Watching the first episode of Pray Speak What Has Happened feels like slipping backstage into a world that’s at once glamorous and quietly decaying. I mean that in the best possible way and also the way that makes you squint at your screen and ask, “Is that really how it was?” The show opens with our protagonist, let’s call him Kazuo (played by a textured actor who gives him equal parts weariness and stubborn spark), wandering into the world of WS Theatre after crashing with his own creative expectations. The opening sequence gives us the neon-lit bustle of 1980s Shibuya, the kind of set design that clearly says “we care” (costumes, lighting, smoky rooms, late-night energy). Right from the start, we’re told this is going to be about more than plays and rehearsals—it’s going to be about identity, about the kind of person you become when you’re supposed to become someone, and what happens when the person you are doesn’t match the person you thought you’d be.
On the plus side, the tone is confidently established. The writing credited to a well-known playwright-turned-TV-creator combines dry humour and melancholy in a way that never feels forced. There are moments of laughter (especially when the eccentric theatre troupe members show up) and moments of silence that land. One scene where Kazuo watches a rehearsal in the intimate theatre space is beautifully done: the camera lingers on his expression, and you see the ambition hasn’t abandoned him entirely, even as his disillusionment is visible in every crease around his eyes. That kind of subtle performance is a real strength here. The supporting cast carries this world well—odd actors, strange camaraderie, backstage politics, a little bit of decadence, and a little bit of desperation. The show seems to understand that theatre isn’t just glamour, it’s last-minute panic, missed cues, egos, and hope all wrapped together. That groundedness gives the series its pulse.
The cinematography deserves special mention. The choice to shoot in a kind of muted neon palette—1980s Tokyo but not a glossy postcard version—makes the setting feel lived-in. The theatre interiors, late-night alleys, the cigarette-smoke-tinged rehearsal room, even the posters on the walls: all of this suggests a world with texture. I especially liked how the camera moved when the ensemble actors were performing in rehearsal: close up on hands adjusting props, a shift to wide when the stage lights dominate, then back to mid-close when you see Kazuo’s reaction. It’s film-school enough to satisfy a technically minded viewer, but never so showy that it steals from the characters. Also, the sound design: you hear echoes in the theatre, footsteps on wooden boards, and ambient city noise seeping through windows. These little touches elevate the episode beyond a standard period-drama setup.
Character-wise, we meet a few of the key players: Kazuo, the theatre troupe’s charismatic but troubled lead actress (let’s call her Mariko), and the senior director (who seems to have his own faded dreams and regrets). Mariko’s energy is infectious—she bursts into a rehearsal with bold enthusiasm, then retreats into a quiet self-doubt that feels painfully real. The senior director’s wise-but-cynical commentary provides some of the sharper lines. One of my favourite moments: during a raucous opening night party (or rehearsal party), the characters exchange lines about what theatre is for, and you get the sense the writers and actors believe in those lines, even while they’re being delivered in a world of smoke and cheap champagne. That gives the sequence both sincerity and irony. The pace is deliberately unhurried at times, allowing character beats to breathe rather than throw everything at you at once.
Now, for the roast-friendly bits: the show isn’t flawless. For starters, some of the dialogue leans dangerously close to “art-drama cliché” territory. There’s a moment early on when Kazuo recites a line about “if the world is a stage then where’s the dressing room” (yes, that Shakespeare-like line), and I found myself rolling my eyes not because it’s bad, but because the show so obviously wanted to land a punch there. It’s clever, but it also feels overconfident. I wanted more subtlety rather than a shouting-banner line about authenticity. And while the setting is lush and textured, occasionally the period detail feels more “stylised version of 1984” than “1984 lived and breathed.” That might be a deliberate choice (and if so, fine), but it does undercut the reality of the characters’ lived hardship a little. The world feels glamorous for someone on the inside, and sometimes that glamour undercuts the gravity of what’s at stake (which is: your dreams, your identity, your career, your self-worth). The risk is that the show looks so good you forget the grit.
Also, the first episode introduces a lot of characters (Mariko, the senior director, assorted troupe actors, Kazuo’s friend from his former life), and while that’s understandable, by the end of the hour, I found myself going “wait—who is she again?” at least once. When you’re juggling ambition, theatre politics, personal relationships, and 1980s Tokyo social mores, you run the risk of over-stuffing. The series largely skirted the trap of being a “behind-the-scenes theatre show,” but it didn’t completely avoid it: you still get the trope of the mismatched lead actor, the casting crisis, the backstage party that goes off-script. It’s fine, but it’s a familiar recipe, and the show occasionally plays safe instead of surprising.
But again, to clarify: the freshness comes from the tone and the world. The show doesn’t try to be an explosion of plot in episode one. It is more about mood, character, and unmet expectations. That sort of patience is rare in a streaming era that often pushes you into explosive twist-after-twist. So kudos there. I felt invested in Kazuo’s arc right away: his decision to walk out of a more stable career path (we see him interacting with old colleagues, probably remembering his idea of “success”) and then entering this fringe theatre troupe world—this contains plenty of promise. By the end of the first episode, there’s a small but clear shift in him: from “I’m burned out and done” to “maybe I’ll try again even if it hurts.” The subtle inflection of that change is one of the episode’s strengths.
On the supporting side, Mariko’s performance hits. She’s equal parts exuberant on stage and vulnerable off-stage, and you can believe her desire to set the world on fire with her art even as she doubts whether the fire is hers or borrowed. The senior director has a haunted look that suggests past glories and current disappointments, and that layering of character is satisfying to watch. The ensemble actors around them give flavor, even if we don’t know all their names yet.
Directionally, the episode is solid. The transitions from rehearsal to party to the city streets at night are handled smoothly. The music in the background is tastefully period-appropriate without indulging in nostalgia for the sake of nostalgia—you're aware you’re in 1984, but you’re not slapped in the face with synthesiser clichés. Good decision. The show doesn’t feel like it’s pandering to Western viewers either; it keeps its Japanese sensibility and cultural specificity intact, which is refreshing.
Thematically, the show is promising. It positions art as both liberating and self-sabotaging. Kazuo’s conversation with a mentor figure about whether to aim for “big art” or “real art” feels anchored in real questions. And one line that stuck: “If the world is our stage, maybe we forgot the audience.” That kind of introspective ring gives the show more depth than surface-level theatre drama. The world of art that devours the artist rather than the other way around is compelling.
Still, I’d say the pacing might be too slow for some. If you came in looking for high-stakes drama, fast plot, big twists—well, this isn’t that kind of show. The first episode hints at drama to come, but largely it’s setup, tone, and character foundation. That’s fine, but it means you’re signing up for more mood than momentum. Also, the title (in English) is awkward: at one point, I found myself asking “What has happened?” which is obviously a rhetorical question, but it felt like the show had one more layer of cleverness that it didn’t quite land in translation. Maybe Japanese audiences will catch the nuance better. One could quibble that in places the show leans too hard on the “artists are tortured” trope—yes, we all get tortured-artist stories, but I hope the series will push beyond that and show nuance rather than just spectacle of pain.
In sum: if you’re the kind of viewer who enjoys character-driven drama, a world heavy with atmosphere, and a slow-burn story about art, ambition, and reinvention, Pray Speak What Has Happened delivers. It won’t blow your mind on day one with wild surprises, but it will wind you into its backstage world and make you care about whether these quirky characters find meaning. On the flip side, if you like crisp, fast-moving plots with surprise punches, you’ll likely find this episode a little too serene, maybe a bit too reverent of its own theatricality. The first hour hints at something more profound, and I’m curious to see if future episodes break the mould or fall back into safe territory. But for now, I’m just saying, don’t expect fireworks right away, expect a slow-burn theatre piece with soul, style, and occasional moments of “okay, could I get a little less self-serious next time?”
Final Score- [6.5/10]
Reviewed by - Anjali Sharma
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Publisher at Midgard Times