#81【ダウ蓮見×松尾スズキ】演劇もお笑いもおじさんドーナツ

Small Talk Around the Kishida Drama Award

The episode opens with Matsuo revealing that he records and watches God Town (ゴッドタウン) and Wednesday's Downtown (水曜日のダウンタウン), and the two confirm they already knew of each other before the conversation turns to the Kishida Kunio Drama Award (岸田国士戯曲賞). The current prize is ¥300,000; when Matsuo won, it was ¥200,000. The award is administered by Hakusuisha (白水社), a publisher specialising in French literature that nearly discontinued the prize when French literature fell on hard times before a sponsor came to the rescue. "I really should be more grateful," Matsuo laughs.

Matsuo won the 41st prize for "Funky," performed at Honda Theater (本田劇場). It was a prolific period — he was writing three new plays a year — alongside works like Machine Diary (マシン日記) and Drive-In California (ドライブイン・カリフォルニア). When Hasumi realises that 29 years have passed since that win and he himself is now 29, he exclaims, "You were so young!" Tickets at the time cost around ¥4,000; Dow currently charges ¥8,000. "That makes it sound expensive," Matsuo laughs. "A lot of things have gone up over those decades — lumber included."

The "Middle-Aged Donut" in Theater

"The theater world has hollowed out and become a universe of middle-aged men — it's a middle-aged donut," Matsuo says, introducing the episode's central theme. Keralino Sandrovitch's (ケラリーノ・サンドロヴィッチ) company, Noda Hideki's (野田秀樹) group, the people who have worked alongside Nagatsuka Keishi (長塚圭史) — they have all aged into middle age and beyond. Within Otona Keikaku itself, Abe Sadao (阿部サダヲ) is now 55 or 56, and the intake of young members has effectively stopped.

Hasumi says comedy is the same. At 29, the next cohort of performers below him is already around 40 — roughly an 11-year gap. "The middle is just missing." Matsuo says he has been sounding this alarm for years, fully expecting to be reprimanded by producers for doing so. He also reveals he wrote in a column that seeing Hasumi on TV was "frustrating, because he looked so naturally at ease" — and tells him directly, "I am genuinely glad someone like you has appeared."

How Cocoon Actors Studio Came to Be

When Bunkamura approached Matsuo about becoming artistic director of Bunkamura Theatre Cocoon (シアターコクーン) in Shibuya, he set one condition: "Let me build an actors studio." His reasoning was straightforward — he was tired of sourcing casts from talent agencies and wanted collaborators who genuinely respected theater rather than using it as a stepping stone to something bigger.

The COVID-19 pandemic, which left Bunkamura's facilities almost entirely vacant, provided the opening to make it happen. The building contains a vast underground studio where artists including Yamashita Tatsuro (山下達郎) have recorded, and various instructors now teach classes there. The studio is in its fourth cohort with around 20 students. "Twenty is a few too many," Matsuo admits, though the graduation performance brings everyone onto one stage together, so he can keep track of them all. Every graduation includes a production called "Bettei" (別邸), which always uses a new script he writes himself; he has completed two so far. "This is something you can only do once you have a bit of financial breathing room later in life," he says. "When I was young, I'd finish a script and immediately ask, 'So how much am I getting paid?'"

Otona Keikaku's Early Days

In the beginning, Otona Keikaku was almost a circle — whoever showed up tended to stay, Matsuo recalls. Members found their way to the company through flyers posted at theaters, listings in the information magazine Pia (ぴあ), auditions, and appearances on the TV program Joudan Gahou (冗談画報), an old show where theater groups could perform comedy sketches. When Hasumi says he has never heard of it, Matsuo shrugs: "Of course you haven't."

Abe Sadao joined at 20, having been working as a truck driver. Another key member arrived as a dropout from Nihon Geijutsu Daigaku after spotting a flyer. "Everyone was young at the start," Matsuo says. "I'm the only one who has gotten old."

Matsuo Suzuki on Variety TV: "Just Soaking Up the Shadow"

Around age 40, Matsuo spent six months as a regular on the early run of Bakusho Mondai's (爆笑問題) show Bakuten (爆点), filling one of three "cultural figure" slots alongside Vivian Hsu (ビビアン・スー) and "Fukagawa-san." He could not keep up with the speed of the comedians at all. "It was like The Matrix," he says. "Words of light were flying — rat-a-tat-tat — and I was just hazily absorbing the shadow, unable to grasp any substance." He left after six months because film work had become unmanageable alongside it. As the show later took off on the back of the HG boom, he suspects everyone thought, "Good thing he was there at the start."

Matsuo also advances a broader theory about television: "In the old days, having someone who wasn't a variety expert — like the late Osugi Ren (大杉漣) — sitting there looking bewildered created texture. Now the atmosphere demands that everyone be a good talker." Hasumi locates the structural cause in the difference between comedy and theater. Stand-up performers hone their skills in "hiraba" — open-floor spots where they share the bill with different acts every show, constantly practicing unscripted conversation with strangers. Theater is self-contained; performers talk almost exclusively to their own company. "Telling theater people to adapt immediately to TV is asking a lot," Hasumi says. "They just haven't practiced it. Cut them some slack." Matsuo agrees.