Tokyo: My Best Actor Gear List

Chapter 72 The Shelter on Monday Night

In early spring of 1991, Tokyo was bitterly cold.

At this time of day, the intersection in Roppongi would normally be packed with taxis displaying "vacant" signs and men and women waving 10,000 yen bills, vying to get to their next drinking party.

But now, at 8:50 p.m., the neon lights on Ginza Central Avenue are still on, but the streets are eerily empty. The entire city seems to have been put on silent.

Because that moment is approaching.

Nine o'clock sharp.

The seventh episode of "Tokyo Love Story" premiered on time.

……

In an old apartment building in Banqiao District.

Yoko Oshima, a 28-year-old housewife, was kneeling on the worn-out tatami mat, mechanically folding the clothes she had just brought in.

The room was cold, so to save electricity, she didn't turn on the heating and just covered her legs with a blanket.

Dinner was laid out on the table: a pot of bland stewed radish soup, and two saury that I had snagged during a supermarket sale.

"Let's eat."

Kenichi Oshima, the husband, emerged from the cramped bathroom with wet hair, which Yoko had just trimmed with scissors to save money on a trip to the barbershop.

This man, who was once full of vigor at the securities company, now has eyes as dull as a stagnant pool.

Six months ago, they lived in a luxury apartment in the port area, went to Hakone for hot springs on weekends, and had kaiseki meals for 20,000 yen per person for dinner.

Back then, Kenichi would always smile confidently and say, "Yoko, buy whichever bag you like, and you'll get an even bigger bonus tomorrow."

At that time, Yoko thought this was what life was supposed to be like, until the sound of bubbles bursting rang in her ears.

Kenichi's clients suffered margin calls, and enormous debts weighed on their hands like a mountain.

To pay off their debts, they sold their apartment, their car, and their designer bags that they had barely used, and moved to this old neighborhood with poor soundproofing.

From then on, there was no more laughter in the house.

Kenichi became taciturn and even avoided looking Yoko in the eye. He felt like a useless person, a sinner who had dragged his wife down from the clouds into the mud.

Yangzi was also very careful, afraid that she might say the wrong thing and hurt her husband’s already fragile self-esteem.

This suffocating silence is more terrifying than poverty.

"Um."

Yangzi served the rice, and the two sat facing each other, with only the soft sound of chopsticks touching the rim of the bowl.

The television is the only light source still on in this house.

On the screen, the plot progresses to a pedestrian bridge late at night.

Rika had her back to Kanji, her shoulders trembling slightly.

She suffered grievances at work and never received a definite response in her love life.

That ever-energetic smile finally couldn't be maintained in the cold Tokyo night.

"I'm not going to make it."

Honami Suzuki's voice trembled slightly, a sentiment most familiar to everyone struggling to maintain a glamorous image in Tokyo:

"The battery... is dead."

"Smack."

Kenichi dropped his chopsticks onto the table.

These words were like a precise scalpel, dissecting the most festering part of his heart.

He was also "exhausted".

To maintain that facade of a "successful person," he ran and overworked himself relentlessly. As a result, he now feels like a piece of trash, a useless object with zero battery left.

Camera angle change.

Shin Kitahara, who plays Kanji, stands a few steps away.

He didn't spout any grand theories, nor did he demonstrate any elitist control.

He paused for a moment, like an awkward country youth, then asked earnestly:

"What should I do? Where can I buy batteries?"

Rika turned around, looked at him, and slowly raised her hand, pointing to her lips.

"They sell them here."

The air was quiet for a second.

Kitahara Shin's handling here demonstrates astonishing subtlety.

He was stunned at first, a look of panic flashing in his eyes, but then that panic turned into a deep determination.

He took a deep breath, stepped forward, and with slightly stiff movements, solemnly cupped Rika's face in his hands.

Then, he kissed her.

That's "charging".

It is not an expression of lust, but a transmission of vitality.

"Is it full?" he asked shyly after they parted, his eyes full of concern.

Rika smiled, tears welling in her eyes: "Full power!"

Yangzi stared at the screen, and tears unexpectedly spilled into the soup bowl in front of her.

Looking at the man in the cheap trench coat on the screen, she suddenly realized that what she and her husband lacked in the past six months was not money, but this kind of "recharging".

Those once gentle and refined friends turned into hideous beasts after going bankrupt; those so-called high society members revealed their ugliest fangs when their interests were harmed.

In this era of bursting bubbles and widespread fear, everyone is running frantically until their batteries are depleted, forgetting to stop and seek strength from someone equally exhausted around them.

"Kenichi."

Yangzi suddenly shouted, her voice trembling slightly.

The husband across from her froze, looking helplessly at his weeping wife: "I'm sorry... Is the fish not fresh? Or... I'm so sorry for making you suffer like this with me..."

He lowered his head, his voice choked with sobs, clutching his hair with both hands, "I'm so useless, I can't even give you a decent meal."

"My battery is dead too."

Yangzi interrupted him, mimicking lines from TV shows, and suddenly reached out, past the pot of cheap stewed radishes, and pointed to her own cheek.

Do you sell batteries here?

Kenichi suddenly looked up, staring at his wife in astonishment.

The once spirited elite is gone, replaced by a man who, even when he's bombarded with debt collectors' calls every day, still manages to compose himself before going home.

Isn't this just like Kanji?

Although he was clumsy and lacked extraordinary abilities, he did not run away or abandon her like those people who jump off buildings in the news.

"Kenichi."

Tears streamed down Yoko's face, yet a long-lost, genuine smile bloomed on her lips. "Whether you're a section chief or unemployed, I don't care anymore. Help me recharge. Once I'm fully charged, we'll start afresh tomorrow."

Kenichi was stunned.

He looked at his wife, then glanced at Kitahara Shin on the television, whose eyes were firm and seemed to block out all the cold winds.

The boulder called "loser" that had been weighing on his back and suffocating him collapsed in that instant.

It turns out he wasn't a piece of junk.

As long as he's still alive, he'll be his wife's source of strength.

"Waaah..."

The thirty-year-old man suddenly stood up, grabbed his wife's head across the table, and awkwardly but forcefully kissed her.

Tears streamed down their cheeks, salty yet hot.

"Full of..."

As they parted, Kenichi wiped away his tears, his voice choked yet strong, "Yoko, I'm filled with..."

Tomorrow... I'm going to the construction site to look for work.

As long as I'm here, I'll never let you go hungry.

That night, in that cold apartment, two hearts that had been frozen together were brought back together by the faint light of the television.

……

The next day, the entertainment sections of major newspapers were completely overwhelmed.

This time, however, the discussion is not about ratings, but about "redemption".

Yomiuri Shimbun editorial:

The wind in Kabutocho became particularly biting this February. As the myth of ever-rising prices began to crumble, people realized they had been exhausted from their frantic run.

At this very moment, the clumsy young man, Kanji Nagao, on Monday night unexpectedly became a mirror image of the Heisei era. When Rika Akana whispers "battery depleted," it is not just a line of dialogue, but a heavy sigh from the entire Japanese society on the eve of the bursting of the bubble economy.

Shin Kitahara's portrayal of Kanji lacks the flamboyant and all-around abilities commonly seen in the bubble economy era. Faced with a weary lover, his only solution is to "recharge."

But perhaps this is precisely the salvation we yearn for most right now. It heralds the passing of the era that measured love with money and deviation values. In the cold wind, more than illusory numbers, an embrace that confirms each other's warmth is the only reality we can grasp in this uncertain early spring.

In Fuji Television's mailroom, piles of letters almost blocked the door.

These letters were no longer addressed to "Kitahara Shinju" but were addressed directly to "Kanji-kun".

Kitahara Shin sat in the lounge, holding a letter with messy handwriting in his hand.

"Wanji-kun, I'm a builder who just went bankrupt. Yesterday, when I was standing on the rooftop, I remembered the question, 'Where can I buy batteries?' I thought, maybe I should go home and see my wife. Even if I'm penniless, as long as I can charge her up, I'll feel like I'm still alive. Thank you for letting me come down from the rooftop."

Kitahara Shin read very slowly.

He put down the letter and looked out the window at the gloomy sky.

That classic "charging" scene was originally just a scene written by Yuji Sakamoto.

However, in a specific historical context, at a time when the entire nation was overdrawn and exhausted by greed, this simple interaction unexpectedly carried a weight heavier than that of a hero.

"It's quite heavy."

He muttered to himself, carefully folded the letter, and put it into his inner pocket.

The light in his eyes became even more serene.

This is what an actor should be like.

They are not dolls posing under the spotlight, but craftsmen who can sense the pulse of the times and soothe people's hearts.

-

Just a heads-up, it will be available on Wednesday. There will be a huge update rush. I've been saving it up for half a month.

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