Tokyo: My Best Actor Gear List

Please provide your feedback on the first scene of Chapter 121.

Chapter 121, Scene 1, please give me your feedback.

"Click! That movement was wrong! Lights, move it a little to the left!"

Director Yasuo Furuhata, holding a rolled-up script, frowned and shouted at the monitor.

This is Studio 9 of Toei Kyoto Studio. The air is filled with the smell of burning charcoal and rising dust, and the overhead lights radiate heat hot enough to dry your skin.

It's been an hour since I turned it on.

The filming did not go smoothly.

The biggest obstacle is not acting skills, but language.

"Hey! You there! Move that Zabuton (seat cushion) over there and 'Naoshite' (put it away/repair it)!"

The stagehand was shouting in a thick Kyoto accent. In the Kanto region, "Naosu" usually means to repair, but in the Kansai region, it means "to put away".

Just now, a young lighting assistant from Tokyo made a mistake and stupidly took his toolbox to fix the perfectly good seat cushion, and ended up getting a severe scolding.

Kitahara Shin stood in the corner of the set, wearing a deliberately distressed gray suit with the collar open, revealing his collarbone.

The staff around me came and went, all speaking in their own unique, fast-paced dialects.

For Tokyoites accustomed to standard language, this felt like entering a foreign country.

"Kitahara-san, the next scene is your entrance."

The assistant director was a middle-aged man wearing glasses. Although his tone was polite, there wasn't much expectation in his eyes. "Remember, just walk to that—uh, stop in front of that coffee table."

He originally wanted to say the specific mark, but considering that the Tokyo idol might not understand the Kansai terminology, he pointed to the approximate location instead.

"Understood."

Kitahara Shin nodded.

He reached up and adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose; they were the screenwriter's non-prescription glasses.

To others, it was just an ordinary pair of prop glasses. But on Kitahara Shin's retina, the entire film studio was changing.

The cluttered set was deconstructed by countless pale blue lines.

The text in the script was transformed into three-dimensional spatial coordinates.

[Scene: Sanada Kyoji's first visit to the team's office.]

[Positioning Tips: Enter from the entrance gate, walk three meters along the central axis, avoiding the blind spot of the side-mounted camera, and stop at the edge of the shadow cast by the main light.]

A clear red dotted line appeared on the floor, passing through the messy wires and props, and pointed precisely to an inconspicuous floor seam.

"Ready—Action!"

The clapperboard clicked crisply as it fell.

Kitahara Shin made a move.

He didn't look down at the road, nor did he look around.

His steps were heavy, each one as if he were being pulled out of mud, carrying the sluggishness and weariness characteristic of a lowly hoodlum. But he walked straight.

Before the assistant director could even give a hand signal, he had already sidestepped a moving boom rig sound engineer and stopped at an extremely tricky angle.

That position, no more, no less, was precisely at the golden ratio point of the main camera.

Moreover, the beam of light originally intended to outline the background now brushed past his profile, shrouding half his face in shadow, revealing only one sharp, cold-eyed eye.

Director Yasuo Furuhata, sitting behind the monitor, paused for a moment.

He was already prepared to yell "cut" and adjust his position. After all, that spot was a "blind spot" deliberately left by the lighting director to create a certain atmosphere, and many veteran actors had to try several times to find it accurately.

But this newcomer actually hit the mark on the first try?

"Pass!"

The director called out, his tone tinged with surprise.

Several veteran stagehands who had been waiting to see the spectacle exchanged glances and dropped their nonchalant expressions.

It's one thing to be able to understand these instructions that are full of dialect, but to be so cunning in your movement?

But this is just an appetizer.

The real challenge lies in what follows.

"In the next match, Kuangci will be taught a lesson by the organization's thugs."

The assistant director, holding a megaphone, shouted, "Action director! Mr. Sato, could you please explain the action sequences?"

A lean man wearing a black training uniform walked over.

His name is Sato Masahiro, and he is the most senior action director at Toei Kyoto. It is said that he acted alongside Ken Takakura when he was young.

Holding two wooden swords, he didn't even glance at Kitahara Shin, and said directly to the director, "Director, this kid is too frail. I saw it just now, and that stunt was too dangerous. Let's use a stunt double."

Sato Masahiro pointed to a stuntman next to him who had already changed his clothes and had a fierce face, "Later, zoom out the camera a bit, let the stuntman take those two hits, and then cut to a close-up of him."

This is what "care" means.

It is also the most blatant form of contempt.

On the set of "The Wives of Yakuza," which emphasizes a "documentary" style, it's like saying, "This child is a porcelain doll, you can't touch him, just play house with him."

Although the surrounding staff did not speak, their disappointment was almost palpable.

The lighting technician dimmed the strong light that had been prepared, and the photographer began to adjust the camera position, preparing to use a fake forced perspective shot to fool the camera.

A dull and perfunctory atmosphere enveloped the film set.

"that----"

A calm voice broke the atmosphere.

Kitahara Shin took a step forward and stood between the action director and the director.

"No stunt double needed."

His voice wasn't loud, and he didn't speak fast, but his standard Mandarin, with its clear pronunciation, stood out conspicuously among the group speaking with Kansai accents.

Sato Masahiro frowned and turned to look at him: "Kid, this isn't some idol drama filmed in Tokyo. You're really going to fall later. The ground is all hard wooden planks. If you hurt your face, the agency will be in trouble with me."

"I am an actor, not a figurine in a display case."

Sato Masahiro's condescending "protector" stance triggered the [Thorn Reflex] mechanism.

Kitahara Shin could feel his pupils contracting and adrenaline surging through his veins.

"Furthermore," Kitahara Shin raised his head, looking at the veteran action director through his non-prescription glasses, a humble yet dangerous smile playing on his lips, "if I can't even do this much action well, then what right do I have to stand here?"

"Mr. Sato, if you're worried—"

He pointed to the wooden knife in the other person's hand.

"Please try me out on the spot."

Director Yasuo Furuhata pushed up his glasses but didn't say anything to stop him. Instead, he leaned back in his chair with great interest, and Masahiro Sato's face darkened.

How dare a mere weaned brat provoke him, a seasoned veteran of thirty years of killing formations?

"OK."

Sato Masahiro sneered and casually tossed a wooden sword at him. "Since you want to suffer, I'll grant your wish. Don't come crying to me later."

Kitahara Shin took the wooden sword.

It feels heavy in the hand; it's made of solid wood.

At the same time, with a slight thought, he directly transferred the effect of the [Broken Practice Wooden Sword] from his inventory onto the physical item in his hand.

[Handheld weapon detected.]

[Debt Collector's Gloves Effect Activated: Significantly increases grip strength, preventing slippage.] [Tie Clip Effect Activated: Forced calmness, removes fear, and converts aggression into aggression.] [Practice Wooden Sword Effect Activated: Loads basic kendo muscle memory, correcting swing trajectory.]

Kitahara Shin exhaled a breath of stale air.

He didn't bother with any fancy opening moves; he simply slumped his shoulders and stood there loosely. The wooden knife in his hand dragged lazily on the cement floor, making a screeching sound.

His demeanor was unlike that of a seasoned martial artist who had come to compete; he looked more like a desperate criminal who had spent his life wallowing in the mud of the streets and was ready to pounce and bite someone's throat at any moment.

"Come."

He uttered a single word softly.

"drink!"

Sato Masahiro didn't stand on ceremony; that was the dignity of an old-school action star.

He shouted, and the wooden sword in his hand whistled as it slashed down directly at Kitahara Shin's shoulder.

The strike was swift and powerful. Even though the force was restrained, an ordinary person would definitely be terrified and close their eyes.

But Kitahara Shin did not close his eyes.

Just as the wooden sword was about to fall, he moved.

It's not retreating, it's moving forward.

Instead of retreating, he advanced, like a cannonball, crashing directly into Sato Masahiro's arms.

That's how you fight in a street brawl.

There's no set method, just ruthlessness.

"Bang!"

The two bodies collided.

Sato Masahiro was taken aback; he couldn't wield his longsword effectively at close range. Before he could react, a hand wearing a black leather glove had already gripped his wrist tightly.

The hand was incredibly strong, like an iron clamp, squeezing him until his bones ached.

Immediately afterwards, a tremendous force came from below.

Kitahara Shin didn't use the wooden sword in his hand to chop, but instead used it like a short stick to stab Sato Masahiro in the abdomen.

Of course, he stopped exerting force the instant he made contact.

But that unstoppable momentum forced Sato Masahiro to take three steps back, stepping into the drainage ditch behind him and almost falling.

"you----"

Sato Masahiro regained his footing, enraged and embarrassed, and was about to retaliate.

But he stopped.

Because a wooden knife was stopped right in front of his throat, less than two centimeters from his Adam's apple.

The hand holding the knife was as steady as a rock, without the slightest tremor.

Follow that terrifyingly steady hand.

Kitahara Shin was staring at him.

There wasn't much drama in those eyes.

It was neither smugness nor provocation. His pupils were shrunken, his focus not on Sato Masahiro's face, but fixed on the throbbing carotid artery.

That look was so blunt, so blunt that he wasn't treated like a human being at all.

It's like a starving stray dog, figuring out where to bite through the meat in one go.

Sweat trickled down Sato Masahi's forehead and dripped onto the floor.

For a brief moment, he genuinely thought he was going to be killed.

The set was completely silent.

Even Hiroki Matsukata, who was far away, stopped smoking, squinted at the scene, and tapped his fingers lightly on his knee.

Just when the atmosphere was at its most tense.

The madness in Kitahara Shin's eyes suddenly receded like a tide.

He sheathed his wooden sword, took a step back, straightened his somewhat disheveled collar, and then bowed deeply to the still-shaken Sato Masahiro.

Thank you for your guidance.

His voice was gentle, and his manners were impeccable.

It was as if the man-eating madman had never existed.

This extreme contrast sent chills down the spines of everyone present.

Sato Masahiro stood there stunned for a moment before coughing to cover his embarrassment. He tucked the wooden sword back into his waistband, turned to the director, and shouted, "Director! We don't need a stunt double! This kid—this kid's a trained fighter!"

Director Yasuo Furuhata smiled.

He picked up the megaphone, his voice brimming with excitement: "All departments, prepare! Proceed according to the live-action filming plan! Everyone, stay alert!"

With this "pledge of allegiance," the subsequent filming went exceptionally smoothly.

The previously careless stagehands became much more efficient, and the lighting crew stopped being perfunctory and started actively looking for the best angles.

-

In this world where strength is paramount, fists and skills are the best passports.

"Action!"

In the lens.

Shin Kitahara plays Kyoji Sanada, who is being beaten by a group of thugs in black.

He didn't need a stunt double, nor did he use any stand-ins.

Every fall was a real fall, every impact made a dull thud. He rolled in the mud, his face covered in filth and blood (makeup), but he was like a painless monster, knocked down again and again, only to stagger back up each time.

That tenacity that emanated from his very bones made everyone behind the monitor hold their breath.

Finally, the main event is here.

Team leader Matsukata Hiroki, who had been sitting in his armchair observing coldly, stood up.

He walked into the frame step by step, carrying a heavy, unsharpened Japanese sword.

That was the true oppressive feeling of an extreme emperor.

According to the script, Sanada Kyoji should have been half-dead by this point. Facing the leader's knife, he should have shown a state of "being afraid, but having to put up with it in order to get ahead."

This is difficult to act.

Overacting is considered pretentious, underacting is considered cowardly.

But Kitahara Shin knelt in the mud, panting heavily, blood flowing down his forehead and into his eyes, stinging painfully.

But he didn't make any sudden movements, nor did he try to add any drama to his life.

He just gripped the soil tightly, his fingernails almost digging into the ground, and then, with great difficulty, slowly raised his head.

Those eyes were bloodshot.

He looked up at the lofty Matsukata Hiroki, his Adam's apple bobbing violently—a physiological swallowing motion.

Is he afraid? Maybe.

But he was even hungrier.

Matsukata Hiroki walked up to him and suddenly swung his sword.

"call-

'

The heavy blade grazed Kitahara Shin's cheek, the force of the wind it generated even stinging his skin, before finally slamming heavily into the nearby soil.

Kitahara Shin didn't even blink.

Not only did he not blink, but his body even instinctively leaned forward a little.

It's like a mad dog with a knife pointed at its nose, yet still wanting to sniff the meat.

Matsukata Hiroki's eyes changed.

The veteran actor clearly sensed it.

This kid not only caught his act, but the way he responded with his eyes sent chills down his spine, even for someone like him who was used to playing the boss.

That look clearly said: If you dare to pull this rope, I dare to bite someone to death for you.

Matsukata Hiroki squatted down, and his large, calloused hand reached out without hesitation, grabbing Kitahara Shin's wet hair and forcefully pulling his face up.

Kitahara Shin was forced to tilt his head back, and the veins on his neck bulged as he exerted himself.

Eyes facing each other.

They were so close that they could see the dirt and grime in each other's pores.

Matsukata Hiroki squinted, his gaze sweeping across Kitahara Shin's blood-stained face like a probe, as if making a final check to see if the "knife" was fast enough.

Kitahara Shin didn't dodge. He just stared straight back, suppressing a wild, animalistic growl in his throat.

A few seconds later.

Matsukata Hiroki seemed finally satisfied, and the fat on the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.

He abruptly released his grip, letting Kitahara Shin fall heavily back into the mud, then stood up and, without turning back, threw out the line: "Kid, from today onwards, you're with me."

After saying that, he strode out of the frame.

The camera didn't cut.

He was still facing Kitahara Shin on the ground.

At that moment, the midday sun shone through the gaps in the studio ceiling, like a spotlight on a stage, directly onto his face.

Sanada Kyoji, his face covered in blood and looking utterly disheveled, lay in the mud.

He looked at the beam of light, and the heaving in his chest slowly subsided.

The fierce urge to bite vanished instantly; he opened his mouth wide, his chest heaving violently, greedily inhaling the murky air.

Its eyes were glazed over, making it look like a stray dog ​​that had just finished fighting with its kind for food and could finally lie down and catch its breath.

"Click! OK!"

Kango Furuhata shouted through a megaphone; his voice sounded quite crisp.

No one applauded, and no one cheered.

In an old film studio like Toei, no one cares about those fancy, superficial things.

Everyone just went about their business.

The crew member who was pulling up the line moved much more quickly. The makeup artist, Yamashita, who had always had a stern face, came over. This time, instead of patting the powder puff on too hard, he took a cotton swab and carefully picked out the mud from the corner of his eye.

"Bear with it, this mud is filthy, it can easily cause inflammation if it gets in your eyes," he muttered.

A hand reached out from the side.

It was action director Sato.

The old man didn't say anything, but grabbed Kitahara Shin's arm and pulled him out of the mud. He then casually covered Kitahara Shin's head with a dry towel that smelled of sweat.

The force was quite strong, almost causing Kitahara Shin to stumble.

Kitahara Shin grabbed a towel and wiped his face. Before he could even say thank you, Sato kicked him in the butt: "Go wash up, you're covered in mud, don't get the floor dirty."

He still cursed, but the distant tone was gone.

In this courtyard where only fists and skills matter, that fight just now got the door knocked open.

After filming ended.

Kitahara Shin sat in a chair in the lounge, letting his assistant wipe the blood off his face.

My whole body aches.

"Feed".

That familiar, hoarse voice rang out again.

Kitahara Shin opened his eyes.

Matsukata Hiroki was standing at the doorway at some point.

He had already removed his makeup, changed back into his casual clothes, and was leaning against the door frame watching him, holding a bottle of chilled beer in his hand.

That fierce aura disappeared, and he reverted to being that kind of forthright, slightly thuggish uncle.

"Kitahara Kid"

Matsukata Hiroki tossed the beer in his hand over.

Kitahara Shin reached out and caught it; the cool can felt comfortable against his palm.

"I didn't expect you to adapt to the style of this film set without me having to guide you."

The veteran actor, who plays a yakuza boss, grinned and pointed outside. "Get ready, I'll wait for you outside. I'll take you out for a good meal."

Kitahara Shin paused for a moment, then opened a beer and took a swig.

The spicy liquid slid down my throat, taking away all my fatigue.

"it is good."

He looked at Matsukata Hiroki, a genuine smile playing on his lips.

"Thanks, senior."

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