Japan Election: A Reformer Takes The Helm

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That the most notable characteristic of Japan's new Prime Minister is his haircut might not sound like a ringing endorsement. But in a country of copycat Brylcreemed coiffures, the Koizumi Perm is downright revolutionary: ample gray locks swirling high above his head and cascading down the back of his neck, brushing over his shirt collar. The rakish look of the tall, angular 59-year-old enhances his image as an iconoclast, a romantic lead actor storming the stage of Japan's crusty political establishment. As Toshiaki Okazaki, a 59-year-old whale-meat vendor, said while Koizumi campaigned near his stall in Kita-Kyushu recently: "So many of them have deceived us. At least Koizumi brings new blood."

It's that fresh image that Junichiro Koizumi was selling, and the Japanese public was eagerly devouring, when the nation's lawmakers elected him Prime Minister last week. Despite the odds against any leader's succeeding with Japan's seemingly insoluble array of economic woes, this man they call henjin, or weirdo, is likely to leave a mark of some kind. He's certainly more colorful than the bland parade of 10 predecessors over the past dozen years. A fan of the heavy-metal band X-Japan and of Puccini operas, Koizumi has been single since his divorce 19 years ago, when he won custody of his two sons. His unconventional lifestyle, an independent streak and a habit of ignoring his political elders have long befuddled the power brokers in Japan's dominant Liberal Democratic Party. Says Koizumi: "I care more about the voters than most politicians do."

How did this weirdo find himself at the top of the political heap? The usual way the L.D.P. picks Japan's leaders is for a handful of party bosses to meet behind closed doors, pour a few glasses of sake and anoint someone. This time, a clique of young L.D.P. lawmakers demanded more transparency in choosing a successor to Yoshiro Mori. The Old Guard went along, thinking it could manipulate a vote as usual while presenting a facade of democracy. But the aging party chieftains badly miscalculated just how unloved they are. When they gave a bigger say to local party chapters, that was all the opening Koizumi needed. He darted around the country building up overwhelming support. He essentially ran a one-issue campaign, continually sounding a vague call to change (though he was specific about boosting Japan's defense force into a full-fledged army, a pledge he reaffirmed last week).

Koizumi isn't a Johnny-come-lately to the reformist cause; he has long championed privatizing the postal system, where Japanese have squirreled away more than $2 trillion in savings. But he's no outside agitator either. He fills a parliamentary seat that was occupied by his grandfather and father, and last fall he held back from supporting a longtime ally's abortive coup against Mori. There was also a fair bit of back-room politicking on Koizumi's behalf. At a dinner in a plush Ginza restaurant in mid-April, half a dozen conservative stalwarts, including former Prime Minister Yasuhiro Nakasone and Tokyo Governor Shintaro Ishihara, selected Koizumi as their man. "Our backgrounds are different," Nakasone told TIME last week, "but in terms of ideology and policy, he is my protege."