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@readingsweetblueflowers
Had to post the cover, because I thought it turned out nice. You can download the book as a PDF at https://frankhecker.com/assets/texts/that-type-of-girl.pdf
An in-depth look at Takako Shimura’s classic yuri manga Sweet Blue Flowers.
For those few people who are still following me: this tumblr is now officially moribund, but... it’s turned into a book (which you can download for free if you’d like). Enjoy!
Abusive relations revisited
Now that the Fujigaya production of Rokumeikan has ended the story of Sweet Blue Flowers moves on to other matters. After the congratulations to the actors and reviews of the performances, the chapter ends with Fumi Manjome being surprised with the news that her cousin Chizu has a new baby and is coming to visit. The next chapter (“After the Banquet”) opens with an image of a young and vulnerable Fumi, and is devoted to (re)telling the story of Fumi’s childhood relationship with Chizu.
I’ve already had my say about the abusive nature of this relationship. Does this chapter actually add anything to our understanding of Fumi and Chizu? What follows are my thoughts on this question. (For a variety of reasons I found this post more difficult to write than any other thus far, and am open to comments and suggested corrections from any and all.)
First, a brief comment about the title of the chapter. The translator’s notes for the Viz Media edition are silent as to its origin and meaning, but other sources speculate that it is a reference to Yukio Mishima’s 1960 novel After the Banquet (宴のあと, Utage no Ato)—appropriate if true, since the last few chapter focused on another Mishima work. The novel portrays an ill-fated marriage between an elderly politician and a middle-aged restaurant owner, who first meet at a banquet held at her restaurant. The New York Times review summarizes the novel’s conclusion as “Love is strong, but too weak to hold disparate natures together.”
The theme of “disparate natures” in an equally ill-fated relationship marked by an age gap is certainly apropos here. The purpose of the chapter seems to be to explore the nuances of Chizu’s and Fumi’s relationship, although it also (perhaps deliberately?) contains clues to just how wide the gap in their ages was.
The story starts with Fumi beginning second grade, having moved away from Akira, whom she met in first grade. (See the previous post “Ten years(?) after” for more on the chronology.) Fumi would thus now be seven years old. We see Fumi’s introduction to her new class, her feelings of loneliness and thoughts of Akira, her unwillingness to go back to school after the first day, and (after her return) the beginning of what appears to be a budding friendship with two girls in her class. And then Chizu comes to play.
At this point in the story Chizu appears to be on the cusp of being a teenager (perhaps 12-13 years old?), “very rebellious” according to her mother, and not “obedient” like Fumi. Fumi clearly looks up to Chizu, looks forward to her visits, and is disappointed that she can’t sleep over.
Between page 126 and 127 of omnibus volume 3 the story then timeskips to a point when Fumi is in fifth grade, and thus at least ten years old. Chizu’s age is not referenced, but if we take her uniform as being that of a high schooler she is now at least 15 years old, and perhaps as old as 17—though her remark to Fumi that “You’re taller than me!” and her comment about “Girls these days!” seem to imply that Chizu herself sees the age gap between herself and Fumi as smaller than the five or more years it actually is.
Shortly thereafter Chizu’s family moves closer to Fumi’s, with the implication that the two girls will be seeing each other much more frequently. We then timeskip again between pages 128 and 129, with Chizu now headed off to university, and thus at least 17-18 years old, with Fumi presumably therefore around 12-13 years old, and perhaps slightly younger. The subsequent conversation over dinner and in bed highlights the pressure Chizu feels to marry, and Fumi’s lack of interest in boys.
Though it’s not spelled out in so many words, my sense is that the sexual activity between the two begins shortly after this. How frequent it was and long it continued are not clear, though it ended before the time that Fumi’s family moved back to Kamakura, Fumi began attending Matsuoka (at the age of 15), had her reunion with Akira, and was then surprised and shocked by Chizu’s marriage. (If we assume that the age gap between Fumi and Chizu is five years then at the time of her marriage Chizu would be 20 years old, now officially an adult, and would have completed at least two years of university.)
The final timeskip of the chapter is on the last panel of page 132 of omnibus volume 3, as we come back to the present day with an image of Chizu lost in rueful thought. She’s interrupted by Fumi bringing two cups of tea and a piece of cake—a hark back to earlier meetings between the two. (See pages 124 and 130.) Chizu enthuses about the possibility of moving to Kamakura near Fumi, stops and thinks better of it, and apologizes to Fumi: “Just kidding.” Fumi stares at her, drawn in a full-body profile view that echoes but reverses the image of a young and vulnerable Fumi with which the chapter begins.
The parallels to earlier scenes continue as Chizu again asks Fumi if she likes anyone. This time Fumi answers in the affirmative, and when further questioned as to the object of her affections replies “A girl.” Chizu apologizes again (“I’m the one who made you that way”), but Fumi seemingly resists this interpretation (”Don’t say it like that”).
As the conversation continues Chizu is seemingly overcome with regret and more than a hint of jealousy (“Do you like her more than me?”), muses on her daughter’s resemblance to Fumi, and finally breaks down in tears in contemplation of the path her own life has taken compared to Fumi’s (“I can’t be that kind of girl”).
The last (unspoken) words are Fumi’s. She thinks to herself, “My love for Chizu was real”, before seemingly drawing a line under the whole affair: “And that’s the truth.”
But of course we as readers can’t help wondering, what really is the truth here? It’s clear, at least to me, that Chizu thinks of herself, and by implication exonerates herself, as a victim of circumstances beyond her control—that she was pressured into marrying, and that social prejudices and ties of blood (“We’re girls ... and cousins”) kept her from having the relationship she wanted to have with Fumi.
What is less clear to me is whether Takako Shimura wants us to think of Chizu as a victim. Chizu was certainly hemmed in by the expectations of her family and society, expectations that limited whom she could love and have as a life partner. On the other hand, Fumi was just past childhood, and Chizu nearly an adult. If Chizu was drawn to women she could have and should have sought out someone closer to her own age, whether at high school or university. In Fumi she found and exploited a young girl for her own purposes, a girl who was predisposed to look up to her and follow her lead.
As for Fumi, I think it can be said that objectively speaking she was a victim of abuse, but she does not think of herself as such. I do not think this is because she was manipulated into this view (as abusers can do to those they abuse), but rather because this is consistent with her overall personality as portrayed in the manga.
To paraphrase what I previously wrote, Fumi is a person with a “steel core”, a deeply emotional person who ultimately does not let her emotions distract her from who she is and what she wants. To Fumi the question of whether Chizu “made [her] that way” is irrelevant. As she has already told Akira, and will tell others in chapters to come, she is “that kind of girl”, and that’s all there is to it. The final image of the chapter again echoes and reverses the chapter’s initial image of a young and vulnerable Fumi: eyes no longer cast down, she looks straight ahead, her glasses and her ponytail (a change from her typical more childish pigtails) marking the maturity that she is well on the way to achieving.
In the end I hark back to what I wrote earlier about Chizu: “Sweet Blue Flowers seems to valorize relationships between equals and implicitly criticize unequal relationships based on age or other hierarchies .... From this point of view Chizu’s relationship with Fumi provides the reader yet another example of the potential harms inherent in and inseparable from classic yuri tropes.”
Although Chizu is featured in character introductions later in omnibus volume 3 and volume 4, this is the last time she actually appears in the manga. As Chizu leaves the story of Sweet Blue Flowers, I say “good-bye and good luck” to her, but also “good riddance”.
Two characters in search of an actor
I previously wrote about the patriarch of the Sugimoto clan, a man notable for the lack of attention paid to him in Sweet Blue Flowers. In my last post on the Fujigaya production of Rokumeikan I consider two more men notable for their absence in the manga, Hisao and Count Kageyama.
Hisao at least rates a mention in the manga: Pages 94-95 of omnibus volume 3 show Akiko (played by Akira) mentioning that he is in danger (though it omits telling us exactly why), and the girl playing Hisao is subsequently called to the stage, after which the narration explains that he is Asako’s estranged son. But we are left ignorant of who played Hisao, and are not made privy to any of his dialog.
With Count Kageyama the erasure is (almost) complete. Like Hisao, his actor is never identified and we never hear his words. Unlike Hisao he is not referenced at all in the manga, either by his name or by his role in the story.
As with Yasuko’s father we may ask, why might this be? As in that case, the simple answer is that they are peripheral to the story Shimura is telling. They are men, and Sweet Blue Flowers is a story about girls becoming women, specifically women who love women. With Hisao we have the additional factor that he is explicitly identified as Akiko’s lover, and it would detract from the story of Akira’s and Fumi’s tentatively blossoming love to have another girl play a love interest opposite Akira.
But as with Yasuko’s father we can also explore this absence further, starting with Hisao. Hisao is a type familiar from both Mishima’s other works and from Japanese history: the young hothead, whose discontents and violent tendencies alternately affront and are exploited by the Japanese (male) establishment.
Hisao’s resentment at his father’s treatment of him first leads him to contemplate assassinating Kiyohara. Persuaded to desist only by the intervention of his newly-revealed mother, Asako, he lets himself be goaded again into resentment and action by Kageyama’s words and scheming, only to rebel against Kageyama as well by deliberately mis-aiming his shot at Kiyohara, subsequently getting himself killed by Kiyohara’s return fire.
I think the term “toxic masculinity” gets overused a lot, but if it applies to anything it applies to Hisao’s actions in this play. Hisao has a chance to turn from the path he was taking, to leave Japan with Akiko and make a new life with her, but he throws it all away to engage in a self-destructive act that in his own mind means a great deal but in the grand scheme of things makes no difference whatsoever, other than to bring pain to his mother, father, and lover.
This offers another reason why Hisao is downplayed in the manga: to audiences familiar with the play he is by his omission highlighted as a negative role model, especially for young girls like Akira and Fumi, and especially for a story like Sweet Blue Flowers. In older class S works suicide (for that is what Hisao’s actions amount to) might be the end game for some, frustrated in their inability to escape the strictures of society, but it has no place in the world of Sweet Blue Flowers.
Its message would rather be that of Asako to Akiko after she learns of Hisao’s death and despairs of life: “You can’t say any such weak-hearted thing. You must by all means try to live.” Or in other words: “Don’t be Hisao.”
What then of Count Kageyama? As I implied above, he is the Voldemort of the Rokumeikan production portrayed in Sweet Blue Flowers, “he-who-must-not-be-named”. But unlike Voldemort Kageyama is seemingly successful in his role as the Big Bad: when his original plan to employ Hisao goes awry he discovers what Asako has done and arranges a new scheme to achieve his aim. He successfully plays on Hisao’s sense of masculinity to persuade him to resume his plan of assassinating Kiyohara—a plan that even if seemingly unsuccessful eliminates Kiyohara as a political force (as Kiyohara himself notes)—and then (it is strongly implied) has Kiyohara killed to finish the job that Hisao could not. In plain terms he wins, and everyone else—Asako, Akiko, Hisao, and Kiyohara—loses.
I should note here that Kageyama is not portrayed in the play as a unrelievedly evil villain: He is jealous of Asako’s relationship with Kiyohara, and apparently yearns to have what they have with each other—“I was jealous of that indescribable trust that exists between you and Kiyohara”—even as he scoffs at the possibilities of love and trust between two people: “It is an absurd thing. Human beings can’t make pledges or trust each other unconditionally as you and Kiyohara have done. ... That sort of thing should never exist in our human world.”
But whatever his feelings, his actions are contemptible, and Asako calls him out for it in the climax of act 4: “Please do not talk about love and human beings any more. Those words are unclean. When they come out of your mouth, they are repellent. You are clean as ice only when you totally isolate yourself from human emotions. Please do not bring in love and humane feelings with your sticky hands. This is unlike you.”
As it happens this is the only time Kageyama appears in Sweet Blue Flowers even indirectly, as Kyoko rehearses this speech on pages 104-105 of omnibus volume 3. (I have used Hiroaki Sato’s translation here instead of the one in the manga because I think it better conveys the sense of what Asako is saying.) Midway through Kyoko stops, lost in thought, until prompted by another person—perhaps the anonymous girl playing Kageyama, whom we glimpse only from behind.
What was Kyoko thinking? Earlier in the manga she thought to herself, “Did dad fall for a woman like Asako?” Is she implicitly comparing her father to Kageyama?
And what of herself? Whatever ardor Ko felt before seems to have cooled, replaced with frustration at Kyoko’s behavior towards him—and perhaps also a jealousy born of whatever he might know or guess of Kyoko’s feelings toward Yasuko. In turn Kyoko’s renewed desire to get married reeks of desperation and a desire to escape her family situation, as Ko points out to her.
Perhaps Kyoko stopped to think that what happened to Asako and to her mother might one day happen to herself: that she and Ko might enter into a marriage with at least some lingering feelings of love and affection, only to have it all end in cruelty and coldness. Kyoko could not save her mother (“I couldn’t stop her from breaking”); if it ever came to that, could she save herself?
“... such an old-fashioned woman”
[In case anyone at all is following this tumblr, I’m back to writing about Takako Shimura’s manga Sweet Blue Flowers, continuing my discussion of the Fujigaya Women’s Academy production of Yukio Mishima’s 1956 play Rokumeikan.]
Asako Kageyama is the tragic heroine of Rokumeikan. Asako was a geisha when she met her former lover Einiosuke Kiyohara, and then was elevated to the aristocracy by her marriage to Count Kageyama. Such marriages were apparently not uncommon in the Meiji Era, as leading politicians looking to host social gatherings sought out geisha used to dealing with men in a social context, making them their mistresses or (as in the case of Prime Minister Hirobumi Itō) their wives.
If this was Count Kageyama’s intention in marrying Asako, it was thwarted: Asako proved to be a retiring sort, apparently never venturing outside the Kageyama estate, and certainly not to the Rokumeikan: “I’m such an old-fashioned woman, I can’t possibly go to such a fashionable place.”
But she does go to the Rokumeikan, in an effort to save the life of her son Hisao, previously bent on the assassination of Einosuke Kiyohara, his father and Asako’s former lover. Her effort comes to naught: Hisao dies, shot by his father. It is strongly implied that Kiyohara dies as well, killed by Count Kageyama’s henchman Tobita. Asako herself is left to live out her life with Count Kageyama, in a marriage from which all illusions of love and tenderness have been stripped, with only raw power and resentment remaining.
Asako, more than Kiyohara, Hisao, or Akiko, is thus the great tragic figure of Rokumeikan. Akiko is young and still has the possibility of findling happiness. Hisao and Kiyohara are beyond all feeling. But Asako has only a life without hope stretching ahead of her.
Sweet Blue Flowers is a comedy, not a tragedy, but if anyone in the manga can be said to be a tragic figure it is Kyoko Ikumi. It is therefore fitting that Shimura selected her to play Asako. She does not look the part—her short brown hair totally unlike Asako’s long black hair—but otherwise she fits the role to a T, with her reticence, old-fashioned air, unhappy past, troubled present, and uncertain future. As I previously wrote of Kyoko, “If this were a traditional [class S] story presumably the only suspense would be whether her remaining life would be short and unhappy, or long and unhappy.”
In her dissertation on Rokumeikan Mami Harano rhetorically asks why Japanese audiences would continue to flock to a play in which power wins and the heroine loses. Harano’s answer is that audiences see in Asako someone who breaks the bonds of convention and dares to love: to engage in romantic love with her illicit lover Kiyohara, and show maternal love toward her illegitimate son Hisao.
People often speak of “the power of love”. In Rokumeikan love has no power, at least in terms of the outworking of the plot. But it still has the power to move us. As Harano writes, “Observing all of the contradictions in her life and seeing all the unfairness and inequality in the world, audiences feel empathy with Asako ...” I think the same can be said of Kyoko in Sweet Blue Flowers. Her life is messed up, her mother ill and dependent, her hoped-for relationship with Yasuko thwarted, and her ongoing relationship with Ko in trouble, but she at least has her friendship with Akira, and our sympathy as readers.
Sometimes in a work a secondary character will break out from the pack and achieve a special place in the audience’s heart. (For example, think of Nanami in Revolutionary Girl Utena.) Kyoko is such a character for me. Though she is not the star of Sweet Blue Flowers as a whole, she is certainly the star of this section of it.
This year’s star
Although Akira is one of the most important characters in Sweet Blue Flowers, the character Akiko that she plays in Rokumeikan is one of lesser importance---not exactly a bit part, but not a major role by any means. With Ryoko Ueda we have the reverse: the character she plays, Einosuke Kiyohara, is arguably the second or third most important in Rokumeikan (after Asako and comparable to Count Kageyama), but Ueda herself is one of the lesser characters in Sweet Blue Flowers.
First, a bit about Kiyohara: In the play he is described as “the leader of the opposition group”, a group described as “the remnants of the Liberal Party”. One of the first political parties in Japan, the Liberal Party (自由党 Jiyūtō) was formed in 1881 as an outgrowth of the Freedom and People's Rights Movement (自由民権運動 Jiyū Minken Undō), one of Japan’s first mass political and social movements. Both the movement and the party advocated for democratically-elected legislatures, though with the electorate restricted to the former samurai and nobility. The Liberal Party was disbanded in 1884 (hence “the remnants of ...”),
Kiyohara’s son Hisao decribes him as “An impeccable idealist. A figure like a leader of the French Revolution. A genuine liberal. ... A believer in Rousseau, a Japanese Jacobin, a man who doesn’t give a damn about his life for liberty and equality ....” Kiyohara was possibly modeled on Taisuke Itagaki, one of the founders of the real-life Liberal Party, who with his colleagues wrote a manifesto modeled on the U.S. Declaration of Independence (“We, the thirty millions of people in Japan are all equally endowed with certain definite rights ....”). Like Kiyohara, Itagaki was the victim of an assassination attempt, in his case unsuccessful, after which he allegedly cried “Itagaki may die, but liberty never!”
In the play Kiyohara is less successful in his personal life: he neglects Hisao in favor of his legitimate children, and does not speak to Asako in the twenty years after their affair. Though the meeting with Asako rekindles her love for him, Hisao’s resentment continues and drives him first to plan to kill his father, and then in the end to die by his father’s hand in a perverse act of revenge upon him.
Unlike the case of Akiko and Akira, there are no real parallels between Ueda and Kiyohara. To the extent Ueda is characterized at all (which is not much compared to even secondary characters like Kyoko or Haruka), it is by explicit and implicit comparisons to Yasuko Sugimoto.
Like Yasuko, Ueda is tall and handsome, and like Yasuko eminently suitable for playing the part of a leading man. Also like Yasuko (whom Mr. Kagami nicknamed the “library maiden”) Ueda spends her time reading in Fujigaya’s library, and in fact was discovered there by Haruka acting out the parts of Kiyohara and Asako from Rokumeikan (in omnibus volume 2). Unlike Yasuko Ueda has long hair, but then Yasuko had longer hair too (though not as long as Ueda’s) before she cut it off in an attempt to emulate her sister Kazusa’s “tough personality”.
My conclusion is that Takako Shimura introduced the character of Ueda primarily to fill the slot left open by the departure of Yasuko as the “prince” of Fujigaya. She acts opposite Asako as Yasuko did opposite Kawasaki in omnibus volume 1, and like Yasuko inspires admiration and crushes in the younger girls. She is this year’s star, as Yasuko was “last year’s star”. However unlike Yasuko Ueda doesn’t appear to have any major hang-ups, other than a bit of shyness. That makes her a better friend for Akira, Kyoko, and Fumi, but it does tend to make her somewhat bland and underdeveloped as a character. Whether that will change in the last omnibus volume remains to be seen.
A final note about Ryoko Ueda’s name, since I may not have occasion to discuss her again: Ueda’s character description on page 183 of omnibus volume 2 of Sweet Blue Flowers (the beginning of volume 4 of the Japanese edition) says that “Her name reminds me of a place name. ... or I am just imagining that?” and advises the reader “Try googling my name!” The end notes in omnibus volume 2 claim that “There is a bus stop in Gifu Prefecture that uses the same kanji as Ryoko Ueda [上田 良子] but is pronounced differently.”
With all due respect, I doubt very much that Takako Shimura was thinking of a bus stop when she named Ueda. It’s much more likely that she was referring to the city of Ueda in Nagano Prefecture, the very first result if you use the Japanese version of Google to search for “上田”.
Akiko and Akira
Having discussed the plot and setting of Rokumeikan, now we come to the actual performance depicted in Sweet Blue Flowers. In that performance Akira Okudaira plays Akiko Daitokuji, the young daughter of Marchioness Sueto Daitokuji, and the lover of Hisao Kiyohara.
Like almost all the characters in Rokumeikan, Akiko is a member of the Japanese aristocracy. As a marchioness her mother is the wife of a marquess, the second highest rank in the hierarchy of Japanese noble families (kazoku) established in the early Meiji era to replace the traditional imperial court nobles (kuge) and feudal lords (daimyō).
Akiko’s social status may thus seem far above that of Akira, but it’s worth noting that at least some of Akira’s ancestors may have been equally high-born: the family name Okudaira is shared by Nobumasa Okudaira, a feudal lord who fought with Ieyasu Tokugawa and Nobunaga Oda in the wars that established the Tokugawa shogunate. Tokugawa gave his eldest daughter in marriage to Okudaira, so it’s possible that Akira herself is descended from one of the most important figures in Japanese history.
Akiko is also the youngest character in Rokumeikan. Her age is not given in the play, but my guess is that she is around 16 or 17 years old, or in other words about the same age as Akira. Since the play takes place in 1886 Akiko would thus be a “Meiji girl” in the same sense that Akira is a “Heisei girl”: born in the new era and knowing nothing of life before it, in contrast to all the other characters in the play.
It’s therefore no coincidence that Akiko is the character most in tune with the new spirit of Meiji Japan, and the one who looks most to the West rather than to traditional Japan. As her mother says, “she loves radical things”. Hisao is one of those “radical things”, “[not] a man of the lower class, but … on the side of that class.” Akiko first meets him not at an arranged meeting but rather by chance at a performance of “Charine’s circus horses” (“Their names were Fugal and Beaumiteau”, she recalls), where Hisao picks up the European imported handbag her mother had accidentally dropped.
That evening at the Rokumeikan Akiko’s plan is to leave Japan in the morning with Hisao on a trip to Europe arranged by her mother, to return only when (or if?) her father gives her permission to marry. It’s not clear if Akiko’s mother intends to accompany the couple; if not this would be a decided breach of social norms on Akiko’s part: not only to refuse an arranged marriage and marry for love, but to travel alone with a man not her husband or father. Similarly Akira is considering her own breach of contemporary Japanese social norms in considering a relationship with Fumi.
In her disregard for social norms Akiko is not condemned by her mother and her friends, but rather receives their support. They too seem to welcome “this new wonderful age”, as Akiko’s mother’s friends call it, “this age where women are able to bask in the sun for the first time in hundreds of years”. It is to help Akiko that her mother requests Asako meet with Hisao, the event that kicks off the action of the play. As her mother says, in a key line quoted in Sweet Blue Flowers, “I want my daughter to experience a full life in the new era, and have the life that I never had.” So too will Akira’s friends support her in her own “new era”, though she initially fears they will not.
As discussed above, Takako Shimura plays up the parallels between Akira and the character she plays. Even their names are similar, though with an interesting twist: Akiko’s name has the conventional -ko (子) ending used for girls’ given names in Japan, while Akira’s name is (if Wikipedia is any guide) more traditionally used for boys and men (e.g,, the film director Akira Kurosawa). It’s possible that Shimura chose this name specifically to echo that of Akiko, and to emphasize how Akira might go beyond Akiko in violating the strictures Japanese society has historically placed on women.
In the end Akiko’s hopes come to naught: Hisao is dead, and the best her mother can do is to urge Akiko to live on: “Hisao did not die for you. So it would be useless for you to follow him in death.” Consistent with the themes of Sweet Blue Flowers, there is also an implied message here for Akira and her fellow students: though there may be men in your life, don’t make your own existence dependent on theirs.
The play’s the thing
Takako Shimura’s use of Yukio Mishima’s 1956 play Rokumeikan in omnibus volume 3 of Sweet Blue Flowers is probably the best example of her fondness for using theatrical plays as elements in her manga. The interplay between the events and characters of the play and the events and characters of the manga contributes to that volume being overall the most excellent of the series.
The bits of the play presented in Sweet Blue Flowers are somewhat fragmentary. Shimura assumes a readership familiar with at least the basic outline of the play and its main characters. The play itself is available in an English translation by Hiroaki Sato (as part of the collection My Friend Hitler and Other Plays of Yukio Mishima), and for anyone interested I highly recommend seeking it out.
For those not willing or able to take the time to read the play, or daunted by the cost of the book, here’s a summary of the plot:
Act 1. On the Emperor’s birthday, November 3, 1886, a group of aristocratic women gather at a teahouse on the estate of Count Kageyama, a high-ranking government minister, and watch the military review being held in the Emperor’s honor. (This first scene is also the first depicted in the manga, on pages 233-235 of omnibus volume 2.) They are joined by Kageyama’s wife Asako (played by Kyoko Ikumi in the performance depicted in Sweet Blue Flowers), an ex-geisha elevated to the aristocracy by her marriage who is uncomfortable with her new status and never appears in public.
One of the women appeals to Asako on behalf of her daughter Akiko (played by Akira Okudaira) and her lover Hisao, a supporter of the opposition party whom Akiko fears will disrupt that night’s ball at the Rokumeikan and attempt to assassinate Kageyama. Perturbed at hearing Hisao’s name, Asako agrees to help, and after the ladies depart she sends to him to meet with her.
Asako reveals to Hisao that she is his mother by her former lover Kiyohara, leader of the opposition party, who took Hisao in after his birth. Hisao expresses his resentment of his father’s neglect of him and of his treatment compared to Kiyohara’s legitimate children, and reveals that he plans to kill not Kageyama but Kiyohara.
Act 2. After Hisao leaves Asako reaches out to Kiyohara (played by Ryoku Ueda) and he meets with her at the teahouse. She tells him she knows about the plan to disrupt the ball, and urges him to abandon it. Kiyohara resists, until she tells him that she plans to leave her private sphere and attend the ball herself.
Kiyohara leaves as Kageyama and his retainer Tobita enter the scene. Overheard by Asako, their conversation reveals that Kageyama knows about the plot to disrupt the ball and, with Tobita as his intermediary, is the mastermind behind Hisao’s plan to kill Kiyohara. (The bloodthirsty Tobita protests that he himself was not given the task of assassination.)
Asako reveals herself and tells Kageyama that in fact there will be no disturbance at the ball, and after Tobita leaves tells Kageyama of her own plans to attend. She then urges Kageyama to persuade Hisao to abandon his plan to kill his father, explaining her interest as simply that of helping a friend’s daughter.
Kageyama agrees, on condition that the ball not be disrupted. Immediately upon Asako leaving he grabs her maid Kusano and forces himself upon her.
Act 3. At the Rokumeikan before the ball, Akiko and Hisao talk of Asako’s role in bringing Hisao to the ball and then kiss, after which Asako enters and busies herself with directing the workmen decorating the rooms. Meanwhile Kageyama, having seduced Kusano with the promise of his favor, extracts from her the information that Asako is Hisao’s mother and Kiyohara’s former lover.
After conversing briefly with Asako, Kageyama seeks out Tobita and tells him that plans have changed: since the original plot to disrupt the ball was called off by Kiyohara, Tobita should now arrange a disruption himself. Kageyama then tells Kusano to summon Kiyohara to the Rokumeikan that evening in Asako’s name.
Akiko and Hisao talk of their plans to elope together and leave for a foreign tour. Kageyama interrupts them and upbraids Hisao for his giving in to romance and abandoning his plans, explaining that (contrary to what Asako told Hisao) a break-in will in fact occur and the (unnamed) target of Hisao’s assassination plot will be present on the grounds outside the Rokumeikan. Kageyama hands Hisao a pistol, which he accepts.
Kageyama rejoins Asako and her friends, and they drink a toast to the Emperor’s health (marred by the ill omen of Asako accidentally dropping her glass).
Act 4. As Asako, Kageyama, and their fellow aristocrats talk among themselves, the invited dignitaries begin to arrive at the ball, including the Prime Minister and various foreign guests. (Incidentally, Hirobumi Itō was the real-life Prime Minister in 1886 and is explicitly referred to as such in the play. It’s inexplicable to me why Mami Harono repeatedly refers to Kageyama as the Prime Minister in the paper “Anatomy of Mishima’s Most Successful Play Rokumeikan”.)
After the guests enter the ballroom, a report comes up from downstairs of men brandishing swords and destroying decorations. Asako goes to the head of the stairs and faces them down, after which Kageyama quietly directs Tobita to have the men withdraw. Meanwhile, thinking that his father has betrayed both him and Asako in ordering the plot to proceed, Hisao flies into a rage and leaves the building.
Soon thereafter shots are heard, and a distraught Kiyohara enters, explaining that Hisao is dead: Kiyohara was fired upon by an assailant hiding in the dark and fired back in self-defense, subsequently discovering that he had killed his son. Perceiving that Hisao had deliberately misdirected his shot, Kiyohara concludes that he wanted to be killed by his own father as a revenge upon him.
Kiyohara declares himself done with politics and sardonically congratulates Kageyama on achieving his goal of eliminating a political enemy. He also tells Asako that the men who broke into the Rokumeikan were not his own, declares that he kept his own promise (implying that Asako had not kept hers in calling him to the scene), declares he will never see her again, and exits.
Tobita exits as well (“with a conspiratorial air”, per the stage directions), as do Akiko and her mother after Asako attempts to comfort them, leaving Asako and Kageyama to face each other. Kageyama taunts Asako for believing in “fairy tales” of trust and cooperation between people, in ignorance of the real world of politics, while Asako accuses him of knowing and wanting nothing but power.
As Asako declares her intention to leave Kageyama for Kiyohara after this night, the arrival of the Imperial Princess is announced, the orchestra plays while Asako and Kageyama dance, and Asako claims that she hears a pistol shot in the distance. The music stops, Kageyama tells Asako the sound was only fireworks, and then the music and dance resume as the curtain falls.
Setting the stage
Before I get to the play Rokumeikan I think it’s useful to understand at least a bit of the historical context around it. The play is set in 1886 in the middle of the Meiji era (1868-1912), one of the most tumultuous and consequential periods in the history of Japan. The historical setting of Rokumeikan would be as familiar to modern Japanese schoolgirls like those at Fujigaya and Matsuoka as the Civil War period is to us in the U.S. (The first episode of the currently-airing anime Meiji Tokyo Renka, about a girl who time-travels back to the Meiji era, has a scene set at the Rokumeikan.)
Since this post is ultimately in the service of my commentary on Sweet Blue Flowers, I thought it appropriate to discuss the history of Meiji-era Japan and the Rokumeikan from the point of view of Sutematsu Yamakawa, Shige Nagai, and Ume Tsuda, the three ordinary girls whose extraordinary lives are documented in Janice Nimura’s book The Daughters of the Samurai. Sutematsu, the oldest of them, was born in 1860, only a few years after Commodore Matthew Perry and his “black ships” showed up in Tokyo harbor in 1853 demanding that Japan open its ports to the U.S.
With no navy and no national military the Tokugawa shogunate struggled to resist pressures from the U.S. and other countries, and in 1858 signed a series of “unequal treaties” that favored the various Western powers and impinged on Japanese sovereignty. Resentment of Western influence and long-standing grievances with the Tokugawas then led to a prolonged period of civil strife, ending in 1867-1868 with a civil war in which forces fighting in the name of the Emperor decisively defeated pro-government forces. Sutematsu, daughter of a mid-rank samurai on the losing side, was wounded by shrapnel in one of the final battles.
14-year-old Prince Mutsuhito became Emperor in 1867, with the new “Meiji” (”enlightened rule”) era proclaimed in 1868 with the fall of Edo (now Tokyo) and the formation of a new government populated by many energetic and relatively young mid-rank samurai. They embarked upon a crash course of importing Western knowledge, technology, and experts, with an eye towards making Japan a modern power as fast as possible.
One of those men, Kiyotaka Kuroda, had been impressed with American women while on a visit to the U.S., and conceived the fantastical idea of sending a group of Japanese girls to the U.S. for a ten-year stay in order to learn American ways and come back to educate a new generation of Japanese girls. After an initial recruitment effort failed, the government succeeded in finding five low-to-mid rank samurai families who had been on the losing side, were living in relative poverty, and were therefore willing to let their girls leave home so as not to have to support them.
The five girls left Japan in 1871 as part of the famous Iwakura mission along with a group of high-ranking government officials, scholars, and male students charged to visit foreign nations and bring back information of use to Japan. The oldest two of the girls returned to Japan due to ill health and homesickness, but Sutematsu Yamakawa (11 years old), Shige Nogai (10), and Ume Tsuda (6) found places with American families. They soon learned English, made close American friends, and became socialized in a manner typical of upper middle class American teenagers of the period.
While the girls were away Japan saw a blooming of intellectual discourse, the formation of grass-roots political movements, and the creation of nascent political parties, as elements within society and government contended over what political and cultural ideas and institutions were most appropriate for Japan.
The three girls returned in the early 1880s, Sutematsu Yamakawa having graduated from Vassar College (the first Japanese woman to receive an American college degree) and Shige Nogai having earned a certificate in music from Vassar. All three girls experienced severe culture shock, with Ume Tsuda having completely forgotten how to speak Japanese. They also found that foreign ideas were not quite as popular as when they left for America, as a conservative backlash was building.
Shige Nogai soon entered into a love match with a fellow Japanese student who had attended the U.S. Naval Academy, and went to work as a music teacher, continuing her career while bearing and raising her six children. (Some scholars contend that she’s depicted in the woodblock print above showing a dance at the Rokumeikan, the rightmost pianist to whom the other pianist seems to be looking for help in setting the tempo.) Her husband eventually became a Baron and Admiral in the Imperial Japanese Navy, and she a Baroness.
Sutematsu Yamakawa struggled to find work suitable to her upbringing and education, and ended up accepting an offer of marriage from Iwao Ōyama, a general in the Imperial Japanese Army, twenty years her senior, who was looking for a wife who was familiar with Western ways and could assist him in his political and diplomatic activities. Her husband later became Minister of War and she became a pillar of the Japanese aristocracy, advising the Empress herself on Western culture and fashion.
As Countess (later Princess) Ōyama she became known as the “Lady of the Rokumeikan” for her role in hosting events there after its construction in 1883. She also introduced American-style philanthropy to Japan, including a charity bazaar held at the Rokumeikan. (This event was memorialized in a woodblock print by Toyohara Chikanobu, also the artist of the print shown above. Sutematsu and her daughter Hisako are apparently depicted in the center of the print.)
One of the major beneficiaries of Sutematsu’s philanthropy was Ume Tsuda, who had the worst time adjusting to life in Japan. She first obtained employment as a private tutor to the children of Hirobumi Itō, soon to become Japan’s first Prime Minister. She then taught at the Peeresses’ School, which Itō set up (with assistance from Countess Ōyama) to educate the daughters of the Imperial family and Japanese nobility. (Prestigious girls schools like Fujigaya Womens Academy would later offer an equivalent experience for the daughters of Japan’s upper and upper middle classes.)
Tsuda became frustrated by the conservatism of the Peeresses’ School and the expectations of her family and others that she marry. Due to her youth she had not been able to attend college while in America, and hence she applied for and was granted permission and funding to go back to the U.S. to complete her education. She enrolled at the recently-opened Bryn Mawr College for women and graduated with a bachelors degree. She then returned to Japan, having also found time to (anonymously) assist a friend in writing a book, Japanese Girls and Women, critical of Japanese laws and educational policies relating to girls and women.
After returning to Japan, after some time and with assistance from Countess Ōyama, Ume Tsuda was able to realize her dream of opening her own school, the Women's Institute for English Studies (女子英学塾 Joshi Eigaku Juku), with the goal of training teachers for Japan’s newly-mandated middle schools for girls. She was soon joined by Anna Cope Hartshorne, her close friend from Bryn Mawr who became her companion in both work and life. (Like Nobuko Yoshiya and her partner, Tsuda and Hartshorne bought a cottage together in Kamakura.)
Tsuda spent the last years of her life in ill health, living in Kamakura with Anna Hartshorne. After her death in 1929 her school was renamed in her honor, eventually becoming Tsuda College and then (more recently) Tsuda University. Hartshorne herself left Japan in 1940 on the brink of war, never to return. She died in 1957, a year after the first production of Rokumeikan and almost a century after the start of the Meiji era.
The Rokumeikan itself was long gone by then. Its use had declined with the rise of conservative sentiment and anti-Western feeling, and it was sold in 1890 to become a private club for the aristocracy. The building fell into disuse and was eventually demolished in 1941, as Japan went to war with the Western powers whose diplomats it had once invited to dance at the Rokumeikan.
A final thought: There’s an intriguing parallel between the three main 21st-century girls of Sweet Blue Flowers and the three 19th-century girls of Daughters of the Samurai. Kyoko resembles Sutematsu Yamakawa, thwarted in her original desire and falling back on a marriage with an older man of higher social status. We can only hope that Kyoko will find happiness in such a marriage, as Sutematsu apparently did in hers.
Fumi resembles Ume Tsuda, even to having a somewhat similar sounding given name. It’s clear that she will remain unmarried, as Ume did (unless marriage equality comes to Japan). Our hope for Fumi is that like Ume she will also find someone, whether Akira or another, who will be her lifelong companion.
As for Akira, her fate is not yet clear---though I doubt she’ll have six children like Shige Nogai did. We can at least hope that if Akira does find someone to spend her life with that it will be a love match, just as Shige’s was.
All Japanese
Before I get to the main attraction (i.e., Rokumeikan) it’s worth taking a moment to consider the other plays presented at the Fujigaya drama festival. The first point worth noting (as Kazusa does while reading the flyer) is that all the plays are Japanese in origin and on Japanese themes.
This contrasts with the previous year, when the plays seemed “designed to avoid as much as possible anything that hints of transgression .... through productions that are isolated in time and place from modern Japan, and thus avoid direct commentary on contemporary Japanese society.” None of this year’s plays take place in modern Japan, but a play like Rokumeikan is certainly more relevant to contemporary Japanese society than Wuthering Heights.
What about the other two? The Bamboo Cutter is based on a thousand-year-old Japanese folktale (竹取物語 Taketori Monogatari), also known as The Tale of Princess Kaguya (かぐや姫の物語 Kaguya-hime no Monogatari), about an old childless couple who discover a baby in a stalk of bamboo and raise her as their own. As she grows to become a young woman she is beset by suitors, including the Emperor, but refuses them all, and is eventually carried away to the moon to rejoin her people.
This seems simply a charming tale fit for elementary school students, but as Caroline Cao points out in an Anime Feminist article, it can be interpreted as implicitly criticizing a father driven by “patriarchal obsessions” to seek social status for himself through his daughter’s marriage: “Had Kaguya’s father not been oblivious to her evident pain and so presumptuous of her welfare, perhaps Kaguya would have lived happily in an earthly life ... away from the greed of men seeking to make a wife out of her.”
The Izu Dancer is a more modern tale, based on a 1926 short story by the famous Japanese author Yasunari Kawabata. Better known in the West as The Dancing Girl of Izu (伊豆の踊子 Izu no odoriko), the story was an early highlight in a career that eventually saw Kawabata win the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1968. (Incidentally, that award apparently was a severe blow to Yukio Mishima, as he had also been considered a candidate and thought the Nobel committee would not soon give the award again to a Japanese writer.)
The Dancing Girl of Izu has been translated into English at least twice, by Edward Seidensticker and later by J. Martin Holman. (The Holman translation is apparently more faithful to the Japanese, but I think the Seidensticker translation reads better as English.) Wikipedia calls it “a lyrical and elegiac memory of early love”, but to my Western eye it’s also more than a bit creepy.
Why might I think that? Let’s look at a summary of the plot (from Answers.com): “The nineteen year old narrator, an introspective student on a holiday from an upper class school in Tokyo, ... meets and becomes infatuated with a young dancer in a traveling family of entertainers. At first he feels a vague erotic attraction to her. But when he sees her in the nude in a public bath, he realizes that she is still a [thirteen year old] child, still pure and innocent. This changes his feelings for her to a loving brother-like protector. He is accepted by and becomes close to the family. ... At the end the narrator and the little dancer part with the promise that they will meet again. Yet we understand, as the narrator seems to realize, that this will never happen; this sweet tender moment in life has passed, and the love they feel is impossible.”
(The Seidensticker version gives the student’s and the girl’s ages as 19 and 13 respectively, the Holman version as 20 and 14. I’m guessing that this is because Holman is translating literally ages originally written according to the older Japanese system in which a child is considered to be one year old at birth and their age increases by one year at every New Year.)
On the one hand one could agree with critic Mark Morris that this is a story “about cleansing, purification ... [a] narrative vision that ... generates impulses of release, near jouissance, by means of an effacement of adult female sexuality and its replacement by an impossible white void of virginity ...”, and see it as a worthy literary accomplishment. On the other hand, if one has nearly drowned in the great wave of anime and manga featuring prepubescent “waifus” worshiped for their purity and innocence then the story can be a bit harder to take.
So how has The Dancing Girl of Izu been able to inspire at least six films, three television dramas, and (in Sweet Blue Flowers) an adaptation for the stage deemed suitable for a production by middle schoolers in a stodgy girl’s academy? Some adaptations side-step the implications of the plot by aging the dancing girl up, as in the 1933 silent film version in which the girl’s age goes unmentioned and the 24 year old star Kinuyo Tanaka is hard to mistake for a minor. Others age the student down, as the Fujigaya production presumably does. And some may not care, just as lots of people don’t seem to care that thirteen year old Usagi Tsukino has a boyfriend who’s a university student.
The more interesting question is, does Takako Shimura care? I have no way of knowing. But I will repeat what I have written multiple times now, that Sweet Blue Flowers seems to implicitly endorse relationships between equals (Akira and Fumi, Orie and Hinako) relative to relationships between those unequal in age or other aspects (Chizu and Fumi, Yasuko and Fumi, and Ko and Kyoko). From that point of view I hope you’ll forgive me if I interpret Shimura’s reference to The Izu Dancer as a subtle hint that contemporary Japanese society still has some issues when it comes to young girls and older guys.
Time for volume 3
It’s been some time since Viz Media released omnibus volume 2 of Sweet Blue Flowers, the English edition of volumes 3 and 4 of Takako Shimura’s yuri manga Aoi Hana (青い花), and I’m finally getting around to commenting on this volume.
Two points: First, omnibus volume 4 (the last one) is already out as well, but I’ll confine myself to comments on omnibus volume 3. Second, to quote myself from my very first post: “I am not young, not female, not queer, and not Japanese”, so I’m not exactly qualified by background to do an in-depth Sweet Blue Flowers analysis. On the other hand, no one else seems to have done it, so I’ll do the best I can to do it justice.
The school play looms large in this volume, so my next few (intermittently-published) posts will examine it from a variety of angles.
Errata for Sweet Blue Flowers omnibus volume 2
This will be a short post. I went through omnibus volume 2 again page by page just to be sure, but I found absolutely no typographical errors, no awkward phrasing, or any other text-related issues. (As before, I don’t count hyphenation issues, but even there I can’t recall anything problematic.)
This is a testament to the great job Viz Media has done preparing this English version of Sweet Blue Flowers. Full props to the translator, John Werry, and the editor, Pancha Diaz!
I should also mention the other members of the team, Monalisa De Asis, who did touch-up art and lettering, and Yukiko Whitley, who did the design. This edition looks as good as it reads.
Reviews of Sweet Blue Flowers omnibus volume 2
As I did with omnibus volume 1 of Sweet Blue Flowers, here’s a selected list of reviews of omnibus volume 2. (As before, I ignore video reviews.) I’ve listed the reviews in rough order based on the prominence of the reviewer and the insightfulness of their comments.
Erica Friedman at Okazu. Friedman and her site have been among the most complete and authoritative sources of reviews of yuri manga. She also did previous reviews of volume 3 and volume 4 of the Japanese edition of Sweet Blue Flowers (Aoi Hana), which together cover the material in omnibus volume 2. In this review she rated omnibus volume 2 as 8 out of 10 overall (same as omnibus volume 1), with art and characters at 8, story at 7, and “lesbian” at 4.
(Friedman normally assigns works a “yuri” score, as she did for omnibus volume 1. I presume she switched it to “lesbian” here because she thinks Sweet Blue Flowers is not a typical yuri work.)
Summary: “This is an excellent English release and I think we can expect it to maintain this high quality. ... If you haven’t already picked up this ‘new classic’ of Yuri, I definitely recommend it, for having a depth of early 20th century literary history and still being grounded in the present.”
My take: Friedman highlights the quality of the translation (“The Viz Media edition ... is a little bit like magic”). I agree with her: the volume reads smoothly and clearly, with a good use of idiomatic English. She also points out holes (really omissions) in the plot, like what happened with Akira’s brother and Mogi. (“Shimura’s super strong on developing characters, but putting in all the details of the story has never been her best skill.”) I agree with this as well; it’s pretty clear that Mogi functions mainly as a plot device to get Akira’s brother out of her hair, so lack of proper development is to be expected.
Ruthsic at YA on My Mind (also at Krutula at Goodreads). A lukewarm-to-favorable review that highlights the confusing cast of characters (especially in the “Little Women” sections) and the repeated “tired cliché” of having a younger student crush on an older student. She rates it 3 stars out of 5.
Summary: “Look, I’m invested in the series—I feel it has promise—and am going to keep reading, but looks like I will soon need a guide to keep track of the characters.”
My take: Her complaint about the “Little Women” flashbacks being confusing is understandable; this is especially the case with the “Orie and Hinako” story at the middle of the volume, which flips back and forth from past to present almost from one panel to the next. However I thought the comment about Haruka transferring to Fujigaya “because she though [sic] Yasuka [sic] might be here” was a tad misplaced since I don’t think this is an example of the “crushing on senpai” trope, but more like simple admiration.
Sean Gaffney at A Case Suitable for Treatment. A generally favorable review from a manga-focused site, though not as favorable as for omnibus volume 1.
Summary: “Sweet Blue Flowers is a good series. That said, it’s exhausting as well, and I suspect that it’s best enjoyed either in one gulp—waiting till the other two omnibuses are out—or in smaller quantities, such as reading only half and then coming back. There is such a thing as too much Fumi. (And too be fair, too much Akira, though that’s slightly less pressure-heated.)”
My take: One of Gaffney’s main complaints is that the manga has a bit too much angst and drama, especially when it comes to Fumi. I’ll come to Fumi’s defense here: one of the appeals of the manga is exactly that it is realistic about the course of teen relationships (lesbian or otherwise), and Fumi’s journey is an a good example of that. He also expresses difficulty in keeping track of the characters and telling them apart; I think that’s a reasonable criticism.
Alexandra Nutting (writing as EyeSpyeAlex) at The Geekly Grind. A favorable review on a site focused on anime, manga, and video games. Rated 9 out of 10 overall, 8.6 for story, 9.5 for art, and 9 for character.
Summary: “Despite having an unclear storyline at times, I really enjoy Sweet Blue Flowers. Each volume is longer than your typical manga volume, which is nice as it means the story doesn’t need to rely on cliff hangers. The soft art style and simple dialogue gives this manga a calming effect. Sweet Blue Flowers is by no means a page turning thriller, and I appreciate that. It’s nice to have a manga to read that I can enjoy for its’ relaxing story.”
My take: As the reviewer notes, Sweet Blue Flowers is all about the relationship drama.
Leroy Douresseaux at ComicBookBin. A favorable review (grade A, score 8 out of 10) on a general comics site.
Summary: “Fans of yuri and shojo romance will want to smell the Sweet Blue Flowers.” (This is word for word the same summary he wrote for omnibus volume 1.)
My take: A fairly brief and vanilla review from a self-confessed newcomer to yuri manga. Nothing out of the ordinary, except that he does speculate that “Haruka Ono wants Fumi to play a part... because she is probably in love with Fumi”—a suggestion I find pretty implausible.
Stuff like that
I’ve come to the end of omnibus volume 2 and I still haven’t said much about what’s going on with Fumi and Akira. Allow me to remedy that, in the last commentary post before I wrap up this omnibus volume.
Like a lot of schoolgirl yuri relationships, Fumi’s and Akira’s progresses relatively slowly, with only three significant developments across the entire volume:
The first is of course Fumi’s rejection of Yasuko. Her relationship with Yasuko firmly cemented Fumi’s identity as a lesbian (to the reader, but I think also to Fumi herself), while its ending and her subsequent recovery left her open to the (re)kindling of her feelings toward Akira.
That in turn led directly to the next significant development, Fumi’s telling Akira that she was her “first love”. Since this was not an unambiguous confession, it leaves both Akira and Fumi at loose ends: Akira is unable to discern exactly what Fumi’s present-day feelings are toward herself, and wonders about both her own feelings (or perceived lack of them) toward Fumi and her more general feelings about girl-girl relationships.
Meanwhile Fumi is tortured about what Akira’s own feelings are, even to the point of being led astray imagining that something is going on between Akira and Ko Sawanoi. She struggles to regain the self-confidence she evinced when rejecting Yasuko.
This is shown in particular in Fumi’s ultimately unsuccessful attempt to participate in the Fujugaya drama club’s production of Rokumeikan. It’s somewhat unclear why Fumi actively persists with this, given her clear discomfort and feelings of inadequacy. She tells Haruka Ono that she “wanted to show her up” (“her” meaning Yasuko) but what exactly did Fumi mean by this?
Perhaps Fumi wanted to emulate the smooth self-confidence that Yasuko displayed and that originally swept Fumi off her feet. Being in the play as Kiyohara (a secondary but major role) would put her in a similar position to Yasuko in Wuthering Heights, and with Akira also in the play she’d have plenty of opportunities to impress her, just as Yasuko impressed the girls of Fujigaya the year before.
But, as Fumi ultimately concludes, she’s in no way equipped to step into Yasuko’s role, much less to “show her up”: “I’m simply not like Sugimoto. This is just ... the way I am.” This seems to take a burden off herself, and in combination with her own dissatisfaction with her answer to Haruka leads to the third and final significant development: Fumi’s confession to Akira, which in essence concludes the volume. (The actual conclusion, the scene at the Kamakura rail station, seems somewhat, well, inconclusive.)
So where do things stand now, at the end of omnibus volume 2? We’ve already had a kiss (between Yasuko and Fumi) and a confession. In a typical schoolgirl yuri work a confession and a kiss would be the climax, and we’d be ready to call it a success and go on to the next thing. Yet here we are with another two omnibus volumes still to come.
From Fumi’s point of view things are relatively straightforward: she knows who she is (a woman who loves women), she knows what she wants (both an emotional and physical relationship with Akira), and she’s come right out and asked Akira for just that. The major suspense from here on out will be whether she gets what she wants.
As for Akira, she still reads as asexual and (mostly) aromantic, so whether she’s even able to have that sort of relationship with Fumi is still in doubt, let alone whether she’s interested in doing so. However there are some points we can contemplate:
First, Akira clearly isn’t repulsed by the idea of two girls having a relationship, although she is still somewhat embarrassed by it (although at times her fear seems to be more that she’ll be embarrassed if she quizzes Fumi and finds out Fumi’s not interested in her). She mainly seems somewhat confused and not sure what to think.
Second, it’s also clear that Akira has pretty much zero interest in boys or men. Whatever interest Ko Sawanoi might have had in her, it’s apparent that she feels nothing towards him—which makes Fumi’s insecurities about Akira and Ko a bit unrealistic, even if jealousy does make her temples hurt.
Finally, it’s been intimated multiple times that girls are capable of arousing some sort of response in Akira, first in omnibus volume 1 with Yasuko (“I can see how she’s such a lady-killer”) and then arguably in omnibus volume 2 in her reaction to seeing Fumi and Ryoko standing next to each other (“...seeing Fumi and Ueda together felt strange”) and to Ryoko’s “key-chain” comment. Given that all three girls are tall, and both Fumi and Ryoko have long hair, I don’t think it’s too much to conclude that Akira may have a “type”. If so, Fumi fits it to a T.
Where will Akira and Fumi go from here? By the time this is posted omnibus volume 3 will be out, so we don’t have long to wait to find out.
Adult concerns
In an earlier post I postulated that Shimura was promoting a “new model of yuri ... based on individualism and equality” and noted that Fumi was neither the only nor the first example of this in the world of Sweet Blue Flowers. I was thinking specifically of Hinako Yamashina and Orie Ono.
Orie and Hinako (as they were originally introduced) first showed up at the very end of omnibus volume 1, as junior students to Shinako Sugimoto who eventually fell in love with each other. I wrote in an post at that time that “Orie’s and Hinako’s appears to be a relationship of equals” and speculated that they might “break out of the straitjacket" imposed by traditional class S and yuri tropes.
That speculation is confirmed in the second half of omnibus volume 2, as Orie and Hinako re-enter the story as full-fledged adults (with family names to boot): Hinako Yamashino as the homeroom teacher for Akira’s second-year class, and Orie Ono as the elder sister of first-year student (and friend to Akira and Fumi) Haruka Ono. Their (re)appearance is significant for multiple reasons:
First, Orie and Hinako represent a group that in classic schoolgirl yuri tales is not supposed to exist, namely adult women who have relationships with other adult women after graduation. Their very existence puts the lie to the idea that “it’s just a phase” and that in the end every girl-turned-woman must conform to the prevailing heterosexual ideal.
Second, Hinako especially is a potential role model for students who are attracted to other girls, reassuring them that they are alone or abnormal. This is particularly highlighted in the “Orie and Hinako” segment in the middle of omnibus volume 2, in which the student Kawakubo (only her family name is given) talks with Hinako and complains about her parents thinking her “sick” for liking girls, after which Hinako affirms that she too “liked a girl” (leaving unsaid the fact that she still does).
(It’s worth stopping for a moment here to once again re-emphasize a point I’ve made previously about Sweet Blue Flowers. Although Kawakubo tries her best to get Hinako to reciprocate her feelings, Hinako shuts her down cold: “I don’t want a student as my girlfriend.” This echoes Kagami’s previous rejection of Yasuko’s advances. This seems to me more than just caution on the part of Hinako and Kagami, or a feeling on their part that student-teacher relationships are unhealthy. It’s consistent with Shimura’s repeated framing in Sweet Blue Flowers of equal relationships as superior to relationships marked by age, status, and power differentials.)
Finally, the fact that Hinako and Orie are adults with adult concerns introduces a note of realism into a genre often marked by fluffy fantasies. As she listens to her fellow students talk Akira is clearly worried about the consequences of reciprocating Fumi’s feelings. But the stakes are much higher for Orie and Hinako.
Orie’s refusal to marry has caused conflicts with her parents and heartbreak for her mother, while Hinako is presumably at risk of losing her job if the rumors circulating among the students were to come to the attention of the school administration and were then to be confirmed. In this context Hinako’s admission to Kawakubo, even if couched in the past tense, is especially risky. What if after being rejected Kuwakubo were to turn against Hinako and seek revenge?
In the end the presence of Hinako and Orie does not make Sweet Blues Flowers an adult yuri work; the primary focus is still on the budding relationship between Fumi and Akira. But I think it’s fair to say though Sweet Blue Flowers is still an example of “schoolgirl yuri”, it’s schoolgirl yuri that is increasingly concerned with issues that can only be called adult.
Rokumeikan
Now that a new school year has begun at Fujugaya it’s time for the school’s drama club to choose a new play to put on. This year they decide to put on Rokumeikan, a 1956 play by the famous Japanese author Yukio Mishima, and an interesting choice for multiple reasons. I’ll defer talking about the play’s plot and characters and how they integrate with the themes of Sweet Blue Flowers; that will have to wait until the next omnibus volume, when (presumably) the drama club will actually put on the performance. For now I’ll concentrate on its author and setting.
(My primary source of information on the play is “Anatomy of Mishima’s Most Successful Play Rokumeikan”, by Mami Harono. An English translation of the play itself is available in My Friend Hitler and Other Plays of Yukio Mishima, translated by Hiroaki Sato. However note that the lines from the play quoted in Sweet Blue Flowers were not taken from this version but rather were presumably translated by John Warry, translator of the manga.)
Any discussion of Rokumeikan inevitably starts with its author, since non-Japanese readers are far more likely to know the name “Yukio Mishima” than they are to know the play itself. Mishima is probably most famous (or infamous, as the case may be) for the way he died, committing seppuku in 1970 at the age of 45 after an unsuccessful attempt to rally the soldiers at a Japan Self-Defense Forces base to revolt in the name of the Emperor.
Non-Japanese readers are also likely to know that Mishima was almost certainly a closeted gay man (though this was strenuously denied by his widow). This of course constitutes subtext for Sweet Blue Flowers, but I don’t think it’s actually the most relevant aspect of the choice of Rokumeikan. (Among other things, one of the key themes of Sweet Blue Flowers is the rejection of subtext in favor of text.)
Instead I think we can best understand the significance of Rokumeikan to Sweet Blue Flowers by looking not at its author but at the play itself:
Although Mishima is best known outside Japan as a novelist, he was also a major playwright with about 50 plays to his credit, and occupied a position in 1950s and 60s Japan comparable to that of his contemporaries Tennessee Williams and Arthur Miller in America. Far from being an Takurazuka-style fantasy, Rokumeikan is a serious literary work: Fujigaya putting on a production would be like an American high school putting on a production of A Streetcar Named Desire or Death of a Salesman.
(Like those plays, Rokumeikan caught the imagination of audiences, and it was continually popular. Several productions were mounted in 2006 and beyond to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the premiere, and a special TV adaptation aired in January 2008 while Takako Shimura was writing Sweet Blue Flowers. This would presumably have been the form in which Akira encountered it, hence her comment to Ryoko Ueda: “Oh, right! It was originally a play.”)
Also unlike a typical Takurazuka production, Rokumeikan is not set in a foreign land but in Japan itself, during one of the most critical eras of its history, and touches on key issues still relevant in Japan today. Before Rokumeikan was a play it was a building (鹿鳴館, "Deer-cry Hall"), constructed in the 1880s as a sort of guest house cum meeting center for foreign diplomats visiting Japan. The Rokumeikan was designed by a British architect working in the French style, and featured balls and banquets attended by Japanese nobles and bureaucrats dressed in Western suits and gowns.
The Rokumeikan could thus be seen as either a sign of Japan’s emergence as a recognized equal to Britain, France, and other Western powers, or as an attempt by Japan to mimic Western ways to the detriment of native Japanese traditions.
This harks back to my post contrasting Fujigaya and Matsuoka: How should modernity and tradition be balanced? Should one be bound to tradition? Celebrate it but move on? Actively repudiate it? What is lost, and what is gained, with each approach? (Ironically, over the years Fujigaya Women’s Academy itself has gone from an emblem of modernity in the Meiji era—established by representatives of a foreign religion and based on a Western model—to a bastion of tradition in 21st-century Japan.)
These tensions display themselves in the setting of Rokumeikan, in the actions of the characters within the play, and in the lives of the girls who portray those characters. I’ll discuss this in more depth when we get to omnibus volume 3.
New year, new girl
We’re now into the second half of omnibus volume 2 of Sweet Blue Flowers (volume 4 in the original Japanese edition). Fumi’s and Akira’s first years at their respective high schools have ended, and they are now second year students. Yasuko Sugimoto has left the scene (as discussed in the previous post), making room for a new secondary character, Haruka Ono.
Haruka continues the Sweet Blue Flowers tradition of having interesting secondary characters beyond the main duo of Fumi and Akira. (This isn’t universal, though: Fumi’s Matsuoka friends Mogi, Yassan, and Pon continue to have relatively little to do, and their characterization remains thin.)
Haruka performs several key functions within the story. First, she’s entertaining in her own right, with her outsized personality and vocal brashness. She also provides a pair of fresh eyes with which to view the goings-on at Fujigaya, especially because she transferred in and did not attend Fujigaya’s elementary or middle schools.
In this respect and others (including her height) she resembles Akira. In fact, it’s almost as if she’s a younger version of Akira, with her wide-eyed admiration of all things Fujigaya. She’s even visually framed the same way as she enters the tunnel leading to the school, and repeats Akira’s comments to herself about being a “Fujigaya lady” almost word for word. “She’s just like you were!”, Kyoko marvels.
One might ask: why do we need an Akira clone, when we already have Akira? I think the simplest answer is that second-year Akira is much changed from first-year Akira. She’s been thrown by a loop by Fumi’s interest in her, and seems somewhat uncertain and almost lost, not knowing what to do about the situation and not knowing whom to turn to for advice and a sympathetic ear. (“You seem so distant”, Fumi tells her.)
Haruka reminds us of the most appealing traits of Akira: her energetic and impulsive nature, her sense of justice, and her willingness to speak and act in support of what she thinks is right. (Even their motivations in attending Fujigaya are similarly ditzy: Akira seems to have done it almost on a whim, while Haruka was moved by her admiration of Yasuko—not knowing that Yasuko was a third-year and didn’t even go to Fujigaya.) It’s no surprise that Fumi becomes friends with Haruka, despite their age difference and their attending different schools: many of the things that attract her to Akira arguably attract her to Haruka as well.
Haruka is also in a way going through a similar self-assessment as Akira: just as Fumi’s confession to her prompts Akira to question both her own feelings toward Fumi and her feelings about lesbian relationships generally, Haruka’s discovery of her sister’s love letter causes her to think about the issue as well, involving as it does someone close to her.
Haruka also helps drive the plot in various ways both large and small: She discovers Ryoko Ueda reading in the library and urges she be cast in the school play, encourages and counsels Fumi in her (ultimately unsuccessful) attempt to play a role as well, and then apologizes to Fumi for her pushiness after Fumi calls it quits.
Finally, Haruka’s conversation with Fumi about her sister (”I think my sister is in love with a girl!”), Fumi’s response to Haruka about that revelation, and Fumi’s regret over what she feels is the inadequacy of that response, set up the climatic scene of omnibus volume 2, namely Fumi’s confession to Akira of her true feelings.
Altogether Haruka is a most amusing and appealing character. By the end of omnibus volume 2 she’s become a force to be reckoned with in Fujigaya (”You sure have a lot of older friends”, remarks Akira) and reinforces the theme of the subversion of hierarchy that I discussed in my last post. Where her character will go in omnibus volume 3 remains to be seen, but her presence is certainly one of the highlights of omnibus volume 2.