Why a Mayor Gets Angry When a Local Warlord Is Cast as a Villain: Japan's Hope for Benevolent Authority
A Mayor Complains about a Historical Drama
I recently saw a news report about a mayor who objected to the way a warlord associated with his region was portrayed in Toyotomi Brothers!, an NHK historical drama.
NHK is Japan’s public broadcaster, roughly comparable to the BBC in the United Kingdom. Its “Taiga drama” is a prestigious, year-long historical television series. NHK produces one new Taiga drama each year, usually focusing on a major figure or period from Japanese history, and the series attracts nationwide attention.
My first reaction to the news was to laugh a little.
The warlord lived hundreds of years ago. He has been dead for centuries, and he was not related to the mayor. Yet when a television drama portrayed him negatively, even the head of the local government responded.
On reflection, however, this kind of thing occasionally happens in Japan.
Local governments have also objected to the portrayal of locally associated figures or regions in previous Taiga dramas.
Why are feudal lords and warlords from centuries ago still treated so strongly as members of the local community?
A Drama about the Warring States Period Needs Villains
The production team’s problem is easy to understand.
During Japan’s Warring States period, everyone acted according to their own interests. Yesterday’s ally became today’s enemy. Leaders formed alliances, betrayed them, and joined forces again when circumstances changed.
Present the historical record without shaping it into a narrative, and viewers may end up asking, “So who was the good person?”
A drama, however, needs a protagonist.
Once there is a protagonist, the story also needs someone to stand in the protagonist’s way.
That means a historical figure must become the villain, antagonist, or foil.
Tell the story from Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s side, and his enemies will look bad. Make Tokugawa Ieyasu the protagonist, and the landscape changes. Make Akechi Mitsuhide the protagonist, and even Oda Nobunaga begins to look different.
That is unavoidable in a historical drama.
The problem is that the person selected as this year’s villain may have been loved as a hero in one region for hundreds of years.
That is where the conflict begins.
Why an Old Feudal Lord Becomes a Local Hero
Travel around Japan, and you will notice that former lords and warlords are still treated with considerable respect.
They have statues. Festivals are held in their honor. Some are enshrined at Shinto shrines. Children learn about them as part of local history.
People pass down stories such as:
“This lord improved the river.”
“This warlord built the castle town.”
“This person developed the local industry.”
These figures are not remembered merely as people who once held power.
They have become something like the founders of the modern city.
In corporate terms, imagine that a statue of a company’s founding president still stood in front of its headquarters several centuries later.
If a nationally broadcast Taiga drama then declares, “This man was actually a cowardly, incompetent villain,” the local community is unlikely to be pleased.
It can feel less like criticism of a historical figure and more like an insult to the history of the town itself.
That feeling becomes even stronger when the municipality promotes the figure as a tourism asset.
Japanese Period Dramas Often Feature Good People in Power
This reminded me of Japan’s traditional television period dramas, known as jidaigeki.
Consider The Unfettered Shogun. Its hero is Tokugawa Yoshimune, the shogun and therefore the country’s highest military ruler.
In Mito Komon, the hero is Tokugawa Mitsukuni, a senior Tokugawa lord popularly portrayed as a retired deputy shogun traveling in disguise.
Ooka Echizen centers on a respected Edo magistrate.
Toyama no Kin-san also features a magistrate as its hero.
Looking at them together is striking.
Every hero belongs to the ruling side.
These are not stories in which ordinary people rise up and overthrow those in power.
They are almost the opposite.
Common people suffer under corrupt merchants and dishonest local officials. Then someone with even greater authority appears, punishes the wrongdoers, and restores the proper order.
Power itself is not presented as the problem.
The problem is a lower-ranking official who has misused it, while a righteous and admirable person still exists at the top.
For decades, this was one of the most beloved formulas in Japanese period drama.
Not Overthrowing Authority, but Asking Good Authority to Set Things Right
I think this pattern reveals one Japanese ideal of power.
People want those in authority to protect the public rather than make them suffer.
If a corrupt official appears, someone higher up should discipline him. If politics falls into disorder, a virtuous leader should restore it.
Confucianism, which reached Japan from China, includes the idea of rule through virtue. A ruler should not govern merely because he is powerful; he should possess moral character and govern the people properly.
It would be too simplistic to say that Japanese period dramas emerged directly from Confucian thought. But that tradition fits remarkably well with stories in which a good authority corrects a bad one.
If the villagers in Mito Komon armed themselves and seized the local government office, it would become a very different drama.
The ordinary people are in trouble. A villain is exploiting them. Then a righteous authority arrives and resolves everything.
The audience can relax.
In other words, Japanese period dramas often find their happy ending not in freedom from authority, but in protection by legitimate and benevolent authority.
I find that a fascinating characteristic.
Why the Local Lord Must Have Been a Good Man
Seen in this light, it becomes easier to understand why people become angry when a local warlord is portrayed negatively.
The figure is not simply a ruler from a history book.
He is remembered as “the person who built this region,” “the lord who protected its people,” or “the person who created the foundations of today’s town.”
He is the local version of an ideal, benevolent authority.
Then NHK, the national public broadcaster, arrives and effectively says, “This year, we need him to play the villain.”
Naturally, the local community is unsettled.
Taiga dramas can also have a major effect on tourism. Visitors travel to castles, temples, museums, and other places connected with the featured figures. Municipalities open temporary Taiga drama museums and hold related events.
The person may be historical, but in the present day he is also a valuable tourism asset.
A mayor’s reaction cannot therefore be dismissed as nothing more than an emotional complaint from a history enthusiast.
Historical Figures Remain Local Residents Even after Death
What interested me most about the news was not simply that a mayor had complained about a television drama.
It was that a warlord who died hundreds of years ago was still being treated as a member of the local community.
To local residents, he is not merely “someone who once lived around here.”
He is “our lord.”
That is why they dislike hearing outsiders speak badly of him.
The emotional distance is strangely short for a historical figure.
In another sense, this shows how long and continuous local history can feel in Japan.
Beneath that feeling, I can also see the familiar Japanese hope for a good and righteous authority, repeated in stories for generations.
Following this idea further might even lead to a discussion of why Japan’s imperial institution has survived for so long and continues to receive public support. That deserves an article of its own.
For now, corrupt officials should certainly be punished.
But people still want the lord who appears at the end to be admirable.
Even after several centuries, and even after becoming a character in an NHK historical drama, that expectation does not easily disappear.
Apparently, in Japan, a lord’s responsibility to his people does not end when he dies.