Banning "The Mikado"

or "The Clown of Westminster"

'The Mikado' or, 'The Town of Titipu' was the ninth collaboration between librettist W.S. Gilbert and composer Arthur Sullivan. It first opened at the Savoy Theatre in London on March 14th, 1885, and met with instant success. Before the end of that year it was estimated that over 150 companies were performing the popular operetta world-wide. The Savoy production ran for 672 performances, the fourth longest running production in London up to that time, and supplanted 'H.M.S. Pinafore' as the most popular of all Gilbert and Sullivan productions.

Such was it's popularity that it was revived at the Savoy in June 1888, November 1895, and May 1896, running for over a hundred performances on each occasion (over 200 on the latter). But when a further revival was planned for the Savoy in June 1907 those plans had to be cancelled when, at the beginning of May, the Lord Chamberlain, in his capacity as Censor of Plays, withdrew it's licence, thereby preventing it's further performance in Great Britain indefinitely.

So what was it that suddenly made this hugely popular production of twenty year's standing such a danger to public morals that it's further production needed to be prevented? Gilbert's librettos were often severely biting in their satire of British politics and institutions, and even though Gilbert frequently softened the blow, as in this case, by setting them in exotically distant or imaginary locations, the public of the day understood the allusions all too well so that these popular operettas frequently raised the ire of certain humourless politicians and public officials. But 'The Mikado' had by now been performed many hundreds of times, both in London and in the provinces, over a period of two decades, so that the bite of it's satire had softened greatly with the passage of time. Nor had it ever in that period caused offence to the public or incited the ire of the censor.

The simple answer to why the much loved comic opera suddenly became so objectionable as to warrant the withdrawal of it's licence was a purely political one, and, as such, arguably, a gross misuse of the Lord Chamberlain's powers. Indeed it was not the morals of the great British public that risked being offended by the operetta, but those of Prince Fushimi, an important visitor from Japan about to arrive in London. At first glance, it appears somewhat absurd to suppose that 'The Mikado' might have been offensive to the Japanese since, despite it's setting, the operetta was clearly about Britain, with its satire clearly directed at domestic, not Japanese, mores and institutions. But the problem was in the very character of the Mikado himself, a personage whom the Japanese held in particularly high reverence and did not like to see being taken lightly in jest.

But if the offence it might have caused to the visiting Japanese dignitary was only potential, the offence that it's ban caused to the British public was both real and immediate. Within days, Mrs. D'Oyly-Carte, widow of Richard D'Oyly-Carte and now head of the D'Oyly-Carte opera company, had received thousands of letters of support from indignant members of the public as well as numerous telegrams from members of the theatrical fraternity.

Mrs. D'Oyly-Carte herself, in an interview with the Daily Mail, had the following to say on the subject:

So it appears that, when approached by the Lord Chamberlain's office (at the beginning of April), Mrs. D'Oyly-Carte had, out of loyalty to her country and at considerable pecuniary disadvantage to herself, having already invested a significant amount on costumes and scenery, been willing to set aside her plans to produce the operetta at the Savoy where it might have come to the notice of, and just possibly offended, the visiting dignitary - replacing it instead with a hurriedly prepared revival of "Patience" (a somewhat ironic choice since that was a quality she would need a good deal of in the days to follow!)"

And there the matter should have ended, but with the supreme high-handedness that had by now become associated in the public mind with his office the Lord Chamberlain took action to enforce the matter legally by withdrawing the licence, thus barring the production not only in London but elsewhere in the UK - and without even the decency of returning Mrs. D'Oyly-Carte's own good grace by informing her directly of that decision, which must surely harm her even further financially, but releasing that information through the newspapers instead.

In the absence of any such official notification, Mrs. D'Oyly-Carte allowed a performance by one of her touring companies to proceed at Sheffield on Thursday May 4th, but elsewhere, when the Chief Constable of Middlesbrough telegraphed the Lord Chamberlains office with regards to an amateur production advertised in that town he was instructed to prevent it! Moreover, the performance at Sheffield ellicited immediate threat of prosecution from the Lord Chamberlain's office who considered that notice of the withdrawal had been given through the newspapers and that it was unnecessary to give individual notice to persons or companies performing the opera. Consequently, they referred the matter to the Home Office whose function was to prosecute the case through the police courts - and which would have subjected Mrs. D'Oyly Carte to a £50 fine.

Mrs. D'Oyly Carte, by now indignant at the harsh and heavy-handed way in which she was being treated in the matter, told the press that she was at a loss to understand it but had made no change in the programme of the Lyceum Theatre at Sheffield where the 'The Mikado' would continue to be performed.

Nor was she alone in her resentment. The Lord Chamberlain had severely underestimated the resentment of the public in this unwarranted and unjustified interference with one of their favourite entertainments, and even before Prince Fushimi had set foot on British shores the matter had become a national furore. Questions were asked in the House of Parliament in response to which the the Goverment at first attempted to dissociate themselves from the ban by asserting that Lord Althorp, the Lord Chamberlain, had acted purely on his own cognizance. But under further questioning, Under Secretary Viscount Walter Runciman revealed that, whilst no official complaint had been received from Japan, "it had been thought well, in view of the growing entente between England and the Eastern island empire, that the opera might better be omitted from the list of the Savoy Theater attractions." In truth, the real mover in the ban was Prince Arthur of Connaught, the King's nephew, who had just returned from a visit to Japan where, allegedly, it had been whispered to him in official quarters that the operetta had caused high offence to certain Japanese officials in London who had reported their impressions to the Japanese court. Prince Arthur had reported this state of affairs to the Government who had decided to take action prior to the reciprocal visit of Prince Fushimi.

Speaking from the House of Lords defending the ban, Lord de Saumarez, claiming an intimate knowledge of Japanese sentiments, declared that the simple fact that the operetta bore the name of their Emperor was most offensive to the Japanese, His Majesty the Mikado being head of the Nation's religion and deeply revered by his subjects.

Whatever the motivation, it was, however, a significant blunder. The Government could not have foreseen the sheer strength of the public backlash that generated a level of resentment against the coming visit that was far more likely to cause offence to the foreign dignitary than any peripheral knowledge that a play that some few of his countrymen had found offensive might be being performed somewhere unseen. The operetta had, after all, been performed in England for over twenty years and other than first night reviews new performances attracted little attention from the press. The whole furore over it's banning brought it far more into the light of day than if it had simply been allowed to proceed as normal, or, better yet from the Government's viewpoint, had Mrs. D'Oyly-Carte's gracious offer of self-imposed censorship in the capital alone been found to be sufficient. In the event, it would be difficult to exaggerate the feeling of annoyance that was created throughout the country and was voiced by practically every newspaper in the land. As one one such put it - "So far as one man's [the Chamberlain's - Ed.] fussy mistake may do mischief between two friendly nations, the suppression of 'The Mikado' seems the most likely thing in the world to damp the enthusiasm for the Japanese alliance."

But the Chamberlain's office stood it's ground in maintaining the ban, even restrainting military bands from playing selections of it's music. The Chamberlain's office explained it's position in the following terms:

The holder of the licence in this case was Mrs. D'Oyly-Carte who maintained that she never received any such official notification. Never-the-less, as a result of the obstinacy of the Lord Chamberlain's office, Mrs. Carte telegraphed the managers of her company's in Sheffield and Leeds to the effect that it would not be wise to further perform the piece at the present time.

The ban held for six weeks until the Prince's visit was over before the operetta could again be performed freely without fear of incurring the ire of the censor and the British Government.

With hindsight, the ban does appear to have been a particularly ill-conceived knee-jerk reaction, particularly in relation to it's being extended to the provinces where it could hardly have even come to the attention of the visiting dignitary save for all the furore caused in the press over it's banning. Even more ironically, Prince Fushimi himself was said to have expressed disappointment that he would not be able to see the production which he had hoped to take in during his visit.

The controversy also added fuel to the growing resentment against the powers of the censor and the seemingly erratic and inconsistent manner in which these powers were often exercised. Certainly, this does seem to have been a blatant misuse of those powers which were never intended to be applied for purely political reasons.

Reactions among the Japanese themselves were mixed. Seizaburo Shimizu, the Japanese consul in Chicago, made a public statement to the American press endorsing the action of the British government saying: "The title of the Emperor is one of dignity, the comic opera, 'The Mikado,' is anything but dignified, and naturally we, as a nation, feel a regret that the Japanese executive should be put in a light of frivolity ... The Japanese do not favor the idea of continually being set forward in the light of acrobats and Nanki Poo actors. We would prefer showing that we are advancing intellectually In business and as a government." On the other hand the more forward thinking, Mr. Matsui, editor of the journal Yortizmi, of Tokyo, who was in England on a visit at the time, characterised the ban on 'The Mikado' as a "delightful absurdity" and added "if it be no longer permitted to make fun of one another, what is to become of all your humorists? Whatever my national feelings may be, I should never acquiesce in the prohibition of a play or a book simply because the play or the book would give offence to my friends or neighbours. The sacrifice of a work of art to the sensitiveness of others is to my mind unjustifiable and undignified."

As a footnote, it is interesting to reflect that the one aspect of the original production of 'The Mikado' that might genuinely have caused real offence to Japanese dignity had already long since been removed. In his original version of the musical score, Arthur Sullivan had incorporated the tune of what he beleived to be the Japanese national anthem to announce the first appearance on stage of the Mikado, but which was in fact the tune of one of the coarsest popular bawdy songs known in that nation - the result of a practical joke played upon Mr. Sullivan, it is said, by a young Japanese diplomat who had hummed the tune to him. Needless to say, once his mistake had been brought to his attention he immediately substituted another march in place of the objectionable tune.