The Voices in the Dark: A History of Japan's Benshi
When Japanese silent films were never silent
Japanese silent movies were never silent. From the first showing of motion pictures in Japan in 1896 until the end of the silent era in 1939, a voice—or multiple voices—always filled the theater. The benshi, Japan's silent film narrators, didn't just explain what was happening on screen. They transformed flickering images into living art, their voices breathing life into every frame. They were performers, interpreters, and stars. And for over four decades, they were the main attraction.
While other countries briefly experimented with live film narrators, only in Japan did they become an influential and integral part of cinema itself. This is their story.
Origins: When Cinema Needed a Voice
When Western silent films first arrived in Japan in the late 1890s, they presented a problem. The images showed foreign customs, unfamiliar places, Western clothing, and behaviors that Japanese audiences had never encountered. Brief films—often less than a minute long—flickered across screens showing everyday life in distant lands. Theater owners needed to extend viewing time and provide value for the high ticket prices they charged.
The solution was simple: hire someone to explain.
The earliest benshi (the term comes from katsudō shashin benshi, literally "motion picture speaker") appeared before the films, providing detailed introductory remarks called maesetsu. They explained Western exotica, decoded foreign customs, and prepared audiences for what they were about to see. Since most motion pictures were foreign imports, benshi essentially functioned as cultural translators and tour guides.
But benshi were more than explainers. They drew from Japan's rich tradition of performance arts—the narrators of kabuki theater, the chanters of bunraku puppet plays, the oral storytelling of rakugo. In a culture where the voice had always animated the visual, it seemed natural that cinema would need the same treatment.
As one contemporary observer noted, the benshi would describe the operation of the projector itself before each showing, then stand beside the screen to provide commentary as the film played. This wasn't just a supplement to the cinema experience—it was the cinema experience.
The Golden Age: When Benshi Were Bigger Than Movies
By the 1910s and 1920s, benshi had evolved from simple explainers into autonomous artists. As films grew longer and more narratively complex, benshi began performing during the screenings themselves, their voices synchronized with the images on screen. They didn't merely translate dialogue or describe action—they performed multiple character voices, added poetic commentary, interpreted ambiguous scenes, and gave emotional depth to every frame.
Japanese audiences didn't go to see a film. They went to see their favorite benshi.
The numbers tell the story: at their peak in 1930, there were 8,000 active benshi in Japan. Their names appeared on movie posters—sometimes larger than the film's title. They earned salaries equivalent to, or exceeding, film actors. As one contemporary fan argued: "It is the benshi who cements the connection between the film and the audience. He is the one who brings the film to life and unites the audience with the film. Thus, he should be paid more than actors, who are merely filmed and projected on to the screen."
The most popular benshi earned more than the Prime Minister.
Theaters rose and fell based on the benshi they employed. Audiences chose which cinema to attend not by what film was playing, but by which benshi was performing. Musei Tokugawa—arguably the most famous benshi of the era—performed at Tokyo's prestigious Aoikan and Musashinokan theaters. If you wanted to experience his restrained, intellectual style narrating The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari or other foreign art films, you went to those theaters. Other benshi, like Mitsugi Okura, drew crowds for their steamy narrations of romantic thrillers.
Benshi were ranked like sumo wrestlers on banzuke charts, their status determining their bargaining power with theater managers and their control over which films would be shown. Higher-ranking benshi could dictate to directors what type of movie to produce to best showcase their setsumei (narration). They communicated with projectionists through coded signals, controlling the speed of hand-cranked projectors—slowing down scenes to showcase their elaborate commentary, speeding through boring sequences.
Without external amplification, benshi had to project their voices into theaters that seated 1,000 people. It was a vocal-chord-shredding exercise to narrate for over an hour in dense, cavernous, smoke-filled spaces. The most successful benshi were masters of ma—the space between, the power of silence—knowing precisely when to speak and when to let the image breathe.
Two Traditions: High Art and Popular Entertainment
A critical split emerged in benshi performance styles, reflecting class divisions in Japanese cinema culture.
For foreign films, a solo benshi provided narration, explanation, and character voices in what became known as the more intellectual, high-brow style. These performances took place at upscale theaters in fashionable districts like Ginza, attracting educated audiences who appreciated sophisticated commentary.
For Japanese films, a different style emerged called kowairo setsumei ("voice coloring")—groups of four to six performers positioned out of sight in the theater wings, providing mimetic dialogue for different characters. The illusion was that of a dubbed film. This style was more theatrical, more accessible to working-class audiences who frequented theaters in districts like Asakusa.
The divide wasn't absolute. The two traditions constantly influenced one another, and many benshi incorporated elements of both. Some used the rhythmic seven-five meter of traditional Japanese poetry, while others adopted more conversational, modern styles. Female benshi, though rare, were more common in kowairo setsumei performances, though their numbers declined after 1926.
Benshi came from all social backgrounds—some from wealthy families, others from poverty. Many were political radicals whose occupational options were limited. A number of the most famous were heavy drinkers, notorious libertines, and womanizers who embodied the hedonistic spirit of Taishō-era liberalism. They lived like rock stars, stepping out with movie starlets, wearing fashionable Western attire—typically tuxedos and top hats—and cultivating devoted followings.
Yet despite their celebrity status, many conservative critics disparaged them. Some saw the benshi as no better than rickshaw pullers—entertainers who performed in the dark where their faces couldn't be seen, which was somehow considered more respectable than being visible on stage.
War and Politics: Benshi as Propagandists
During the Russo-Japanese War of 1904-1905, cinema attendance surged as Japanese citizens rushed to see footage of their soldiers. During the war years, 80% of motion pictures shown in Japan were war films—some actual newsreels, most staged recreations.
Benshi didn't just narrate these films. They roused audiences into nationalistic fervor with extremely patriotic and jingoistic commentaries. In front of packed houses, they transformed war footage into propaganda, their voices giving emotional weight to images of military glory.
This political dimension extended beyond wartime. Korean benshi under Japanese colonial rule used their position to attempt to instigate rebellion. The benshi's platform—standing before hundreds, interpreting reality, shaping how audiences understood what they saw—carried inherent political power.
The Pure Film Movement: Art vs. Entertainment
Not everyone loved the benshi.
From 1915 to 1925, the Pure Film Movement attacked what its proponents saw as the anachronistic elements holding Japanese cinema back from achieving Western standards. Writing in cinema magazines like Kinema Record, reformist critics argued that Japanese filmmakers relied too heavily on benshi, failing to develop sophisticated visual storytelling techniques. Western cinema was advancing—using close-ups, complex editing, coherent narratives—while Japanese directors knew that whatever they couldn't convey visually, the benshi would simply explain.
Prominent intellectuals joined the attack. Novelist Tanizaki Jun'ichirō argued that removing benshi would be a step toward modernizing cinema. Directors who wanted to make "pure film"—cinema that told its story through visual grammar alone—saw benshi as obstacles to artistic maturity.
The movement achieved some changes. The introductory maesetsu gradually disappeared. Group kowairo setsumei performances died out. By 1917, the Tokyo Metropolitan Police instituted mandatory licensing systems and examinations for benshi—an attempt to legitimize the profession while simultaneously curbing their social power. The Ministry of Education set up courses and seminars, standardizing their training.
Some benshi resented these regulations. They were artists, not test-takers. Others pragmatically accepted the new standards, understanding that public respectability had value.
But the Pure Film Movement failed in its primary goal: getting rid of benshi entirely. Audiences had grown too accustomed to their running commentary and banter. They thoroughly enjoyed what benshi added to the cinematic experience. If anything, the movement's assault ushered in a golden age. By 1925, it wasn't uncommon for professionals to narrate four or five films a day, up to thirty films a week, as films grew longer and more elaborate.
What survived was a refined form: solo benshi combining narration, commentary, and mimetic dialogue, all performed live during the film. This hybrid art form represented the pinnacle of benshi achievement.
The Coming of Sound: "The Most Terrifying Invention"
On May 9, 1929, the first sound films from Hollywood—Fox's Movietone shorts—appeared on Japanese screens.
The benshi were, for the most part, openly hostile to what they saw as an existential threat. And they were right to be worried.
The transition to "talkies" in Japan was slower than in the West. In the United States, 96.9% of films featured sound by 1930. In Europe, major film-producing nations adopted sound within a few years. But Japan took until 1940 before the majority of its films featured sound. As late as 1938, a third of Japanese films were still silent.
Several factors delayed the transition. Japanese film companies lacked the financial resources for a swift conversion. Rural theaters couldn't afford to rewire for expensive sound technology. And crucially, the benshi themselves remained more popular than the technology threatening to replace them. Audiences considered them more entertaining than either the actors or the films themselves.
But the economics were inexorable. Large film companies like Nikkatsu partnered with smaller companies specializing in sound systems, lowering costs while securing exhibition spaces. Foreign film theaters, which showed the earliest imported talkies, were forced to adopt sound first. As American actors gained popularity and Japanese audiences began worshipping Hollywood stars, the benshi's celebrity status eroded.
New editing techniques made it harder for benshi to keep pace with rapid cuts. Dialogue intertitles competed with benshi interpretation. Censorship regulations passed in 1925 required approved scripts, limiting the benshi's freedom to improvise and interpret. When sound arrived, giving production teams complete control over their work, benshi could no longer freely rewrite the text through performance.
By the early 1930s, benshi were increasingly seen as supplements to films rather than autonomous artists. Their institutionalization—which had reaffirmed their star status—simultaneously made them more easily replaceable. They enhanced what was on screen, but setsumei was no longer necessary.
In 1932, benshi organized strikes, protesting job losses at cinemas showing Western sound films. They fought to save their profession, to preserve what they loved. It was a losing battle. By 1936, the Tokyo Police Department terminated its licensing system—there simply weren't enough benshi left to regulate. By 1941, the institution had completely dissolved.
Tragic Endings and New Beginnings
The deaths of the benshi profession claimed literal casualties.
Teimei Suda, a successful benshi with a senior position in the committee resisting firings, fell into depression as he watched the impossible task of reversing history. In 1933, he took his own life in a double suicide pact with his girlfriend—the same year that Heigo Kurosawa, older brother of the future director Akira Kurosawa, killed himself at age 27.
Others faded away or reinvented themselves. Some successfully transitioned to radio, becoming storytellers and voice actors—precursors to Japan's modern seiyū voice acting industry. Musei Tokugawa became a celebrated raconteur, essayist, and radio personality, eventually moving into television. He published nearly fifty books in his lifetime and lived until 1971, carrying the benshi tradition into the modern era through different media.
After World War II, in a country desperate for entertainment, silent films and their narrators saw a brief resurgence. Benshi like Matsuda Shunsui traveled in troupes performing in rural areas, bringing cinema to communities that had never stopped loving the old ways.
Legacy: The Voices That Remain
The benshi's influence extends far beyond their era. Japan's silent film industry developed differently than Western cinema precisely because filmmakers knew a benshi would be present. Directors could use long, uninterrupted shots, knowing the benshi would maintain narrative momentum. They could be visually ambiguous, trusting the benshi to clarify. They could omit intertitles entirely.
Some directors, like Yasujirō Ozu, seemed to actively resist benshi narration—making films with darting tonal ambiguity, discursive scenes that defied easy summary, moments that couldn't be explained away by commentary. Others, like Teinosuke Kinugasa with his experimental masterpiece A Page of Madness (1926), depended on benshi support for their avant-garde work to find audiences.
The art form's DNA survives in modern Japanese media. The ubiquitous use of voice-over narration in Japanese television dramas, particularly morning shows. The elaborate vocal performances of anime voice actors. The way Japanese cinema and television continue to privilege voice and narration in ways Western media often doesn't.
Today, only about ten professional benshi remain active in Japan. Performers like Midori Sawato and her student Ichirō Kataoka keep the tradition alive through performances at film festivals, special screenings, and cultural events. They write their own scripts for each film, even when original scripts are available. They perform in traditional Japanese garb or Western formal wear, depending on the film. They continue to synchronize mimetic dialogue with on-screen characters, requiring extraordinary skill and preparation.
Contemporary benshi don't simply recreate historical performances. They combine painstaking research with their own aesthetic expression, making the silent film experience relevant to modern audiences. Some perform with Japanese silent films using traditional five-seven syllable poetic rhythms. Others develop new approaches, experimenting with form in the spirit of the original benshi tradition.
The practice has spread internationally. "Neo-benshi" and "movieteller" performers in the United States and Europe draw from a century of cinema history, sometimes offering social commentary, sometimes altering narratives, sometimes simply bringing the magic of live narration to contemporary audiences.
What We Lost, What Remains
The benshi represented something unique in cinema history: the voice as equal partner to the image, performance as inseparable from exhibition, the live moment as essential to the medium.
In Western cinema, the transition to sound meant recorded dialogue, fixed soundtracks, complete directorial control. In Japan, it meant the death of a profession where over 8,000 artists had made their living transforming silence into story.
We can read about the benshi. We can listen to rare recordings—though few survive from before World War II, and those that do can't capture the atmosphere of a crowded theater, the coordination with live orchestra, the electricity of performance. We can see a handful of contemporary practitioners keeping the tradition alive. But we can never truly experience what it meant to watch a silent film in 1920s Tokyo, with a master benshi giving voice to the images, the theater filled with hundreds of people experiencing cinema not as a fixed text but as a live event, different every night, alive in ways that recorded sound could never replicate.
The benshi were the voices in the dark. And when the lights came back on, they were gone.
Sources and Further ReadingDym, Jeffrey. Benshi, Japanese Silent Film Narrators, and Their Forgotten Narrative Art of Setsumei: A History of Japanese Silent Film Narration (Edwin Mellen Press, 2003)
Fujiki, Hideaki. "Benshi as Stars: The Irony of the Popularity and Respectability of Voice Performers in Japanese Cinema," Cinema Journal, Vol. 45, No. 2 (Winter 2006), pp. 68-84
Japan Society. "A Brief History of Benshi (Silent Film Narrators)" [https://aboutjapan.japansociety.org/a_brief_history_of_benshi]
Hamilton College Digital Humanities Initiative. "Benshi: Silent Film Narrators in Japan" [https://benshi.hamiltonlits.org]
Atlas Obscura. "Remembering the Heyday of Japan's Silent Film Narrators"
Unseen Japan. "Benshi: The Voice and Color of Japanese Silent Cinema"
