Kantan-otoko[邯鄲男]

Kantan-otoko gives a young man a face for a remarkably crowded afternoon. Its name means “the man of Kantan”; the furrows between its brows suggest that being young has not made life straightforward.

In the Noh play Kantan, the same mask carries Rosei through uncertainty, delight and the recognition that everything he has just possessed can vanish. What looks like a troubled face must also leave room for pleasure and understanding.

The mask has substance: broad cheeks, a tapering jaw and a prominent nose give it an oval outline, larger and heavier than the related Chūjō type. Long, narrow eyes sit beneath low, softly painted eyebrows. Two pairs of short creases rise between the brows, while shallow folds descend beside the mouth. Parted lips reveal both rows of teeth. The complexion varies from pale to yellowish tan, with a lightly painted moustache and, often, a small patch of hair on the chin.

These details help distinguish Kantan-otoko from its close relatives. Chūjō generally has heavier artificial eyebrows associated with high court rank, grooved upper eyelids and only an upper row of teeth. Kantan-otoko’s upper eyelids are smooth, and its eyebrows are less exalted: their blurred edges imitate cosmetic enhancement, rather than individual hairs. Its broader, firmer features also give it a less delicate presence. Yasuo Nakamura finds a more ordinary human strength here than in the aristocratic Chūjō and Imawaka.

Yet a firm face need not have a fixed mood. The Sano Art Museum catalogue describes Kantan-otoko as having an exceptionally neutral expression among male masks, suited to the changes before and after Rosei’s dream. “Neutral” in this sense need not mean vacant. The face must leave room for an actor to make anxiety, pleasure and understanding credible without changing masks.

Rosei begins his journey troubled by life and looking for guidance. At an inn in Kantan, he rests on a remarkable pillow. In his dream he is summoned to become a ruler, and the years unfold in peace, prosperity and courtly pleasure. At the celebration of his fiftieth year on the throne, he joins the dancing. Then the innkeeper wakes him: his millet is cooked. A reign has fitted into the preparation of lunch. The dream leads him to recognise the transience of glory and to return home with the understanding he had gone out to seek.

Still features, moving expression

This places an unusual demand on the performer. Rosei cannot simply look sorrowful from beginning to end. Nakamura stresses that the face must suit an earnest young seeker’s melancholy, yet become clear and refreshed after awakening. Udaka likewise emphasises that one mask remains in use up to the moment of recognition. The change belongs to the performance, even though the carved features remain still.

The carving makes that change possible. With the face inclined downward under an overhead light, the furrows between the eyes and around the mouth collect shadows, strengthening a discouraged or sorrowful look. Raising the face allows light into those recesses and can brighten the expression. The eyes and mouth work with these changes, much as they do in young-woman masks. A line that appears to record worry in a photograph becomes part of a moving range of expression on stage.

Kantan-otoko’s career extends beyond its namesake play: it also portrays Sumiyoshi Myōjin in the second part of Takasago. The human face can take on a divine presence.

The change did not require the worried brow to disappear. Nakamura observes that its short folds can also support a stern expression and thus a divine role. Marvin distinguishes the solemnity of masks intended for Sumiyoshi from the stronger anxiety or sadness of those selected for Kantan, while treating them as variations within the same type. The actor’s choice matters: the Sano catalogue places this family of male masks between aristocratic spirits and more explicitly supernatural faces, and notes that their use can depend on how the performer conceives the role.