mijobooks Chapter 197 The Aesthetics of Violence and the Final Chapter of Summer
Chapter 197 The Aesthetics of Violence and the Final Chapter of Summer
Chapter 197 The Aesthetics of Violence and the Final Chapter of Summer
Kitahara Office.
The meeting room door was pushed open by Masakazu Ota.
Following him in was a man who looked completely unkempt.
He was in his early thirties, his hair a mess like a bird's nest, wearing a yellowed leather jacket, his eyes puffy and his gaze as cloudy as two dead fish that hadn't slept. He exuded a sense of despondency from years of struggling at the bottom of film sets, along with a faint smell of tobacco.
Miike Takashi.
At that time, he was not yet the internationally renowned "master of violent aesthetics" he would later become; he was just an unknown figure making a living in the V-Cinema (video film) circle, occasionally working as an assistant director for Shohei Imamura.
"sit."
Kitahara Shin sat in the boss's chair, twirling the purple marble in his hand, sizing up the man in front of him.
Takashi Miike casually pulled out a chair and sat down, even seeming to want to put his feet up on the table, but he refrained from doing so.
He looked at the handsome young president in front of him, dressed in a bespoke suit, and chuckled inwardly.
The current Shin Kitahara is a national elite who starred in "The White Tower" and is the king of ratings.
In Miike's view, the biggest taboo for big stars who have finally climbed out of the mire and cleaned up their act is having their past photo shoots or roles as psychopathic killers mentioned. If they hire a director like himself who makes B-movies, it's probably because they want to make some so-called "deep" art film to win awards, or some flashy but unrealistic "hero film" to show off.
In short, they definitely have an arrogant and disdainful attitude.
"President Kitahara, right?"
Takashi Miike picked at his ear, his tone dismissive, even tinged with a deliberately disgusting self-deprecation: "Let me make this clear first, I'm a rat in the gutter, only capable of making those cheap, sloppy, filthy films. I can't make those elegant, clean films that will allow you to maintain your 'elite image.' Besides, I'm expensive, and I don't take orders."
Ota Masakazu frowned, about to reprimand him.
Kitahara Shin raised his hand to stop him.
A slight thought.
[Equipment: Old Measuring Tape from a washed-up stylist (white) - Activated]
[Special Effects: Style Insight. Analyzing the target director's style —]
On his retina, several bright red, blood-like labels appeared above Takashi Miike's head:
Extreme violence, bad taste, speed and passion, breaking taboos.
This is a repressed madman.
"Elegant? Elite image?"
Kitahara Shin smiled.
He bent down, picked up a silver briefcase from beside his feet, and slammed it heavily onto the table.
"Bang!"
A muffled thud.
The box was opened.
Inside, twenty million yen in cash was neatly stacked. The smell of ink from the banknotes instantly overpowered the smell of cigarette smoke on Miike.
Immediately afterwards, a proposal consisting of only a few thin pages was thrown in front of Miike.
"When did I ever say I wanted to film something highbrow?"
Kitahara Shin leaned forward, his once gentle, peach-blossom eyes now revealing a piercing sharpness: "I want you to film the underworld, dismemberment, gore, and the grotesque things that big companies would never dare to touch."
Takashi Miike's previously cloudy, lifeless eyes suddenly widened for a moment.
He looked at Kitahara Shin in disbelief, then at the money on the table and the proposal.
The words "Shinjuku Yakuza" were prominently displayed above.
"Two weeks, 20 million budget."
Kitahara Shin's voice was calm and cold: "There's no censorship, no rules. You can film however you want, even if you have the protagonist get beheaded in the first five minutes. I only have one requirement: that the audience, from the moment they see the videotape cover, will want to rent it and take it home."
silence.
Dead silence.
It took Takashi Miike quite a while to recover from his shock.
He sat up straight, the dejection receding somewhat, replaced by something called "ambition" burning in his eyes.
But he was still somewhat puzzled, staring at Kitahara Shin and asking, "Are you serious?"
He frowned, a hint of doubt in his voice: "Kitahara-san, I know you started out by acting in yakuza films like 'Flower of Evil'."
"But I thought—now that you've successfully transformed yourself, won Best Actor, and starred in an elite drama like 'The White Tower,' becoming a national idol—you should be desperately trying to shed that 'vulgar' label from before."
"Aren't big stars like you, who have successfully rehabilitated their image, supposed to look down on movies that are all violence and gore? Why would you willingly jump into this quagmire?"
In his mind, once celebrities become famous, they will try their best to cover up their "dark history". Who would be willing to go back to doing something that might even be complained about by the PTA (Parents' Association)?
"despise?"
Kitahara Shin leaned back in his chair, started spinning the marbles in his hand again, and chuckled: "You've got one thing wrong. I've never thought about clearing my name, nor do I consider it a dark history."
"Whether it's yakuza films or the B-movies we're making now, why look down on any artistic works? They all have their corresponding audiences."
"Some people like to watch pure romance movies, while others like to watch thrills. Some people like to cry in the movie theater, while others like to relieve stress by watching blood and gore flying around late at night."
He looked at Takashi Miike with unwavering determination: "We're content creators, not moral exemplars. As long as we select our audience well and serve them well, that's good business and good work."
"As long as it's exciting and thrilling enough, I'll approve."
These words struck a chord with Takashi Miike.
In the entertainment industry, which is full of hypocrisy and preaching, and where everyone wears a mask to pretend to be elegant, this is the first time he has met such an open, "bastard-like," yet so straightforward investor.
"Oh----"
Takashi Miike grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth, his smile somewhat sinister: "Interesting."
He reached out and pressed down on the box full of money, as if pressing down on his own future: "I'll take this job. Since a big star like you isn't afraid of ruining your reputation, I'll definitely make sure it's 'good enough'."
"very good."
Kitahara Shin nodded: "Besides the money, I've also prepared the people you wanted."
He clapped his hands.
The office door opened.
Several burly, menacing-looking men with fierce expressions walked in. They were the "special type" extras that Kitahara Shin had recruited before.
"These guys, they've all been in that circle before."
Kitahara Shin pointed at them: "They look fierce, they can play assassins without makeup. They're all yours, do whatever you want with them."
Looking at those faces, which were even more ferocious than his own, Takashi Miike licked his lips with satisfaction: "This is simply—a match made in heaven."
Having secured the "violent production line" at V-Cinema, Kitahara Shin rushed off to a high-end editing studio in Roppongi.
There, another entirely different film awaits its final judgment.
Push open the heavy, soundproof door.
The room was dimly lit, with only the faint glow of the monitor screen.
Takeshi Kitano sat alone at the control panel, his hands supporting his chin, staring at the frozen image. His back looked like a solidified sculpture, unusually serious.
"What's wrong?"
Kitahara Shin walked over and placed a cup of hot coffee on the corner of the table: "Is the director spacing out?"
Hearing the voice, Takeshi Kitano's shoulders relaxed. He turned his head, and a relaxed smile appeared on his face, which was half-lit and half-shadowed: "You've finally arrived."
He pointed to the screen: "The film has just been roughly edited, and Joe Hisaishi's score has been incorporated. I haven't dared to watch the whole thing yet, so I'm waiting for you to come over and watch it together."
It's a kind of ritual.
"That would be an honor."
Kitahara Shin pulled up a chair and sat down next to him: "Let's begin."
The lights went out.
The screening has begun.
On the screen, a lush green summer rice field appeared.
Immediately afterwards, the familiar, light and lively piano prelude—"Summer"—flowed out like a clear spring.
"Ding-dong—Ding-99"
In the video, the little boy Masao, carrying an angel backpack, is running across the bridge with his head down.
Neither Kitahara Shin nor Kitano Takeshi spoke.
Two grown men sat quietly in the darkness, watching their strange duo—a roguish old man and a silent child—stumble and make fools of themselves throughout that never-ending summer.
Joe Hisaishi's score is simply a stroke of genius.
Whenever the scene becomes slightly somber, the lighthearted melody will play at just the right moment, pulling the audience out of their sadness and into a warm, absurd world.
Ninety minutes later.
The image freezes on Masao's running figure from behind.
The subtitles appeared.
The room remained quiet.
A long time passed.
"call----"
Takeshi Kitano let out a long breath and wiped his face, whether it was sweat or something else, it was unclear.
He turned his head and looked at Kitahara Shin, his small eyes sparkling with an unprecedented light: "Feed."
"Um?"
"I made a really awesome film."
Takeshi Kitano grinned, his smile as smug as a child's, making no attempt to hide it.
Kitahara Shinya smiled.
He looked at the screen, nodded, and said confidently, "Yeah. That's awesome."
This movie is even more perfect than the original version he remembered. Because of the purple marble and the relaxed atmosphere of the whole crew, the warmth felt even more natural.
"Since you're so confident..."
Kitahara Shin stood up and stretched: "If this kind of finished product doesn't achieve any results, then I have nothing more to say."
Takeshi Kitano stroked his chin and nodded seriously, a rare occurrence for him: "Indeed. If this doesn't work, I'll go back to performing manzai."
"Then let's not hide it anymore."
Kitahara Shin patted Kitano Takeshi on the shoulder and reminded him, "Ota has already prepared the application materials. Remember, you must send them abroad."
"Send it to Cannes."
Takeshi Kitano paused for a moment, then adjusted his sunglasses to hide a hint of excitement in his eyes: "I know, I know. I'll definitely send it."
At the same time, in the high-rise offices of the Toho Building in Chiyoda Ward.
Despite the sweltering heat outside, the air conditioning here remains blasting, as if to maintain the calm and arrogance inherent in capital.
Producer Oyamada sat on a large leather sofa, holding a glass of freshly decanted champagne. On the table in front of him was a newly printed movie poster—"Summer Love Song".
The poster features three popular idols smiling broadly against a backdrop of a beautiful Okinawan beach. This is Toho's absolute trump card for this summer's box office season, and also Oyamada's secret weapon for aiming for the annual box office champion.
"Oyamada-san."
The assistant pushed open the door, holding a piece of newly gathered intelligence, his expression somewhat subtle: "I just received definite news that Kitahara Shin's 'Kikujiro' has been scheduled for release."
"It will be released at the end of this month, on the same day as our 'Summer Love Song'."
"Oh?"
Oyamada took a sip of champagne, raised an eyebrow slightly, but didn't show much surprise. Instead, a playful smile appeared on his face: "Looks like this ratings king is quite confident in himself. Not only does he want to be number one on television, but he also wants to go head-to-head with us in the film industry?"
-
"There's another situation—"
The assistant hesitated for a moment before reporting to the director, "I heard—they've got Joe Hisaishi composing the soundtrack this time. And according to inside information, they probably got in through connections with Hayao Miyazaki. With Hisaishi's backing, plus Shin Kitahara's popularity—"
Upon hearing the names "Joe Hisaishi" and "Hayao Miyazaki," Akira Oyamada paused slightly in his hand holding the sake glass.
But it was only for a moment.
The next second, he let out a sneer full of disdain.
"So what if it's Joe Hisaishi? So what if it's Hayao Miyazaki?"
Oyamada put down his glass, stood up, walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, and looked down at bustling Tokyo: "Don't be intimidated by Kitahara Shin's name. He is indeed a top-notch actor and a shrewd businessman. But in film production, he made a terrible mistake this time—he chose the wrong partner."
He turned around, his tone arrogant and certain: "That Takeshi Kitano guy, although he won the Blue Ribbon Award, it was just because the judges were blind and he got lucky. The market has proven that he's box office poison. Obscure, violent, incomprehensible—that's the audience's impression of him."
"A film is a commodity, not a concert. A soundtrack can't save a dull movie."
Oyamada pointed to the poster for "Summer Love Song": "Audiences buy tickets to see handsome men and beautiful women fall in love this summer, to dream. Who would turn down our idols' pure love epic to watch some washed-up scoundrel with a taciturn kid acting silly on the street?"
The assistant quickly nodded in agreement: "Yes, you're right. So—do we need to do something with the publicity? Like, target it specifically?"
"unnecessary."
Oyamada waved his hand, picked up his glass again, his face full of confidence: "Those kinds of films that are destined to flop aren't worth us using tricks on. That would be doing them a disservice."
"Since they dare to set it for the end of this month, then let them have their way."
He raised his glass to the light, watching the golden bubbles rise in the glass, as if celebrating a massacre in advance: "When the time comes, our 'Summer Love Song' will be like a bulldozer, crushing them in every way, from box office to screenings to word of mouth."
"I want to make Kitahara Shin understand one thing—the king of TV ratings can still lose everything in the movie industry if he doesn't play by our rules."
"Cheers."
Oyamada tilted his head back and drank the champagne in his glass in one gulp.
He had no idea that this glass of champagne, opened too early, would turn into a bitter poison just half a month later.