Rakugo is a traditional Japanese performing art that originated in the Edo period, originally referring to people who told jokes. Over time, it evolved into a form in which a single storyteller (rakugoka) sits on stage — a platform known as the kōza — and performs an extended, intricate comedic story. The art form is called rakugo (“falling words”) because each performance ends with a punchline called an ochi (“fall”), which brings the story to a sudden close in a way that feels both surprising and inevitable. Rakugo emerged to meet the entertainment needs of an urban commoner audience as Japan’s rural population migrated into cities during the Edo period. In its early days anyone could perform, but today rakugo is mostly performed by professional rakugoka. Unlike noh or kabuki from the same era, rakugo relies very little on costume, music, or props; a single performer plays multiple roles using only body language and gesture, and a folding fan or handkerchief stands in for whatever physical object the story requires. All of this demands an extraordinarily high level of craft. ¹

OST

The first season has an astonishing collection of more than forty tracks, predominantly orchestral, with some shamisen. Emotion is expressed with remarkable subtlety — moving between gentle, tranquil passages and music that is intense but carefully contained. Exceptions include the taiko and shamisen accompaniment for the kōza entrance, and the two most iconic rakugo pieces in the series: Kikuhiko’s performance of “Shinigami” (Death God) and Yotaro’s “Deaikokoro,” both recorded in full — over twenty minutes each.

Visuals and Direction

The art style leans realistic; exaggerated expressions appear mainly on Yotaro. The shot composition is thoughtfully handled throughout — landscape shots, close-ups of objects, and unusual camera angles have all been carefully considered, never feeling intrusive, only adding to the atmosphere.

Overall the visuals are refined and elegant. During rakugo performances, the camera shifts position in response to the different characters the rakugoka portrays, helping the viewer follow the story. The physical details of the performer during a performance — body movement, sweat — and their facial expressions are all rendered with great care.

Plot

The first episode runs an hour and forty minutes, sketching the story of a young man just released from prison who is captivated by Yurakutei Yakumo’s jailhouse performance of “Shinigami” and becomes his apprentice, taking the name Yotaro (a traditional rakugo name suggesting a fool). Everything that follows — except for the ending of the final episode — is Yurakutei Yakumo’s account of his own past: born into a geisha household but cast out for being male, he entered the world of rakugo, and there met Sukeroku.

“If you can’t do it, then die for it.”
The destitute Yotaro, fresh out of prison, runs straight to the yose
wanting to become the apprentice of the great master Yakumo.
Yakumo, who never takes students, sees the shadow of an old friend in him,
and not only breaks his rule but entrusts Yotaro with the future of rakugo.
The night is long — listen as Master Yakumo tells his story:
of an old friend, of love, of rakugo’s rise and fall through the Showa years, and its passing on.

Ideas

In my view, the first season of Showa Genroku Rakugo Shinju is driven by a single, powerful feeling: grief and helplessness at the silent passing of a traditional art form. After the seventh-generation Yurakutei Yakumo and Sukeroku leave to perform for soldiers at the front, the war drags on. Kikuhiko and his master’s wife, sheltering in the countryside, wait with constant, unspoken anxiety — not only longing for the two at the front, but living in a state of dread about where they are, whether they are alive at all. This is the unavoidable torment that war inflicts. Eventually the waiting is rewarded: both return safely. (This is a matter of narrative necessity.) Post-war Japan, shaped by the aftermath of conflict and humanity’s longing for peace, saw technology accelerate rapidly, and television was born. Since before the war only a handful of people had drifted in and out of the yose (the venues where rakugo is performed, like small theaters); now people sank into new forms of entertainment, and this already aging art form began to fade from memory.

After that, only people in the countryside who had always loved rakugo were still willing to listen to it over a meal. In Tokyo, interest dropped sharply. The anime’s narrative voice remains smooth and understated, as though the turbulent Showa era had quietly slipped away — the most natural thing in the world. Within the story, Kikuhiko and Sukeroku had once made a pact: Kikuhiko would continue performing traditional rakugo in the elegant style he excelled at, while Sukeroku would adapt to the times, creating new material that audiences wanted. But when Miyokichi enters the picture, the story’s pace suddenly quickens and its emotional register plunges.

In Kikuhiko’s account, Miyokichi had originally been close to the seventh-generation Yurakutei Yakumo, and was later introduced to Kikuhiko, with whom she fell in love. The self-contained, disciplined Kikuhiko had no interest in women; he kept himself focused on his path in rakugo and did not return her feelings.

After the war, Sukeroku and Kikuhiko parted ways. Miyokichi, by then clear-eyed about Kikuhiko’s indifference, moved in with Sukeroku and had a daughter — Konatsu. They lived in the countryside. Rakugo was no longer loved by the public, and Sukeroku’s confidence wore down under the erosion of time. His laziness and refusal to work wore Miyokichi out; originally a geisha, she went back to entertaining men for money, and the family survived on that income along with Konatsu’s rakugo performances.

Later Kikuhiko tracked him down — for the sake of rakugo. Encouraged by Kikuhiko and Konatsu, Sukeroku agreed to tell “Shibahama”: a story about a family, in which a previously idle drunkard is tricked by his wife’s kindly-meant lie into believing he is in debt, and reforms himself to pay it off. (A single line does no justice to this — the anime’s version of this scene is the most complete and beautifully performed rakugo piece in the entire series, far richer than my summary.) The story maps directly onto Sukeroku’s own psychological journey.

But when Miyokichi caught sight of Kikuhiko again, old feelings stirred. She invited him inside and poured out her resentments toward Sukeroku alongside her longing for Kikuhiko. Sukeroku, standing outside the door, caught every word. His sense of family responsibility surged up; he wept and promised Miyokichi that he would stop doing rakugo and find a stable job to support the family.

At that moment Miyokichi, utterly broken, fell from the balcony railing. Sukeroku, seeing it happen, leapt after her. Kikuhiko seized Sukeroku’s hand, trying to stop him from falling from the height — but Sukeroku was holding Miyokichi, and pried Kikuhiko’s hand open. Kikuhiko watched Sukeroku disappear from sight. With that double suicide, the vision of rakugo evolving with the times died too.

The word “shinju” in Showa Genroku Rakugo Shinju refers to a rakugo piece called “Shinagawa Shinju” — a story of lovers dying together. It was the seventh-generation Yurakutei Yakumo’s signature piece, and his last. What had seemed a gentle, understated story reaches, at this moment, a climax no one could have anticipated. The opening theme, “Usugōri Shinjū,” which seemed at odds with the anime’s tone, finally finds its place. Hayashibara Megumi, singing in Miyokichi’s voice, delivers the dark and despairing song that this extraordinarily complex woman would have sung. (The second season promises to reveal more of Miyokichi’s story.)

The Inheritance and Transformation of Culture

In China, countless traditional art forms have vanished with the passage of time. Many are similar to rakugo — storytellers, for instance. A few decades ago, storytellers brought people the same laughter and nourishment for the spirit that rakugo did, an indispensable part of Chinese culture. They not only entertained; they transmitted the depth of China’s classical literature. Today, almost no one knows they existed. Like postwar television in Japan, China’s rapid technological development in recent decades has transformed society at speed. One of those transformations has been the spread of the internet, which — combined with the particular conditions of Chinese society — has driven the fast rise of fast-food culture.

I

The temporary stagnation of development has produced involution. Involution (内卷) today is no longer an anthropological term — it has become an internet buzzword. The double identity of the word itself reflects how far-reaching its influence has become. In an environment of irrational internal competition, people’s time and energy are mercilessly squeezed. A few decades ago, a child could come home from school, pull up a chair, and listen to a storyteller for an entire evening. Unlike people of earlier generations, people today — especially adults — have very little truly free, self-directed time. And because time is so fragmented, sustained activities like reading classical literature have become hard to sustain.

II

The rise of fast-food culture devours what little leisure time is left. From long-form video to short-form, from books to articles, cultural products are being compressed as short as possible. This should not necessarily be a bad thing — concision is a principle writers ought to strictly observe — but the absolute length of information is not what determines its quality; relative length is. Dream of the Red Chamber is a case in point: every word earns its place, every element interlocks with every other; it is a long work, but it never feels padded. Because the barriers to creating content have dropped and the cost of production has fallen, shorter content today is in fact more likely to be lower quality. A steady diet of this kind of content eventually trains the brain to expect the stimulation of fast-food culture and to crave something stronger. The mind grows restless; settling in to read a long work becomes a wall that is hard to scale. In a conversation a few days ago, Xu Chenhong raised the idea that without the commentary of Zhiyanzhai, Dream of the Red Chamber would likely not hold the status and renown it does today. My father and I both found ourselves agreeing.

One reason is that, as a medium, books are surprisingly poor at transmitting knowledge. Books lack effective cognitive models; human cognition is in fact a structured network, and unfolding that network in a linear form is not only difficult for writers to do well but adds considerably to the difficulty of reading and comprehension. ² Zhiyanzhai, a mysterious figure who may have been a close friend of Cao Xueqin or perhaps Cao Xueqin himself, provided a contemporary commentary that became the very origin of Redology.

The other reason is the negative effect on contemporary people’s capacity for appreciation mentioned above. This is an unavoidable consequence of rapid social change, but it is worth some degree of reflection.

Conclusion

In recent years, as cultural products have moved toward commercialization, Showa Genroku Rakugo Shinju seems to sound a warning. In modern society, time and energy are in extreme short supply, and efficiency has become something we cannot help but prioritize. Before approaching something new, I personally tend to start from methodology — when I want to get good at a game, for example, I begin by adopting the settings of professional players. When I first encounter something I know nothing about, I can access other people’s thinking through various media. After applying the results of what others have already worked out, and letting my own time and experience accumulate alongside it, I can adjust what I inherited to fit my own individual needs and eventually make it my own. This is the advantage of the modern world. Technological development has made people’s inner lives restless, but the power of tools may be able to compensate for the deficits it creates. From this vantage point, making a conscious effort to slow down, to improve efficiency, to take from technology what is useful and discard what is not, allows us — through self-purification, self-improvement, self-renewal, and self-development — to keep moving toward something like clarity.