My job is to "create people."

We spoke with Issey Ogata, who played the role of Chikugo no Kami Inoue in Martin Scorsese's "Silence," which was recently released in Japan, and whose profound performance was highly praised by critics overseas. Starting from his roots in solo performances, Mr. Ogata is expanding his field of activity more and more.

I take the characters on a journey within myself

This January, Martin Scorsese's film adaptation of Shusaku Endo's novel "Silence" will be released. The director had been planning this film adaptation for many years, and since there was quite a long time between my being cast as Inoue Chikugomori and the start of filming, I came up with material for a one-man show. I imagined that if there were fumi-e, there would be painters and craftsmen who made the copper plates. The picture-tester, who is the protagonist, paints such a magnificent picture that the Christians ask him to give it to them so they can hang it on their walls and worship it. The story is about how the picture-tester ends up being hunted by the shogunate because he is a Christian. Before actually playing Inoue, I had this rich imagination, so I went on all sorts of journeys within that world. That's why, for Inoue—a former Christian now in the position of persecuting them as the Nagasaki Magistrate—it was clear I should let him travel within me, rather than rigidly defining the role. He's cruel, childish, has ideals, yet faces a reality crushed by those very ideals. He's constantly shaken. I hoped I could create that.

Silence Nationwide Release: Saturday, January 21, 2017
Distributed by KADOKAWA  ©2016 FM Films, LLC. All Rights Reserved.

When I first met the director, I was nervous about how to interact with him, but he was incredibly straightforward. He was simply someone who just wanted to make this film. And I was there to be a part of it. That was all. Even on location in Taiwan, the director was constantly filled with joy and happiness just from being able to make this film. On the first or second day, late in the evening, I was completely exhausted after shooting, but apparently there was still more filming to do. The director hopped in the back of the jeep and yelled "Tomorrow~!" at us, grinning from ear to ear. Seeing that, I thought, "Ah, I'll give it my all for this person." The director never said "no" to our acting. He always said, "Excellent!" But then he'd add, "Excellent! One more time" (laughs).

Laughter is happiness. Somehow, I want to get there.

Whether it's film, TV, or stage, I believe my job is "creating people." People who look different, think differently, use different words, have different relationships – people unlike me. I'm always thinking about how to become that person without leaving my own traces. In terms of "creating a human being," on stage, the audience's reactions can change things. Lines that seemed effective in my head often feel less impactful when actually spoken on stage. Did the meaning change? Was it the delivery? Did I say it to the wrong person? All sorts of thoughts rush through my mind in that moment, and I panic. But that itself is live. I used to try to make my intentions match the audience's reactions, but it's actually normal for them not to match. Experiencing this gap is something only possible on stage. Once I get home, it all lines up in my head again. Lately, I've come to think this mismatch might actually be the greatest thrill of live performance.

For me, my main activity is still this live performance. Writing new material, creating it—that's what drives everything. I believe finding what's interesting comes from within the creative process itself. What I strive for there is to make it funny. For myself, and for the audience. Laughter is a happy thing. I want to act out human richness and somehow bring everyone there.

Whether it's a one-man show, a film, or an illustration, I basically drive everything forward with words. When creating material, I write the lines. Then, even when I receive a script to perform, like this time with "Silence," I write. I write down what I'm going to say. If there's English dialogue, I figure out what it essentially means. Like, "This is the scene where I persuade Rodrigo," or "How do I persuade him?" Then, "What does persuasion mean to Inoue? What does it entail?" I drill down into it. On paper. So, to put it another way, it's all about words. When I draw, I'm writing in my head. Like, what did I want to draw? Or, is this a bit too soft? Then, I might think, "Let's zoom in on that part and just draw a close-up of it, nothing else needed." It feels like I'm writing a dialogue in my head. I guess I just can't escape words.

Reexamining Modern People Through the Literary Masters Series

On stage, two years ago, I started a new "Literary Masters Series." I was offered the chance to do a one-man show based on Natsume Sōseki's work, and we performed it at Waseda University's Ōkuma Auditorium. In Sōseki's works, like Botchan or Sanshirō, the main characters are usually already well-defined. So, I focused on the supporting characters, the ones who give you the joy of letting your imagination run wild, and made them the protagonists of my one-man shows. When we revived it in Matsuyama, I realized this approach could work with other literary masters. So I kept expanding it: Osamu Dazai, Naoya Shiga, Riichi Yokomitsu, Yasunari Kawabata. It's been incredibly interesting work.

Why was it so fascinating? I'd always played modern people in my one-man shows, thinking "Oh, there they are, people just like this." But lately, maybe because I'm getting older, even when I look around at the modern world again, I don't feel much stimulation. For example, whether it's vibrant young people, elders who've lived through life, or still-spirited high schoolers, everyone has their eyes glued to their smartphones. Their expressions have become uniform, and I just can't see them anymore—these modern people.

Then, by chance, I encountered Natsume's works. Suddenly, the human struggles, desires, hopes, frustrations, the urge to outsmart others, and religious themes of the Meiji era became starkly visible. If I make it through this series, I think something that people possessed decades ago, but is now hidden within modern people, might erupt again, protrude, and reach my eyes. Or perhaps the very idea that such things are hidden is an illusion, and I myself am poisoned by modernity—I think that might become clear. Going forward, I want to expand the Literary Masters series to include foreign authors as well.

A scene from the Literary Masters Series "Light and Darkness"