mchenry-crisis.org Chapter 115 Belated Applause
Chapter 115 Belated Applause
Chapter 115 Belated Applause
The cold wind in Hibiya couldn't dispel the almost insane heat at the entrance of the Toho flagship store.
The long line, winding for three blocks, resembled a greedy python, stubbornly coiled at the ticket booth entrance. Just two weeks ago, the ticket sellers here were yawning and chatting about last night's baseball game; now, they had to fight for even a moment to drink water.
What caused all these earth-shattering changes was not some miraculous mutation in the film itself.
The poster on the door still had a dark and oppressive tone, and it still featured Kitahara Shin's empty eyes and a fake smile.
The only difference was that a new adhesive sticker had been hastily pasted onto the upper right corner of the poster by the staff.
It features a line of Italian text printed in gold foil, along with the dazzlingly bright Silver Lion logo.
This is like putting a luxury brand tag on an old piece of clothing that no one buys at a street stall.
That thin sticker, to Japanese audiences at the time, was not an explanation of a film award at all, but rather a "permit for safe aesthetics".
With it, what was originally criticized as "dull" becomes "profound," and what was originally disliked as "obscure" becomes "sophisticated."
Buying this ticket seems to prove that you are a cultured person who has transcended vulgar tastes and can connect with European and American art.
This is the absurdity unique to this era.
As long as the foreigners give their approval, even if it's a pile of shit, they can taste the sweetness of chocolate.
Previously, they disliked the movie for being dark and dull, and complained that they couldn't understand what Juzo Itami was saying.
But now that even the judges at Venice are applauding it, it must mean that I was doing it wrong before.
If you can't understand it, it means you're uncultured and lack aesthetic taste.
This strange logic is particularly prevalent in this bubble era.
People are so eager to be recognized by the world that they regard Western standards of evaluation as the ultimate benchmark.
The screening room was packed.
Temporary seats were even added in the aisles.
The head waiter, Takashima, sat in the best seat, his back ramrod straight, a reserved smile on his face.
Today she specially brought a few young girls from the hotel reception to come and see.
"Takashima-san, is this movie really that good?" the little girl next to me asked in a low voice. "I saw in the newspapers that it was criticized quite harshly before."
"You don't understand."
With the tone of someone who's been there, Takashima said softly, "This film has a certain threshold. Those newspaper critics are too superficial; they didn't understand the deeper meaning the director wanted to convey at all. When I first watched it, I felt that this film was bound to win an award sooner or later."
Now, she is "the first person to understand this movie," and this sense of superiority makes her feel that she has distanced herself from those viewers who follow the trend.
The movie begins.
It still features those oppressive long takes and those obscure lines.
But this time, the atmosphere in the screening room was completely different.
The screening room was so quiet it was as if some kind of religious ceremony was taking place.
All eyes were glued to the screen, afraid of missing any so-called "artistic details".
Even if some shots on the screen are obviously editing mistakes or slow-paced, the audience will exclaim in surprise, as if those original flaws are the director's most brilliant metaphors.
"Look at that lighting!" a bespectacled male college student in the back row excitedly said to his girlfriend. "The director deliberately made the screen so dark; it's definitely a metaphor for the protagonist's inner confusion! It's so sophisticated!"
"Yeah, yeah, it's much more profound than those Hollywood movies that just explode all the time." His girlfriend nodded repeatedly, even though she was almost falling asleep.
Even when the movie ends and the lights come on.
The applause that erupted from the audience was much more enthusiastic than that at the premiere. People clapped their hands vigorously, their faces showing a sense of satisfaction that "I have undergone an artistic baptism," nodding to each other as if they had just completed a collective certification of their taste.
Kitahara Shin sat in the corner of the last row, pulling his baseball cap brim down low.
Seeing this absurd scene, he couldn't help but laugh.
The movie is still the same movie; not a single frame has been changed.
What has changed is people's hearts.
Or rather, what has changed is the label called "vanity".
"Have you seen enough?"
Kitahara Shin stood up and said to Matsushima Nanako beside him.
Nanako also disguised herself today, wearing a mask and hat, only revealing a pair of somewhat bewildered big eyes.
Kitahara Shin had originally planned to bring her out to broaden her horizons today, and coming to the movie theater here was just a side trip.
She looked at the audience who stood up and applauded, her eyes shining with a mixture of light and fear.
"Is this the power of acting?"
"No."
Kitahara Shin smiled and walked towards the side door, his tone as indifferent as if he were talking about someone else: "This is the influence of the trophy."
If I hadn't won that award, these people would probably be asking the theater manager for refunds right now.
Pushing open the heavy fire door, a rush of cold air hits you.
"Let's go."
"The excitement's over, time to get down to business."
"Where are we going?" Nanako quickly followed, her voice trembling slightly.
"Shimokitazawa".
Kitahara Shin hailed a taxi. "Since you want to be an actor, you need to find a place where you can really hone your skills. I've said it before, I'm very strict."
Upon hearing the word "strict," Nanako instinctively shrank her neck.
Sitting in the back seat of the taxi, she didn't even dare to look at Kitahara Shin next to her, and could only stare intently at the driver's rearview mirror.
Even through a mirror, just seeing that man's profile reminded her of the fear she felt when she was a driver, dominated by his aura.
That kind of "rearview mirror PTSD" made her instinctively straighten her back and sit like a primary school student about to be judged.
Shimokitazawa, an underground rehearsal hall near the Honda Theater.
The air was filled with the musty smell of old carpets that had become damp, and the sour smell of sweat left by dozens of people exercising vigorously in the enclosed space.
The dim incandescent light bulb hissed, illuminating the peeling paint on the corner of the wall and the blackened, trampled pages of the script scattered on the floor.
This is the rehearsal space for "Third Stage," one of Tokyo's most famous experimental theater companies.
"Go in."
Kitahara Shin pointed to the iron gate covered in stickers. "I've already spoken to the director. You'll be rehearsing here with them for the next month."
"I'm not playing the lead role, nor am I playing a supporting role."
He looked at the pretty vase in front of him, still clinging to her model-like air, and a playful smile curled at the corner of his lips: "You'll play the role of a passerby walking around in the background, or a tree, a rock. Until you wash away that 'I'm a pretty girl' arrogance completely."
Nanako paused for a moment.
"Teacher Kitahara, I've never been this proud before—"
She looked at the dark and cramped entrance, then at her expensive trench coat, and instinctively showed a hint of disgust.
"And isn't this place a bit—"
"What? You think it's dirty?" Kitahara Shin raised an eyebrow, his eyes turning cold.
"No—no! I'll go right now!"
That familiar, domineering fear instantly overcame her germaphobia. Like a startled rabbit, Nanako darted through the iron gate without a word.
"Clang!"
The heavy, soundproof iron door closed, swallowing the scrambling figure inside.
The corridor fell silent again, with only the buzzing of old incandescent light bulbs overhead.
Kitahara Shin stood there with his hands in his pockets, listening for a while to the noisy voices coming from inside.
"This girl won't budge unless you push her a little."
He shook his head and glanced at the watch on his wrist.
It's still early before rehearsals end, and we can't just stand here forever.
He turned and walked toward the somewhat old-looking vending machine at the end of the corridor, intending to buy a can of hot coffee to perk himself up.
Just as his fingers touched the cold metal edge of the coin slot, preparing to insert a coin, [An uncollected rare item (purple quality) was detected nearby.]
Kitahara Nobumasa's finger, which was about to insert a coin, paused suddenly as a system notification popped up.
He followed the cursor and found a dark purple velvet headband in the shadows below the coin dispenser of the vending machine.
Kitahara Shin bent down and picked it up.
The headband has an excellent texture; it feels cool to the touch and has a very faint, elegant sandalwood scent.
The moment the fingertip touched the hairband, detailed item information popped up.
【Item Name: Muse's Confusion (Not Fully Unlocked/Purple Rare)】
[Owner: Kyoka Suzuki]
[Item Description: This is a hairband that belonged to a genius actress. It was worn for a long time by a seemingly aloof but actually incredibly naive young woman, absorbing her unique "dullness."]
[Current effect:]
Passive Insensitivity Barrier: When faced with external pressure, ridicule, or malice, the wearer automatically blocks 50% of negative emotions, making it easier to maintain focus. (Commonly known as: having a big heart).
Intuitive Outburst (Active): When encountering a bottleneck in script study, you can skip logical thinking and directly rely on intuition to grasp the core of the character, instantly increasing your comprehension by 30%.
[Note: The line between genius and idiocy is thin. Sometimes, being a little less intelligent allows you to see the true nature of art.]
"Suzuki—Kyoka?"
Kitahara Shin stared at the name on the system panel, his brows furrowing slightly.
The name sounds familiar, like I've seen a poster for it outside a TV station, or maybe Da Tian has mentioned it to me.
He stroked his chin, searching his mind for a moment.
A few seconds later, he suddenly realized.
"Ah, I remember now."
She is the female lead in the NHK morning drama "What's Your Name?" which is currently airing.
It's said that the current viewership ratings are frighteningly high, with housewives all over Japan waiting in front of the TV every morning to see her shed tears.
The media lauded her, calling her "the last remaining gem of the Showa era beauties" and "a textbook example of Japanese womanly elegance."
It was her.
"This is good stuff."
Kitahara Shin played with the hair ribbon in his hand, which carried a faint sandalwood scent, lost in thought.
This thing is a godsend for actors who are sensitive and prone to internal conflict.
He thought of Nanako, who would freeze up the moment the director glared at her.
"This foolish apprentice does have some luck."
Kitahara Shin smiled, casually put the coffee in his pocket, bought a can of hot coffee, and turned to walk back to the rehearsal hall.
Inside the rehearsal hall.
A group of actors in practice clothes are rolling around on the floor, undergoing training to "unleash their true nature".
The scene was crazy; some people were barking like dogs, and others were contorting their bodies.
Nanako Matsushima became the most abrupt joke in the whole thing.
She had taken off her expensive trench coat and was wearing only a simple white T-shirt and sweatpants. But this didn't make her feel at ease.
She appeared particularly clumsy among a group of seasoned veterans who were already accustomed to this kind of training.
The director asked her to imitate a newly hatched chick.
She lay on the floor, covered in sweat, her face flushed red.
But her movements remained incredibly stiff—even when crawling on the ground, her neck remained rigidly straight, as if she were walking a catwalk.
That was the "pretentiousness" ingrained in her bones from years of modeling.
"You're a chick! Not a goose going to the guillotine!" the director roared from the side.
Nanako was so anxious she almost cried.
She didn't know what to do; her mind went completely blank.
In her extreme panic, she suddenly remembered a certain look in Kitahara Shin's eyes when he was acting.
"If it were Kitahara-sensei—what would he do?"
Then, a bizarre scene unfolded.
The "chick" suddenly narrowed its eyes, its mouth twitched, revealing a sinister expression that seemed to suggest it was about to kill the whole family, and then it suddenly popped out of its "shell".
"puff----"
The surrounding actors burst into laughter instantly.
The director was so angry that he threw the script on the ground: "You're supposed to hatch, not break down doors and kill people! Who taught you to act like a chick?!"
Nanako was stunned.
She lay on the ground, listening to the laughter around her, so ashamed she wanted to disappear into the ground.
The sense of defeat—that she was "good for nothing except her face"—overwhelmed her like a tidal wave.
Just then.
"then."
A cold voice came from above.
Nanako subconsciously looked up and saw a dark purple object being thrown at her.
She caught it hastily and discovered it was a hairband of excellent quality.
"Kitahara-sensei?" She looked at the tall figure standing in the doorway, her voice trembling. "Did I... mess up the performance?"
"It's completely rotten."
Kitahara Shin took a sip of coffee and commented mercilessly, "What was that expression just now? Was it like a weasel offering New Year's greetings to a chicken?"
Nanako lowered her head, tears welling up in her eyes.
"But at least this time he didn't put on that airs."
Kitahara Shin abruptly changed the subject, his tone still cold, but he began to instruct her: "With your hair all messed up like that, how are you supposed to see the world? Tie it up. If you're going to be that chicken, don't worry about how your hairstyle looks."
"This—this is for me?"
Nanako was stunned.
She thought she was going to get a severe scolding, and was even prepared to be kicked out. But—this was a reward?
A strange feeling, a mixture of "I felt good about being scolded" and "My teacher actually cares about me," welled up inside me.
"I just bought it at the convenience store."
Kitahara Shin lied without thinking, "Tighten up. Don't let those messy thoughts block your vision."
"Yes! Thank you, teacher!"
Nanako was overjoyed and quickly tied the headband on her head.
Just the instant the hairband was tied tight.
[Item effect activated: Barrier of Insensitivity]
Something magic happened.
The laughter around her that irritated her, the director's angry face, and even the internal struggle of wondering "Am I a useless person?" suddenly felt like they were separated by a thick layer of glass.
It became very far away and blurry.
The chaotic thoughts in my mind suddenly quieted down. Only one simple thought remained: hatch, break free.
"So light—"
Nanako touched the headband on her head, and her eyes changed.
The shrewdness and tension typical of models have disappeared, replaced by a kind of naive focus.
It's like a fool who only knows how to go down a dead end.
"Director, one more time!"
She shouted, then without hesitation lay back down on the dusty floor.
This time, she didn't care about whether her posture was elegant or not, nor whether her expression would falter. She was just a silly little chick desperately flapping its wings, wanting to see the outside world.
Watching her roll around on the floor, Kitahara Shin leaned against the door frame, a slight smile playing on his lips.
This girl, though a bit simple-minded, has a masochistic streak of "if you give her a little reward, she'll train like crazy," which is definitely a good thing.
"Practice slowly, Nanako."
He turned and walked out, throwing the empty coffee can into the trash can.