Puppet theatre, but the village kind. The puppet drama of Awa is not the refined Bunraku of the city but something that grew in the countryside—performed by farmers in the off-season, in the grounds of temples and shrines, for their neighbors. The puppets are larger than the city's, made to be read from a distance in the open air, their faces and gestures broader, plainer, stronger. The Jurobei Yashiki is the house behind one of the great plays, the story of a daughter searching for the mother who cannot claim her, and a father who cannot say his name. The pilgrim's-song scene lands hard no matter how many times you have seen it. Here the handlers' feet are visible. Nothing is hidden—not the puppeteers, not the chanter, not the strings of the craft. And somehow that openness does not break the spell. You see exactly how it is done, and you weep anyway. That is the quiet power of a theatre the villages made for themselves.