第61回 「1年の3分の1しか会えない 夫へのサプライズ」「舞台の衣装」

Returning After Eight Months

The show had been off the air for a full eight months. Matsuoka Mayu and Ito Sayuri admitted with a rueful laugh that nearly half a year had passed since they first announced they would start recording again. At events and on set, they said, people kept asking whether the show was finished or would ever come back — a sign, they noted, of how many fellow industry workers are quietly in the audience. They re-introduced the program as "a supportive talk show where we empathize with and imagine our way into the episodes listeners send us, and close each episode with a small mutual 'otagai-sama' (we're in this together)."

A Reply Email from a Sailor's Wife

The episode opened with a piece of follow-up correspondence tied to Episode 47. Back then, an email from a listener who signed himself "Umi no Otokokei Samaris" (海の男系サマリス) — a 31-year-old sailor who spends more than two-thirds of the year at sea — had been read on air. He had written about always making his wife feel lonely and wanted to give her an "otagai-sama" message as a gift.

Now, that same wife had written in herself. She said she had been listening while doing housework after putting the children to bed, with no idea at first that the email on air had anything to do with her own life. As detail after detail matched her own situation, she gradually realized, "wait — could this be about me?" and immediately messaged her husband, who was out at sea.

She described making a point of regularly talking with her husband about the children, things she had been into lately, and movies or dramas she recommended — a conscious effort to stay connected across the distance. She also mentioned celebrating their wedding anniversary with a family dinner at a restaurant in Huis Ten Bosch. As for how she found the show: she had discovered it on YouTube, passed it along to her husband as something worth listening to, and had no idea until that moment that he had secretly sent in an email.

Her letter also noted that whenever her husband returns to port, he takes the lead on housework and childcare and treats their family time as something precious. She closed with a request: "Please give my husband, whose birthday is in October, a message from the two of you. I know it will be the best surprise."

Matsuoka and Ito were visibly moved. "They're holding the same amount of love for each other," one said. "In the two-thirds of the year he's away, he must be putting that much more gratitude into the one-third they have together." With the episode going out on September 23 and the birthday just around the corner, they announced, "Samaris-san is turning 32," and launched into a birthday song — first the standard version, then a Marilyn Monroe-style rendition complete with his name worked in: "Happy Birthday dear 32-sai, umi no otoko no Ke-Samaris no sa♪."

The Secrets of a Stage Quick-Change

Listener Kaho had written in after watching a show at Parco Theater, stunned by the sheer number and speed of the costume changes, and asked for the inside story.

Both hosts immediately pointed to the same thing: the skill of the professional costume department. "There's always a moment where you think, 'they put Velcro there?!'" Ito said. During a quick-change, the performer handles the top while costume staff simultaneously help with the bottom — a fully choreographed two-person operation. You lift your foot to step into what's in front of you, tie your own top, and get your trousers pulled on at the same time.

When a wig change is involved, it gets more complex: three things happen at once — a makeup staff member swaps the wig while the performer ties the top and steps into the bottom — all in the dark of the wings, lit only by a single pilot light. That dim light prompted a tangent: apparently skin looks remarkably luminous under a tiny bulb, only for the illusion to vanish the moment you return to the bright dressing room lights, which got a self-deprecating laugh from both.

The hardest changes of all involve large traditional Japanese costumes. What would ordinarily require tying multiple sashes is instead built into a modified samue-style garment that can be put on and taken off in seconds. "It's not us who are impressive," they both insisted. "The professional costume staff are the incredible ones."

On the Japanese Production of Dear Evan Hansen

The conversation turned to the musical Dear Evan Hansen (ディア・エヴァン・ハンセン), in which Ito Sayuri had been performing — the recording was made around the time of the final Osaka performance, which Matsuoka Mayu had attended. "I laughed so hard and cried so hard," Matsuoka said, adding that beyond the story itself, there were moments where the actors' small gestures and timing made her think, "that's just mastery" — and that hearing Ito sing brought her to tears.

On Broadway, she explained, the mere mention of the character name "Evan" is enough to draw whoops from a passionate fandom. For the Japanese cast, one of the quiet worries had been whether Japanese audiences would laugh at the same moments. When laughs did come, Ito said, it genuinely made her happy. There was also a technical aside: EX Theater, where the production played, has acoustics that make it difficult for sound from the house to reach the stage, so the cast often couldn't tell whether the audience was reacting at all — which only heightened the uncertainty.