time, I want to make a personal contribution to it.”

A modest statement--which doesn’t mean that a Kabuki star like Danjuro is less vain by nature than the average Western actor. Says Faubion Bowers, an old American friend of the Grand Kabuki who provides the running translation for its show over a closed-loop radio system, “Kabuki actors are like actors everywhere: They want to stay up all night drinking and talking about themselves.”

But again, it is a custom of speech. Kabuki is a microcosm of Japan. The individual, however brilliant, defines himself in regard to the group and takes his direction from the group’s “consensus,” which is arrived at in an almost unspoken way. Western actors make career moves. Kabuki actors wait for the nod of “the elders,” senior members of the company in their 60s, 70s and even 80s.

It was this inner circle (in consultation with the Shochiku Co., the huge entertainment combine that has bankrolled Kabuki for 90 years) that decided (1) that the moment had come for a new Danjuro, and (2) that the previous Danjuro’s son was actor enough for the job.

Neither decision was absolutely necessary. The title had been vacant for 60 years before Danjuro’s father assumed it, and he hadn’t been born into the ruling Ichikawa clan but (like several previous Danjuros) had been adopted into it.

Why then promote his son at this time? Two factors came into play. On the one hand, there was Shochiku’s desire for an “event” that would refresh the Japanese public’s interest in Kabuki. On the other hand, there was the inner circle’s consensus that the crown prince had indeed proved his mettle as an actor in more than 30 years with the company, and was ready to assume his father’s title.

Or almost ready. The reporter was a bit startled to hear one of the elders traveling with the company describe the new Danjuro as a strong and well-schooled actor . . . but still a bit unripe. Plainly the new king, having received his crown, is going to have to earn it.

Moreover, he has rivals. Not for his title, which is his for life, along with a fairly stupendous salary. (It will interest Western actors to know that Kabuki superstars earn as much as $100,000 a month .) The competition is for the affection of the public and for the esteem of the elders, who know the difference between a popular player and a major actor.

What if, within the next few seasons, the new Danjuro fails to put his stamp on the big aragoto parts? “Nothing will be said,” according to a Grand Kabuki insider. “But there will be fewer roles.” Meanwhile, the spotlight will turn to other important younger actors in the company, some of whom are performing on the current tour.

One is already an international star. This is Tamasaburo, a slim 35-year-old who plays female ( onnagata ) parts as exquisitely as Kabuki has seen them played in a generation.

Less well known in the United States are Tatsunosuke, 39, and Takao, 44, the latter often paired with Tamasaburo in romantic drama. But from their performances the other evening at the Metropolitan Opera, it was clear that each of these performers is also a big talent.

Hence the pressure that the new Danjuro admits feeling these days as he comes down the hanamichi (runway) in his 90-pound robes for a showpiece like “Shibaraku.” He will have to extend himself to stay leader of the pack.

On the other hand, Kabuki is pressure, in the way that Western ballet is, and the new Danjuro has been under that pressure all his life. Like most Kabuki actors--there are only about 300 in all Japan--he virtually grew up backstage under the exacting eye of a mentor, in this case his father.

It was not an easy apprenticeship. “Once, my father made me squat halfway off my heels for an entire rehearsal. The purpose was to see if I had the moral discipline, as well as the physical discipline, to be a Kabuki actor. I understand what he was doing now, but at the time I thought he was a real bastard.”

Every day after school, the boy went down to his real school, the theater, and learned the drill-- shamisen , dance, makeup, combat. He played child parts, chorus parts, bit parts, middle-sized parts. How many parts? “Many, many,” he laughs. “Maybe 400.” At 11, he earned his first serious stage name--Shinnosuke VI. (Later, at 24, he became Ebizo X, the name he carried until this spring’s coronation.)

When his father died, the young actor felt twice bereft. “My sternest teacher was gone. The professional anxiety was, how could I continue into the future without the guidance of someone like this?”

How did he? He grins. “In Kabuki we are all related, one way or the other.” The young actor’s training was taken over by his father’s brother, the great Shoroku II. (Now 72, and a “living national treasure,” Shoroku plays the villain to his nephew’s hero in “Shibaraku.”)

“My uncle was a wonderful teacher,” the actor remembers. “I didn’t feel left in a void. But it wasn’t the physical, visceral commitment that you get from a father. In the end, I had to rely on myself.”

A hint of family tension there? It’s sensed again when Shoroku, relaxing at a party, observes that his son, Tatsunosuke, may have a little more “fight” as a performer than does his nephew, whom he has sometimes had to urge to go that extra mile. But the old man hurries to make his context clear. “I say it as his uncle, for his own improvement.”

Danjuro displays a similar tact when asked what actual power comes with his new title. Can he tell the elders what plays he wants to perform, what changes he would like to make in the company?

“It’s clear that I have more authority,” he answers. “But it’s difficult to put into words how I can exercise it. Even when you’re elected a prime minister, you don’t really understand your power for the first year or so.

“The elders are the real authority at the moment. What I’m concerned about is the future. To maintain my authority into the future, it’s important not to throw my weight around now.

“It’s a very Japanese way of thinking. You strengthen your own education by deferring to your elders. Anyway, it’s too simple to present this as a case of the younger generation pushing out the older generation. We’re all agreed on the need to bring in a new audience and to recognize the strength of a new generation of actors. The old masters recognize this as much as we do.”

But are there reforms he would like to bring about in Kabuki? Reforms puts it too strongly, but he does have some ideas. He senses that the marathon two-shows-a-day policy at the Grand Kabuki’s home theater in Tokyo, the Kabuki-za, may be wearing out the audiences, if not the actors. He thinks that Kabuki could take some tips about staging, lighting and dynamics from Broadway. He would like to see some new plays written for the Kabuki theater, a particular interest of his father’s.

“Kabuki historically has been this strange kind of monster, gobbling up influences from everywhere, yet finding a way to make them its own. So you won’t see any big changes. A couple of things you can expect without question: Kabuki audiences will continue to want star performances, with all that goes with them. And they’ll continue to look at Kabuki as a kind of time capsule, to provide a memory of what Japan used to be like.”

When Danjuro talks about “new plays” then, he’s talking about new plays in the old style--perhaps more dance-based than some of the chattier items in the current repertory. “Kabuki shouldn’t become too talkative, too Western . It’s meant to provide a flavor that we Japanese don’t get from ordinary life. If it merely reflects present-day society it won’t be interesting. It won’t be Kabuki!”

Backstage at the Metropolitan, the company prepares for another performance. Already in his onnagata mode, the kimono-swaddled Tamasaburo nods daintily to a visitor, who turns out to be Andy Warhol. In a corner dressing room, grandpa Shoroku naps in the corner while his grandson talks to a visitor. This is Tatsunosuke’s son (and Danjuro’s nephew) Sakon. The name means “lion-boy.” He is 10 years old and an actor, of course.

Sakon testifies that he is in the fifth grade, that he performs 25 times a month, that he likes to play soccer and video games, that he wants to take a boat ride around Manhattan and that--unlike his grandfather, father and uncle at that age--he likes being in Kabuki. Do you want to be a great actor when you grow up? “Hai!” Yes!

Danjuro sits on a couch outside his dressing room, fiddling with a camera. He has a son in Kabuki, too, a 7-year-old. “I’m trying not to make it too much of a test for him. It’s enough to get him used to the life. We have years to decide whether he’ll make an actor.”

What about his own future as Danjuro XII?

He smiles. “I don’t usually like to talk this way, but since you’ve asked: I feel all the pressures on me, and I don’t have absolute confidence in my strength. But when I get out on the stage, and the curtains open, and the lights are on me, and the audience is looking at me . . . I feel a strength that I wouldn’t necessarily think I had.”

A fashion of speech, again. But in Kabuki the implication is all.