MMB Chapter 89: A Launch Ceremony Without Lines
Chapter 89: A Launch Ceremony Without Lines
Chapter 89: A Launch Ceremony Without Lines
Setagaya Ward, Toho Studio 8.
The massive iron gate slowly closed, shutting out the early summer heat, but that didn't mean the inside of the shed would be much cooler.
Dozens of 2,000-watt tungsten filament lamps, like a group of tireless suns, hang on a truss ten meters high, relentlessly scorching the magnificent "Okura Hotel Lobby" below.
This may be one of the most extravagant sets in the Japanese film industry this year.
In order to recreate the unique atmosphere of old-fashioned hotels, which combines somberness and luxury, Juzo Itami, a perfectionist, forced the art department to replace all the floors with real marble, even if they were just scraps imported from Italy.
"What I want is the sound!"
The director, sporting his signature mustache, stood on the platform, script tucked in his hand, roaring at the busy sound recording crew below, "It has to be the crisp sound of leather shoes hitting stone! Not the hollow sound of stepping on plywood! If the sound isn't good, we'll keep testing until it is!"
There were about a hundred staff members on site, and everyone was on edge.
Today marks the first time the entire cast and crew of "The Lies of the Grand Hotel" have gathered together.
For the past two weeks, due to scheduling conflicts among the various big-name actors, filming has been conducted in groups.
Today, everyone is here.
In the cramped actors' rest area, the air was so thick it was almost viscous.
This isn't because of the heat, but because the "aura" is too strong.
Those sitting here are almost the most "hard" members of the Japanese film industry today.
Nobuko Miyamoto, Itami Juzo's go-to leading lady and his wife, is resting with her eyes closed in a corner. In the film, she plays a shrewd and capable housekeeping manager who is struggling with a midlife crisis.
On the other side, Tsutomu Yamazaki, known for playing yakuza bosses, was slowly sipping a bottle of beer, his eyes sinister, as if he were ready to draw his gun at any moment.
The old man sitting on the single sofa in the very center is the "pillar of strength" of the entire crew—Rentaro Mikuni.
This national treasure-level actor, who is nearly seventy years old, wore a three-piece handmade suit that was meticulously made even in the high-temperature studio.
His face is deeply lined, a mark sculpted by time and countless roles.
In the film, he plays a hypocritical company president who is on the verge of bankruptcy but still tries to maintain a respectable image in the lobby.
Kitahara Shin had just finished his makeup and walked in wearing his crisp concierge uniform when he saw several young supporting actors nervously handing water to Mikuni Rentaro.
The old man didn't even lift his eyelids, only letting out a muffled "hmm" from his nose as a response.
That arrogance wasn't intentional; rather, it was a barrier that naturally formed after decades of hard work in the industry and winning every award imaginable.
In his world, actors are divided into two types: one is "professionals" like him, who treat acting as their life.
Another type is "products" that rely on their looks, used to print on calendars to please young girls.
Kitahara Shin walked over and bowed respectfully.
"Senior of the Three Kingdoms, I am Kitahara Nobu. Nice to meet you."
The air was silent for two seconds.
Rentaro Mikuni slowly turned his head, his cloudy yet sharp eyes sweeping over Shin Kitahara.
His gaze lingered for a moment on Kitahara Shin's overly refined face before shifting back to the script in his hands.
"----knew."
His voice was hoarse and indifferent.
There were no pleasantries, no encouragement, and not even a second glance.
Several stagehands nearby exchanged glances, some with a hint of schadenfreude.
In their view, this recently popular idol is finally going to be outdone by a true veteran actor.
Kitahara Shin didn't care.
He straightened up and calmly retreated to his place.
Respect is something that is acted out, not something that is begged for.
"Attention all departments! Everyone to your positions!"
The assistant director's booming voice broke the silence, "Scene one, shot one, group shot in the lobby! This is a long take, so everyone better pay attention! If anyone messes up, the director will kill them!"
This scene is the climax of the entire movie at the beginning.
The plot is set against the backdrop of a company president, played by Rentaro Mikuni, who is preparing to receive an important foreign guest in the lobby in order to cover up the truth that the company is about to go bankrupt.
However, a group of gossip reporters who had gotten wind of the situation suddenly broke through the security guards' line and caused a huge commotion in the lobby.
Meanwhile, the politician who brought his mistress to the hotel, the homeless man who sneaked in for a free meal, and all sorts of other guests all had to orchestrate their own actions within this long shot.
This tests not only acting skills, but also positioning.
Dozens of extras, five or six main characters, the camera mounted on a Steadicam, like a nimble snake, weaving through the gaps in the crowd, finally stopping on the face of the ceremonial officer in the eye of the storm.
"Action!"
At Itami Juzo's command, the magnificent hall instantly came to life.
The previously quiet atmosphere was instantly torn apart.
The flashes were going off like crazy, almost blinding people.
"President! Is it true that there was financial statement fraud?!"
"Get out of the way! No comment!"
The sounds of pushing, screaming, and the screeching of leather shoes scraping the ground were all mixed together.
Kitahara Shin stood beside the revolving door.
At the moment of powering on.
He lowered his eyes slightly, clasped his hands in front of his lower abdomen, and leaned his body slightly forward.
He stood there, yet it was as if he didn't exist.
He became a pillar in the lobby, an expensive carpet, a lifeless backdrop.
Although he wasn't wearing the screenwriter's glasses at the moment, the overall perspective he gained after reading the script had already built a detailed three-dimensional map in his mind.
Where are the camera tracks, where are the blind spots of the lighting, and where are the movement lines of the extras?
Red line, blue line, green line —
Countless lines intertwined before his eyes.
The camera begins to move.
It first followed a group of reporters who rushed in, shaking violently to create a documentary-like sense of realism.
Running at the front was a young actor playing an intern entertainment reporter.
Toshiaki Karasawa.
At that time, he was just a newcomer who had just begun to make a name for himself in the entertainment industry. He had a youthful face, but his eyes revealed a cleverness.
According to the script, after rushing through the revolving door, he should have made a sharp left turn to intercept Rentaro Mikuni, who was coming out of the elevator.
However, an accident happened.
One of the extras playing a security guard was probably too into it, because he pushed a little too hard.
Toshiaki Karasawa stumbled and lost his balance.
The route that should have gone left was forced to shift half a meter to the right.
Half a meter might not seem like much under normal circumstances, but in this meticulously crafted long shot, it can be fatal.
Because to his right was the photographer's only path as he moved backward. If he bumped into him or blocked the photographer's view, Rentaro Mikuni's entrance would be completely obscured.
This long lens, which I spent all morning preparing, will be ruined.
Behind the monitor, Juzo Itami's brows furrowed sharply, his hand already on the speakerphone switch, the word "Cut" on the tip of his tongue.
Karasawa Toshiaki broke out in a cold sweat instantly.
He saw the approaching black camera lens, and his mind went blank.
It’s over.
Just then.
A hand wearing a white glove suddenly reached into the frame.
No, it's not about extending in, but rather that it was already there, only now being given meaning.
Kitahara Shin seemed to have anticipated this mistake.
Just a fraction of a second before Toshiaki Karasawa lost his balance and was about to enter the "forbidden zone," he took a very natural step to the side and forward.
This step, unhurried and graceful, is like dancing a waltz.
His body positioned itself perfectly between Toshiaki Karasawa and the camera, acting as a soft buffer.
Immediately afterwards, the white glove made a standard "please" gesture and pointed to the left—the direction Tang Ze was originally supposed to go.
At the same time, under the cover of this movement, he secretly and forcefully patted Tang Ze on the back with his other hand.
"Sir, the entrance to the banquet hall is on the left."
Kitahara Shin's voice was drowned out by the noisy background noise, and only Tang Ze could hear it.
This was an impromptu rescue.
This lift was executed with exquisite skill.
Tang Ze Toshiaki felt as if he had been pushed by a gentle breeze, and he instantly regained his balance. Using this force, he turned to the left.
The camera zoomed past him the instant he turned away.
Behind the camera, a gloomy-faced Rentaro Mikuni steps out of the elevator, perfectly positioned at the golden ratio point of the frame.
The crisis is over.
The entire process was smooth and seamless, without any pauses. Even the hand pointing the way became a stroke of genius that enhanced the realism of the scene.
Juzo Itami released his hand from the switch.
He stared intently at the monitor, a slow, wide smile spreading across his face.
The camera continues to pan.
The politician's roar, the reporter's persistent questioning, the security guard's angry shouts.
The chaos reached its peak.
Just then, the camera suddenly pulled back, passing through the chaotic arms and heads, and finally settled on the center of the frame.
Kitahara Shin was standing there.
He remained still amidst the hellish clamor of the surroundings.
The close-up shot zoomed in, right up to his face.
He maintained that slightly bowed posture.
He wore the standard professional smile that he had practiced for two months at the Hotel Okura.
The corners of his mouth turned up at a 15-degree angle, not a fraction more, not a fraction less.
But that smile is dead.
It was like an exquisite human skin mask, stuck to his face, devoid of any warmth.
What sends chills down your spine most are those eyes hidden behind non-prescription lenses.
There was no panic, no curiosity, no sympathy, not even a trace of human emotion.
He looked at the group of people before him, some well-dressed and others disheveled, with empty and cold eyes, as if he were watching a pack of wild dogs tearing at each other for food in the lobby.
Beneath that extreme politeness lay a condescending and suffocating contempt.
He is the ghost of this grand hotel.
He saw through all the lies, but he chose to smile.
The image freezes.
This contrast between extreme stillness and extreme movement creates a tremendous sense of absurdity.
"Cut!"
Juzo Itami's voice boomed in the studio, tinged with barely concealed excitement.
The usual chorus of "Thank you for your hard work" didn't immediately erupt at the scene.
Instead, an eerie silence fell for a moment.
The lighting assistants, who were previously whispering among themselves that "the idols will definitely have to do several takes" and "we'll have to work overtime with them," were now gaping, their mouths agape, forgetting to put down the reflectors they were holding.
The photographer closest to him looked up from behind the viewfinder and glanced at Kitahara Shin, who was still standing there, with a complicated expression.
That one look in his eyes just now sent a chill down his spine, even though he'd been making movies for twenty years.
"Wow—that's amazing!"
In the corner, Toshiaki Karasawa wiped the real cold sweat from his forehead. Only he knew how dangerous it had been; if it weren't for Shin Kitahara's help, he would definitely be the one who ruined this long take today.
He didn't even bother to rest, rushing to Kitahara Shin and bowing deeply, his voice sincere and excited: "Kitahara-senpai! Thank you so much! If it weren't for you helping me—I—"
Kitahara Shin took off his non-prescription glasses and rubbed his slightly sore nose.
As he removed his glasses, the suffocating mask of indifference instantly melted away, and he returned to being that gentle and humble young man.
"fine."
He smiled and patted Tang Ze on the shoulder. "It's crowded and slippery here, and that security guard really pushed a bit too hard. Next time, pay attention to the red mark on the ground."
"Yes! I understand! Thank you, senior!" Toshiaki Karasawa raised his head, his eyes filled with admiration.
And in the rest area not far away.
Unlike the others, Rentaro Mikuni did not make a fuss.
He was still sitting on that single sofa, holding an empty water glass in his hand.
But he didn't ask his assistant to pour him water.
His cloudy old eyes narrowed slightly as he peered through the gaps in the crowd at Kitahara Shin, who was talking to a young actor.
After a long while, he turned his head and whispered to his assistant who had been waiting beside him, "Go and get my reading glasses and script."
The assistant paused for a moment, then said, "Sir, isn't the next scene your monologue? Didn't you say yesterday that you'd memorized it perfectly and could act it with your eyes closed?"
Rentaro Mikuni snorted coldly, but Jiko did not leave Kitahara Shin's back.
"Take it if I tell you to."