MMB Chapter 198 What is "Technical" Acting?
Chapter 198 What is "Technical" Acting?
Chapter 198 What is "Technical" Acting?
At this point, there were less than two weeks left before the "end-of-month showdown" between "Kikujiro's Summer" and Toho's blockbuster "Summer Love Letter," which was destined to shake the industry.
Although the media was arguing fiercely about the two films, and Toho was going all out with its promotional campaign, for Kitahara Shin, who was at the center of the storm, this period was a rare "long vacation."
In that film, he was merely an investor and made a cameo appearance as a "perverted octopus man," leaving the burden of promotion entirely on Takeshi Kitano, the "rogue director" eager to prove himself. As for himself, having just turned down a television drama offer from Yuko Asano, he didn't have any projects he was required to join at the moment.
That's right, this young club president, who is usually as busy as a spinning top, drove his black Porsche into the Ekoda campus on this early autumn afternoon when the cicadas' chirping was fading.
Nihon University Faculty of Arts (Nikgei).
This place is hailed as the cradle of the Japanese entertainment industry. Hiroyuki Sanada, Koki Mitani, Yu Aoi—countless names who later became influential figures in the film world spent their youth here.
Kitahara Shin came here to take classes not only to fulfill his promise to Yoshinaga Sayuri to "build up his experience," but also, more importantly, to "strike gold."
Instead of searching high and low for amateurs, it's better to select the best from here. The students here have solid fundamentals, and with a little guidance, many can be used immediately. He needs to replenish his firm with fresh talent.
Large lecture hall.
The seats were already full.
Not only acting students, but also directing and cinematography students crowded into the back rows. After all, the "King of Ratings" personally teaching was a huge draw.
Kitahara Shin stood on the podium, wearing a simple white shirt with the cuffs rolled up.
Instead of simply reciting a script, he directly raised a very practical issue: "Many new actors have a misconception. They think that acting is about truly listening, seeing, and feeling," that immersing themselves in their own world and crying themselves unconscious is good acting.
Kitahara Shin turned around and wrote four large characters on the blackboard:
[Camera Awareness]
"Wrong. In film and television acting, if you don't know where the camera is or where the lights are, then no matter how heart-wrenching your performance is, the audience will only see the back of your head."
"So-called acting skills" are essentially a conspiracy with the camera.
A rustling sound of notes being taken filled the air below the stage.
But at that moment...
In the very center of the front row, a hand was raised high, interrupting Kitahara Shin's rhythm.
"Teacher, I have an objection."
The speaker was a boy. He had long, retro-style hair, sat upright, wore an elegant handmade suit, and had an innate arrogance between his brows.
Ichikawa Somegoro.
When the students around him saw him stand up, they instinctively shrank back. This was the scion of a family of Peking Opera performers, who had been training on stage since childhood. He was the epitome of orthodoxy, and his family had been national treasures for generations.
He looked down on actors and stars like Kitahara Shin, who were "self-taught," without any background or foundation.
"Please speak." Kitahara Shin put down the chalk.
Ichikawa stood up, his tone polite, but the underlying skepticism was unmistakable: "Excuse my bluntness, Kitahara-sensei, but aren't your techniques for 'finding the shot' and 'finding the light' a bit too—utilitarian?"
He glanced around and said in a loud voice, "Acting is a sacred art. Actors should immerse themselves completely in the soul of the character, experiencing joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness. If you're distracted by things like 'where's the camera' or 'whether your face is at the right angle,' then isn't that kind of performance fake, just something done to please the audience?"
"A true actor doesn't need to cater to the camera. A good director will naturally capture my most authentic self. I only need to be responsible for my role."
These words resonated deeply.
Many students who had received traditional drama education nodded in agreement. In their view, the things that Kitahara Shin, an actor who came from an unorthodox background, said were indeed too lacking in "craftsmanship" and "artistic sense".
Kitahara Shin looked at this upright-looking young master from a prestigious family and smiled.
I wasn't angry; in fact, I found it rather amusing.
He'd heard this argument countless times. Typical academic arrogance, believing technology to be dirty and only the soul to be noble.
"What's your name?"
"Ichikawa."
"Okay, Ichikawa-kun."
Kitahara Shin pointed to the podium: "Since you have your insistence, why don't we do an experiment?"
He turned to the back row: "Are there any film or photography students here? Bring your equipment?"
"have!"
A boy wearing a baseball cap raised his hand, holding a Sony Hi8 handheld camcorder.
"Come up."
Kitahara Shin then looked at the front row: "Let's have another female student from the performing arts department. She needs to have solid fundamental skills."
"I'll do it."
A short-haired girl stood up.
Kitahara Shin glanced at her; she looked somewhat familiar. Although she was still quite young, her features were likely those of the later actress Nakatani Miki, who was known for her ethereal beauty.
"very good."
Kitahara Shin had someone bring over a monitor (one of those bulky, large-screen TVs) and connected it directly to the camera with a cable.
"The questions are very simple."
Kitahara Shin looked at Ichikawa and the girl: "The scene is: in this classroom, you have just learned that your best friend has passed away. There are no lines, only a five-second reaction shot."
He pointed at Ichikawa: "You go first. According to your theory, immerse yourself in your art and ignore the camera."
Ichikawa confidently walked onto the stage.
He closed his eyes and gathered his emotions for ten seconds.
A male student from the photography department stood two meters away from him, carrying his equipment.
"start."
Ichikawa suddenly opened his eyes.
It must be said that his basic skills were indeed solid. The tremor in his pupils, the rapid breathing, and the tension of that sorrow in that instant were incredibly moving to the naked eye.
To portray that "collapse," he even painfully lowered his head, covered his face with his hands, trembled violently, and finally turned his back, leaving the audience with a sorrowful silhouette.
"Card."
Kitahara Shin remained expressionless.
"Next."
He called the girl named Nakatani up and whispered a few words of advice: "Don't move. Tuck your chin slightly and look at a point three inches above the camera. Tears welled up in your eyes, and you counted to three before letting them fall."
Remember, don't lower your head; let the sunlight shine on your cheekbones.
Miki Nakatani nodded.
"start."
She stood there, not trembling like Ichikawa.
She simply stood there quietly, adjusting her angle.
One second, two seconds.
Her eyes reddened, a single tear clinging precisely to her eyelashes, threatening to fall. The light perfectly outlined the contours of her face, conveying a poignant sense of vulnerability that struck the heart.
"Card."
The experiment is over.
Kitahara Shin pressed the replay button on the monitor.
"Come on, everyone, take a look."
The screen lights up.
First, there is the picture of Ichikawa.
Because he lowered his head, covered his face, and turned around, the footage captured by the camera was a mess—first, a dark top of his head, then half of his face covered by his hand, and finally a bewildered back.
A performance that looks incredibly moving to the naked eye appears on screen like that of a constipated lunatic. There are absolutely no micro-expressions, and you can't feel any emotion.
The classroom was deathly silent.
Ichikawa looked at himself on the screen, and his face instantly turned deathly pale.
Next, there was a scene featuring Miki Nakatani.
perfect.
The lighting, the angle, the close-up of that single tear. Even just looking at that gray monitor screen, you can feel the overwhelming sadness.
High judgment.
Kitahara Shin turned off the monitor, looked at the somewhat dazed Ichikawa, and said calmly, "You just said that a good director will capture you. Do you think the cameraman is a god? Can he see through the back of your hand and film your face? Or can he predict when you'll suddenly turn around?"
"You might say it's a matter of the director's skill. If it were Akira Kurosawa, he could definitely have directed it well."
"But I'm telling you, Ichikawa-kun."
Kitahara Shin stepped down from the podium and stood among the students. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried to every corner: "In this industry, you can count the number of directors who can be called masters on two hands. As actors, we spend 99% of our time working with ordinary directors and ordinary cinematographers."
"A work of art is not a one-man show."
"The lighting technician puts in so much effort to create the perfect light for you, but if you look down, you're surrounded by shadows; the photographer finds the perfect composition, but if you turn around, you're out of the frame."
"This isn't art, this is selfishness."
He pointed to the blackboard behind him: "So-called 'utilitarianism' is actually respect for your partners. Understanding the camera and coordinating with the lighting isn't just about making yourself look good, but also about ensuring the entire crew's efforts aren't wasted."
"We are creators too. To see yourself as a madman who only vents his emotions is to be a third-rate actor. To see yourself as part of the picture is to be a first-rate professional."
The words fell.
The classroom was silent for a few seconds.
"Slap, slap, slap."
The boy with the camera was the first to clap. Immediately afterwards, a wave of applause erupted.
Ichikawa Somegoro stood on the stage, his face flushed red. He looked at Kitahara Shin, and although his arrogance remained, after witnessing the horrific replay of what had just happened, he gritted his teeth and finally bowed deeply: "I have learned a great deal."
Kitahara Shin nodded slightly.
This lesson was the most vivid one ever given to these kids who hadn't even left the ivory tower yet.
The bell rang, signaling the end of get out of class.
The students dispersed reluctantly, and the Kabuki prince named Ichikawa also slunk away with his tail between his legs.
-
Kitahara Shin was organizing his lesson plan on the podium.
"Um—teacher."
A somewhat hurried voice came from behind.
Kitahara Shin raised his head.
It was that short-haired girl from earlier, Miki Nakatani. She stood by the podium, her hands clasped together, looking a little nervous, but her eyes were bright.
"Thank you for choosing me—the demonstration just now."
She bowed, her voice filled with excitement: "If it weren't for your guidance just now, I might never have realized the importance of lighting and angles in acting. Before, teachers only taught us to experience and feel; no one ever taught me how to use the camera."
"You have a high level of comprehension."
Kitahara Shin closed his lesson plan, looked at the rough gem before him, and smiled: "To be able to understand my instructions in an instant and precisely control the location of your tears. This is not only talent, but also a gift from God."
Upon hearing the phrase "a gift from God," Miki Nakatani blushed instantly and became somewhat flustered.
Kitahara Shin paused for a moment, then cut to the chase and asked directly, "Nakatani-kun, have you signed with an agency yet?"
"Why?"
Miki Nakatani paused for a moment, then shook her head: "Not yet—I'm just a freshman, and my family isn't exactly a family of entertainers, so I haven't had any opportunities to get in touch with any agencies—"
"That's perfect."
Kitahara Shin took a business card out of his pocket and handed it over.
There were no extra titles on it, only the simple words "Kitahara Shin, President of Kitahara Office".
"Would you be interested in coming to my place?"
His tone was casual, but the words he uttered carried immense weight: "My company happens to be lacking a few talented newcomers. Although our company isn't large, you should know about our resources."
Miki Nakatani froze when she saw the business card handed to her.
Her eyes widened, her breathing quickened, and she pointed at herself in disbelief: "Me? Really? You—you're going to sign me?"
This is too unreal.
Standing in front of her was Kitahara Shin! The king of ratings, the hottest producer right now, and the idol of countless young actors!
"Of course it's true."
Seeing her flattered expression, Kitahara Shin smiled and nodded: "Or would you rather go to one of those big companies and start from scratch, serving tea and water to build up your seniority?"
"No! I want to go! I really want to go!"
Miki Nakatani suddenly raised her head, her voice trembling slightly with excitement, even bordering on a sob: "To join your agency—it is my honor! My greatest honor!"
She took the business card with both hands, as if holding some rare treasure.
Seeing the gleam in the girl's eyes, Kitahara Shin smiled slightly.
For these ordinary young people with no background or family connections, Kitahara Shin, who also came from humble beginnings but carved out his own path through sheer hard work, is a kind of faith.
He is a living proof that in the hierarchical entertainment industry, you don't need to rely on your parents or kneel down; as long as you have talent, you can earn money standing up.
"Come to the company tomorrow and look for Mr. Ota."
Kitahara Shin patted her on the shoulder, then turned and walked out of the classroom.
The afterglow of the setting sun shone on his silhouette.
Miki Nakatani clutched the business card tightly, looked at the retreating figure, and nodded vigorously.
Back in the firm's office.
Kitahara Shin casually tossed his suit jacket onto the sofa and turned on the TV.
The screen was displaying a news report that had infuriated the entire nation: "Regarding the Akasaka Real Estate forced demolition case, defense lawyer Yoshioka issued a statement outside the courthouse today: My client acted entirely legally and compliantly; the so-called violent eviction is completely fabricated. As for those holdouts who refuse to leave, the law will not protect the greedy."
In the footage, the lawyer with slicked-back hair and a menacing face gives the camera a contemptuous smile, while the clearly guilty real estate tycoon swaggers into a luxury car and drives away.
Public opinion was in uproar.
The public is angry.
Everyone wanted to jump into the TV and beat that lawyer up, but they also had to admit that he had indeed exploited a loophole in the law in court.
The son won the lawsuit.
Watching this scene, Kitahara Shin did not feel indignant like the average viewer.
Instead, he sat in the boss's chair, tapping his fingers lightly on the table, his eyes growing brighter and brighter.
"This kind of 'villain' winning formula, while unpleasant to watch, will definitely get high ratings."
Since the audience is currently criticizing this lawyer who twists the truth for money, then what if a film were made featuring a protagonist who is this kind of "profit-driven"...
What about a lawyer drama where the characters are "sharp-tongued and ruthless, able to turn black into white for money"?
In an era of Japanese dramas filled with moralistic preaching, this kind of anti-establishment setting is absolutely revolutionary.
Legal High (The winner takes all).
Kensuke Komikado, with his side-parted hair, speaks at a machine-gun-like pace, is extremely annoying yet invincible.
Kitahara Shin immediately opened the drawer and took out a new project proposal.
In fact, the original male lead for this drama, Masato Ichisakai, is now working at his agency.
The problem is that Masato Sakai is currently a newcomer who just dropped out of Waseda University and is doing odd jobs in a theater troupe. He's still very green and hasn't developed that "cheeky charm" and "madness" yet. If you put him in the lead role of Komikado right now, he'll definitely mess it up.
"It seems I'll have no choice but to set an example myself."
Kitahara Shin stroked his chin, a mischievous smile playing on his lips: "Masato-kun, sorry, I'll take your masterpiece for now. You can learn from it carefully."
As for screenwriter Ryota Kosawa? He's probably still writing late-night dramas for some TV station. Instead of going through the trouble of finding one, he might as well just "hand-write" the script himself. The plot is all in his head anyway; he could recite those dense lines and plot twists with his eyes closed.
However, simply making TV dramas is not enough.
Kitahara Shin turned his gaze to the viewership report next to him for the variety show "Kitahara Shin Can Do Anything".
Although the viewership ratings remain above 20%, some discordant voices have recently emerged.
One viewer wrote in questioning, "They find a professional player to defeat every episode? Isn't that too fake?"
"There must be a script. Did they deliberately make the other side lose?"
"I'm getting tired of it. Anyway, Kitahara will definitely win in the end."
indeed.
Viewers will get tired of constantly beating weaker opponents.
The best way to dispel this "script" skepticism is to do something that is absolutely impossible to script, absolutely impossible to cheat on, and of national-level difficulty.
Kitahara Shin picked up a pen and wrote down the theme of the new challenge for the variety show next to the proposal for "Legal High".
If outsiders saw those words, they would definitely think he had gone mad.
[Challenge Project: Pass the Judicial Examination (National Bar Examination)]
One of the most difficult exams in Japan.
It's an incredibly difficult exam that usually requires a law degree, years of grueling study, and a pass rate of only about 3%.
"Since I'm going to play a lawyer, I might as well take the bar exam for fun."
Kitahara Shin's eyes gleamed with excitement: "If I happen to pass this most difficult exam in all of Japan during a break from filming—those who doubt my script would be absolutely astonished, wouldn't they?"
This is not only the best material for variety shows.
This is the most hardcore and crazy promotion for the new drama "Legal High".
Imagine an actor who actually passed the bar exam playing an invincible lawyer.
Who can stand this?