By Nikkei Australia members and friends

Kuni Hashimoto was a groundbreaking Japanese Australian actor, who died in 2025. Nikkei Australia members and friends who knew him pay tribute to his life, work, and his friendship.

By Mayu Kanamori (Founding member of Nikkei Australia)

Kuni Hashimoto, a Japanese Australian actor, translator, voice artist, and playwright, whose career spanned more than three decades across Japan and Australia, passed away a year ago. I wanted to write about his career to mark the first anniversary of his passing and have also invited some of his colleagues to share a few words about him.

Kuni was born in Fukushima, Japan. After graduating from Seikei University with a law degree, he worked at AIU Insurance Company as an assessor. His sister Reiko, who lived with Kuni during the ten years before he moved to Australia, recalls that he was deeply immersed in Tokyo’s theatre scene. After finishing work at the office, he would return home briefly to change, then go out again late into the night to attend theatre performances or watch the foreign films he loved. Since his high school days, Reiko says, Kuni had watched at least 100 films every year. He also frequented a membership bar in Roppongi called Nishinoki, run by the floral artist and performer Kurisaki Noboru.

Kuni’s life changed when he met composer Leonard Bernstein in 1979. Bernstein encouraged Kuni to pursue a career aligned with his interests in performance and film. That same year when Kuni’s transfer to a regional branch of the insurance company seemed imminent, and was faced with the prospect of leaving Tokyo and the cultural life he loved, Bernstein encouraged him to audition for the 30th-anniversary intake of the renowned theatre company Shiki Theatre Company. Despite intense competition, he was accepted. Kuni took a significant pay cut—half his salary or even less—and spent four years performing with Shiki in their productions such as Jesus Christ Superstar, Illya Darling, and Die Konferenz der Tiere gaining a strong foundation in professional theatre. Kuni and Bernstein went on to form a close personal relationship during the final decade of the maestro’s life.

At the same time, he joined his friend who launched a small editorial production company. Although he had never imagined himself as a writer, his work soon appeared in prominent Japanese publications including Magazine House and Fujingaho. This dual path—performance and writing—would shape much of his career. He conducted interviews in English, a language he largely taught himself by studying English language film scenes, and actively making friends from overseas.

His ability to move between languages and cultures led to work as a representative for prominent international artists, including architect Jean-Michel Wilmotte and Bernstein. Kuni played a pivotal role in several of Bernstein’s major projects, including the Hiroshima Peace Concert in 1985, and the inaugural Pacific Music Festival in Sapporo in 1990. He then produced a Japanese translation of Bernstein’s musical Candide, which led to further translation commissions. He later translated Stephen Sondheim works including Pacific Overtures, Into the Woods and Sweeney Todd for Japanese productions. These translations helped introduce Japanese audiences to some of the most complex works in modern musical theatre.

In 1989, Kuni declined an offer to work for Sony’s classical label in the United States and instead moved to Australia to work in a tour company run by his friend Terry Hayden. When Terry asked why he had chosen Sydney, Kuni replied; ‘If I go to Australia, I will be a better person than if I went to Manhattan.’

What was meant to be a one or two-year stay became permanent. Kuni obtained residency and built a wide-ranging career in Australia as an actor, voice-over artist, television presenter and producer, scriptwriter, and correspondent for Japanese media.

He appeared in films including Muriel’s Wedding, Japanese Story, Unbroken, and Predestination. His voice was also familiar to many travellers–for 25 years he hosted a Japanese pop music program broadcast on Qantas international flights. On stage he remained active in both Japanese and Australian productions, often serving as a cultural bridge between the two theatre worlds.

Despite his varied career, Kuni often described his professional life as something that unfolded through chance rather than ambition. He frequently quoted the words of film producer Etsuko Takano, whom he once interviewed: ‘Life cannot be predicted, and it should not be.’ For Kuni, opportunities arrived unexpectedly, and the important thing was simply to do one’s best with whatever work came along.

That philosophy shaped his approach to collaboration. Whether a project was paid or voluntary, he believed in committing fully to the task. ‘If a job comes to me,’ he once said, ‘I do it with all my strength. Otherwise it feels wrong.’

I experienced this spirit when working with him on the theatrical production Yasukichi Murakami: Through A Distant Lens, in which Kuni played the historical Japanese photographer Yasukichi Murakami. During development workshops and rehearsals, he became deeply involved in shaping the script, sending me rewritten scenes each morning along with long explanations about how the dialogue might better serve the story.

One of the play’s most memorable lines—’It is possible to contribute without recognition’—was written by Kuni. The sentence resonated strongly with audiences and with the creative team, and in many ways it captured his outlook on life.

Although he worked across many fields and achieved considerable success, Kuni was not driven by ambition. He often said he had never felt the desire to be a star. Instead he continued acting and voice work while teaching in a volunteer reading group called Koe (Voice), encouraging people to explore the expressive possibilities of spoken language. He also wrote his own plays. His script Far From Cowra received the Australian Writers’ Guild National Literary Award in the playwriting category.

Kuni’s career bridged countries, languages and artistic forms. Through acting, translation, writing and mentorship, he helped connect Japanese and Australian cultural worlds for more than three decades.

Kuni is survived by his partner Steven Carena-Cavalier, sister Reiko, and his dog Toi Toi Toi.

By Arisa Yura (Nikkei Australia Chair)

‘Dear Kuni san’

I call him Kuni san. Known to most of us as Kuni. Kuni Hashimoto. Kunihiko Hashimoto. But most of all, Kuni was our first Japanese Australian actor to be visible on screen and stage, shining in roles such as Aussie classics Muriel’s Wedding and Japanese Story. He truly was our pioneer in the acting industry.

It was exciting whenever I’ve had the chance to cross paths with Kuni, whether it be a commercial audition or film sets. His aura and presence were powerful.

Then came a life changing opportunity to work closely with him on Mayu Kanamori’s Yasukichi Murakami: Through A Distant Lens in 2014. A play about another Japanese pioneer, Yasukichi Murakami whose early life in Australia saw him work as a pearl diver to entrepreneur to ultimately becoming a photographer in Western Australia. For this production, Kuni and I were part of a creative team (led by producer Annette Shun Wah) developing this new work by Mayu. Seeing Kuni embody Yasukichi Murakami up close everyday with such charm and gravitas was an incredibly precious experience. During the development period, I was able to witness many of his expertise he’s acquired and built over many years of being in this industry. Most mornings, we would wake up to his new ideas and thoughts in his freshly rewritten scripts. His passion for storytelling and character development, dedication and commitment he shows to creating high quality art. I don’t think I have seen many actors with such a strong passion for our art making. And it wasn’t just passion; it was the pursuit of craftsmanship and rigour which backed up his drive. That’s what Kuni lived for. He truly loved what he did. And we loved what he did.

In the play, Yasukichi and Mayu (the character of Mayu Kanamori I played) dance waltz together. It became second nature by the time the production was in full swing but I’m now remembering how much we’ve had to practice that choreography. We would have some sessions with our director, Malcolm Blaylock in the rehearsal room but often Kuni and I had to find our own time to practice ourselves. Most of the time it was at a community hall near my place. Kuni would rock up in his beautiful SAAB convertible with his beloved dog Amber on the leash. We would dance, Amber would get jealous and hang around between us, so usually we end up tying her to the chair. It became our ritual. Over time I think Amber got used to us dancing! We would rehearse the scenes as well, directing each other, working out our blocking if we needed to adjust anything. I look back at that time and think of it so fondly. You often don’t know how fun and precious certain times are until later in life. That was one of those times.

That production cemented our friendship. We would go and see theatre shows together. Catch up for coffee whenever one of us were back in town from overseas. Exchanging news on the roles we went for, what’s going on in the industry, share audition notices. And of course, Amber is always beneath our feet. Later on after Amber’s passing Toi Toi Toi was filling that space.

Kuni was out there in the Japanese diaspora community. For many years Kuni MCed at cultural events and festivals delivering love for his culture to the Australian audience. You’d find Kuni there on stage often in his Yukata in summer wearing his sunnies and sparkly smiles.

I also joined Rodokuno-kai (Japanese Reading Club), Koe, meaning ‘voice’ for a little while. The group would meet up every Wednesday at Chatswood library. On most days there are around ten of us. There I learnt the art of storytelling in Japanese. Kuni’s teaching style was warm, firm but calm. I think there was something about Kuni’s voice that was calming for a lot of us.

One of my last interactions with Kuni was just before I began shooting my short film, Last Order, about our family restaurant that was about to close. I told Kuni in person that I wanted him to play a role in the film. That I wrote a character with him in mind. Ever since I’ve heard about Kuni’s illness, I’ve been saying to myself that I wanted to work with Kuni again. Unfortunately, by that point, Kuni was not well enough to play the role himself. I was too late. I still wanted to keep him in the film somehow as he was the inspiration. So, I rewrote the script and adjusted the character’s back story. The character’s name became Kuniyo Hashimoto. Right up until his illness declined, Kuni would send me new ideas for the script. It was so honest. So Kuni. 

Kuni san, I hope to one day dance another waltz with you!

Love, Arisa

Shingo Usami (Nikkei Australia member and actor)

Kuni-san’s Final Curtain

‘Not much going on, huh?’

Kuni-san’s voice, half resigned yet somehow enjoying it, still lingers in the back of my ears.

Unless you’re a big star, most actors are constantly out of work, waiting impatiently for scarce audition opportunities. For Japanese actors like me and Kuni-san working in Australia, job opportunities are even fewer. In fact, whenever we met,

‘Pretty slow, huh?’

‘Yeah, it sure is.’

It became our standard greeting.

We are Japanese, whose native language isn’t English, somehow ended up making a living as actors in this English-speaking country. Kuni-san, connected to me by a strange bond—part comrade, part rival—is no longer here. The reality of that still feels unreal.

My first time performing with Kuni-san was in the 1998 production of the musical Pacific Overtures at Sydney’s Seymour Centre.

Set in late Edo-period Japan shaken by the arrival of the Black Ships, this work featured music by musical theatre maestro Stephen Sondheim. Kuni-san later handled the Japanese translation for the Japanese premiere.

While our production was also an Australian premiere, it was on a much smaller scale, with most of us performers, me included, being amateurs. Amidst us, Kuni-san, who had gained experience on musical stages as a former member of the renowned Shiki Theatre Company, seemed like someone far above us, like a figure in the clouds. At the time, I had only been in Australia for three years, working as a Japanese language teacher during the day while just starting to study acting. I never dreamed of becoming a professional; I was simply thrilled by the excitement of performing in English. I imagine sharing the stage with such complete amateurs must have been painful for a professional like Kuni-san, yet he never showed it. He patiently worked with our amateur troupe.

That production sparked my fascination with acting, leading me down the same path as Kuni-san: becoming a Japanese actor living in Australia. Kuni-san, who had also appeared in various film projects like Muriel’s Wedding, was a pioneering senior figure for us newcomers. For over 20 years since then, I’ve had the privilege of working alongside him on every kind of production imaginable—from massive Hollywood blockbusters to no-pay independent films, commercials, and voice-over work.

True to Japanese stereotypes, we often played roles like Japanese soldiers in war films, or businessmen, and given our ages, we frequently portrayed boss and subordinate. If the portrayal of Japanese characters was overly one-dimensional or riddled with prejudice, we would negotiate with the production team together to try and improve it. We also clashed over disagreements in the Japanese translations of lines, which are often left entirely up to the actors. Yet in every situation, Kuni-san never once imposed so-called Japanese hierarchical relationships or acted like a know-it-all senior. Despite undoubtedly possessing vastly more experience and knowledge than us juniors, he never displayed the slightest hint of arrogant superiority. It’s precisely that flexibility and depth of character that I find myself deeply remembering now that he’s gone.

Thinking about it now, Kuni-san’s final moments—leaving quietly, without a loud assertion of self, as effortlessly as the wind—felt like a fitting conclusion to his life. He must have felt frustration and conflict over his illness. If he managed to tuck all that away beneath that gentle smile and live out his days, then I would like to honor him with a heartfelt standing ovation.

Kuni-san.

Now that you’re gone, I’ve become the oldest active Japanese actor in Sydney.

Thank you for everything over the years. And thank you for all your hard work.

Members of the Reading Group Koe

A few years ago, a reading group performed Ryunosuke Akutagawa The Spider’s Thread on SBS Radio in Sydney. There were three ladies-in-waiting who spoke in the Kanto dialect, while Sorayama-san and I, who are from Kansai, played the role of a lady-in-waiting who spoke in the Kansai dialect, that is an unforgettable memory. 

No one else but Kuni-san could have created such a production.

– Kayoko Davis

Kuni was a volunteer leader and teacher.

He was able to bring together a diverse group of individuals, helping and encouraging them with humour and a smile to develop their own unique technique and character.

He also added music to the readings and arranged the stories into a reading drama with multiple participants, showing how to make the readings enjoyable for both listeners and readers.

He was an outstanding producer and choreographer.

– Mari Kato

Many years ago, there was a memorial festival for the writer Yasushi Inoue at the University of Sydney. It was there that I first heard Kuni’s reading ,and on that very same day I applied to join the group where Kuni was the leader. I was simply blown away by Kuni’s method of reading. It was really magical. Kuni could make even the most boring novel shine, 

Let me share another moving story that I will never forget. I was blessed with the opportunity to see a play called Yasukichi Murakami-Through A Distant Lens, starring Kuni and actress Ms Arisa Yura. Yasukichi was a photographer who worked in Broome in the 1870s and 80s. During that time the town of Broome developed into one of the world’s leading producers of south sea pearls, and Yasukichi was responsible for the significant contributions in improving the special diving suits used by the pearl divers. 

That performance is forever imprinted into my memory. It was an unforgettable display by the genius photographer Mayu Kanamori. 

I only learned of Kuni’s illness after the COVID-19 pandemic ended. One afternoon Kuni treated my husband and I to lunch at a restaurant by the sea. We were deeply moved by the way he simply accepted his illness without any resentment.　 

My husband’s impression of Kuni was that he was a gentleman among gentlemen. To us he was like an enlightened monk. It’s a shame and a huge loss to the world that such a great man has passed away so soon.

– Michie Spain

I learned about the reading group Koe through Nichigo Press, and asked to join. I knew nothing about it, so when I attended, I was surprised to find out that the group had a leader whose name is Mr Kunihiko Hashimoto. I wasn’t looking for a group where I thought there would be a leader.  But from the start Kuni’s reading was fantastic. I was amazed and truly impressed by what a professional can do. 

 I was also impressed by how he as a leader sought to identify and develop the strength of each member. The group was made up of people with a diverse range of personalities, and one of the great things about it was the atmosphere where people felt free to speak their point of view even when it disagreed with Kuni’s point of view. 

This was probably because Kuni was such a tolerant leader. His techniques and ideas, born from his vast experience, were wonderful, and it’s so sad and regrettable to lose such a rare human being.   

Now this isn’t directly related to the reading group above, but I have a reading group with a small number of Japanese people in my neighbourhood and we read Dear Lenny.  One of the members expressed a desire to speak to Kuni face-to face.  I knew it would be difficult for him given his illness, but when I informed him of the request he replied, ‘no problem’.  As a result, we were able to hear many interesting stories about Dear Lenny, and had a very meaningful and enjoyable meeting; with Kuni saying, ‘it was fun’. This is, for me, a precious memory.

–Mikiko Faikner

My thoughts on Kunihiko Hashimoto

It has already been eight months since Kuni passed away. During these eight months, I have often thought of him.

I would like to write down the things that made a particularly strong impression on me. The first was the Christmas cards that I received from Kuni every year. Each card contained a note of the reflection on the past year. Gradually the sender’s name began to be replaced with the name of the family dog, after which photos of the sender with the dog began to appear.    

His aspirations for the coming year conveyed a quiet yet strong determination to see things through.  Also, Kuni wrote in a short space of time a screenplay based on the escape from the Japanese prison camp in Cowra, winning the top prize in a literary contest.

One day during a phone conversation Kuni confided that “When I started keeping a dog I realized for the first time how much satisfaction there was in my daily life”.  He was a gentle soul who deeply cherished the pets that relied on him.

About six months before his death, there were four of us gathered for dinner at his new home. The table was buzzing with lively conversation as we ate fresh oysters served on a large platter that someone had purchased that morning from a nearby fish shop. I happened to notice that Kuni-san was sitting in his wheelchair a short distance from the table watching us with a quiet sense of enjoyment as we chatted away. He had a very mild and deeply satisfied expression on his face. As I looked at him and he looked at me in that moment of eye contact I sensed a calm tranquillity, the total acceptance of one’s situation without resisting it.  

In the spring of 2011, a launching event for Junko Morimoto’s beautiful picture book My Hiroshima was held at the Dougherty Community Centre in Sydney. I attended the event with my partner B.

Kuni-san was the master of ceremonies.  When he stood tall on the stage and began guiding the program in fluent English, B was struck breathless by the strength of his presence. I later told Kuni-san about B’s reaction. More than ten years after that day, B passed away.

When I was choosing several pieces of background music for the funeral, I relied on Kuni-san’s advice. He kindly and carefully guided me, offering examples such as the music played at his own parents’ funerals. The funeral concluded without incident.

At that time, I was startled to hear Kuni-san express his disappointment, saying that he had not been invited. I had assumed that asking him to attend the funeral in person would be an imposition. Because of this, I have carried a deep regret.

B’s second son, a poet living in the UK, was unable to attend the funeral. I now wish I had asked him to write a poem—something like For My Father—and had Kuni-san read the English text at the service as part of the eulogy.

Had I done so, it would undoubtedly have become an irreplaceable floral tribute to B.

‘Regret always comes too late.’

Life is full of such moments. I remain sorrowful whenever I think of it.

Kuni-san do you remember these events? I will never forget them.

I believe that now you are in a much more peaceful place.

Until we meet again.

–Yuko Chiwata

Memories of Kuni-san

I met Kuni-san through my wife Rie Shiraishi many years ago. Rie worked with Kuni-san on scripts and translations for his voiceover and other acting work from time to time. Over many years I had brief encounters with him. I recall his calm, warm dignity, his dry humour and gentleness. And his voice – such a beautiful instrument, his livelihood.

Then both Kuni and Rie were diagnosed with different incurable conditions in 2022/23. Occasionally Kuni-san came for lunch. Rie and Kuni-san connected in a new way over their life-threatening conditions. I remember those occasions fondly. I heard much more about Kuni-san’s life, including his relationship and long collaboration with Leonard Bernstein. I read the English version of “Dearest Lenny” by Mari Yoshiwara, partly based on their letters over many years. It was poignant learning so much more about his emotionally rich, creative life just as his disease progressed.

The next time I saw him was at Rie’s wake 3 days after she passed away. He sang the script of an ad that Rie had helped him with as tribute to her. It was very sweet, and so like him – generous and humorous. Some weeks afterwards I went with Yuko-san to lunch at his new place in Wollongong, meeting his partner Steven for the first time. Again, I was struck at the change in his condition that day which he met with calm acceptance.

Sadly, when Kuni-san passed I was in Japan visiting Rie’s brother and family and could not attend his funeral.

I am fortunate to have known Kunihiko Hashimoto, he was such a good man, taken too soon by such a cruel condition. Since then, I have been glad of the connection I have in life and grief with his partner Steven.

–Dean Brown

My fond memories of Kuni-san go back 30 years. 

A friend invited me to a  karaoke club and that was the first time I met Kuni-san.

I remember being amazed at how well Kuni-san could sing, not only in Japanese but also in English and French.

As we talked,I learned that, coincidentally, he was also living in Paris at the same time  I was stationed there from 1976 to 1982.

I particularly remember his excellent French pronunciation.

Since then in Sydney we’ve gone to Karaoke many times. In singing  “international karaoke” we have had incredible fun.

The fun experience continuing  right up until the COVID-pandemic began.

When I cross to the other side, I’d like  again to enjoy singing  karaoke with you  and  reminisce about the

delicious cuisine as well as  downtown Paris.

Kuni-san, I’ll   look forward to seeing you in heaven.

– Masahito Yamaguchi