MMB Chapter 94 The Growth of Acting Skills
Chapter 94 The Growth of Acting Skills
Chapter 94 The Growth of Acting Skills
After taking Rie Miyazawa to meet Akina last time, Rie Miyazawa was also preparing to make a move, while Shin Kitahara returned to his work.
Today, the air at Toho Studios seems thinner than usual.
All irrelevant personnel were cleared out, leaving only the core film crew and a few main actors.
The headlights cast a stark white light on the specially constructed "logistics corridor," making the pipes and peeling paint on the walls appear particularly menacing under the intense light.
This is the penultimate scene of the film, and also the climax of the entire movie—"Collapse and Reconstruction".
The plot tears away all the sentimentality here: a concierge who always adheres to professional ethics and believes in "service first" discovers a corpse while cleaning a long-stay private room.
They were victims manipulated by some powerful figure.
However, the manager did not call the police.
He handed the concierge a cart for transporting linens, along with a large check.
The order was simple: "Clean it up. For the sake of the hotel's reputation."
"The nineteenth time, Action!"
Itami Juzo's voice rang out from inside the shed.
The camera slowly zooms in.
This is a series of long takes. There is no editing, no cuts; all the emotional build-up must be completed within a single frame.
Kitahara Shin stood in the narrow corridor, a carpet stained red at his feet.
He did not use any system equipment.
Neither the ferocity of the "Extreme Bloodline" nor the ruthlessness of "Brutal" is suitable for the current state.
Having experienced the pressure from veteran actors in Taiga dramas and the raw fear on Takeshi Kitano's sets, those "experiences" he once gained through equipment have gradually seeped into his bones through countless trials, becoming his own muscle memory.
He decided to forgo using equipment to perform the scene, relying solely on his years of experience and hard work.
He believed that he could perform well in this scene even without equipment.
He stared at the "corpse" (a prop mannequin) on the ground, his pupils contracting sharply.
That fear wasn't acted out; it was a natural physiological reaction that came from self-hypnosis.
During this time, whenever he had free time, he would go to Rentaro Mikuni to play Sudoku. Although that old man had a sharp tongue, he taught him something in the process: acting is logic, and all your performances must conform to the audience's predictions of how the character will react.
In other words, rationalization.
Fear causes an adrenaline surge, muscle stiffness, and shortness of breath.
If the logic is flawed, even the loudest crying is fake.
Kitahara Shin's hands began to tremble.
He instinctively reached for the wall to steady himself, but pulled his hand back halfway—because he was a trained concierge and couldn't leave fingerprints on the wall or get his uniform dirty.
This ingrained professional instinct has become the greatest irony at this moment.
He began to straighten his cuffs.
Once, twice, three times.
The cuffs were perfectly smooth, but he was frantically tugging at the fabric as if he had obsessive-compulsive disorder, as if it were contaminated with some unseen bacteria.
His breathing became heavier and heavier, and a hissing sound, like a broken bellows, came from his throat.
"Click!"
Kitahara Shin suddenly called for a stop.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and bowed towards the monitor: "Director, I'm sorry, that look in my eyes faded too quickly, I hadn't reached the breaking point yet. I'd like to do it again."
Although the staff around were already a bit tired, no one complained.
Because everyone could see that this kid was competing with himself.
The previous take was actually perfect; in other production teams, it would have been a one-take success. But he didn't want "good enough"; he wanted "precise."
In the rest area.
Rentaro Mikuni remained seated on the single sofa, a crossword puzzle book in his hand, but the pen remained motionless for a long time.
He raised his eyelids and glanced at the young man who was adjusting his breathing in the center of the set.
The usual arrogance was gone from his eyes; instead, there was a subtle hint of admiration.
He knows how to control the pace in long takes and how to be self-critical. This kid has finally gotten the hang of it.
"Twentieth time, Action!"
This time, Kitahara Shin's condition has changed.
He stopped frantically adjusting his cuffs.
He took off his glasses.
He held the non-reflective glasses that had always been part of the "Concierge Sato" mask in his hand.
Without the glasses to conceal it, those eyes starkly revealed weakness, fear, and the struggle of conscience.
He stared at the corpse on the ground, his lips pale, his whole being like a bowstring stretched to its limit, ready to snap at any moment.
He took a clean white handkerchief out of his pocket.
He started cleaning his glasses.
The movements were slow and meticulous.
Once, twice.
Suddenly, his hand jerked violently, and his glasses nearly fell to the ground.
He caught it frantically, as if catching his last remaining life.
That moment of humiliation shattered all the dignity he had just maintained.
He squatted down and looked at the "trouble" that he was asked to deal with.
His conscience told him to call the police.
But his profession told him to obey.
His survival instinct told him that if he didn't do something, he might be the next one lying there.
At that moment, the camera zoomed in for a close-up, staring directly at his face.
There are no lines.
But every muscle in his face was screaming in agony.
Sweat trickled down his temples, dripping onto the carpet and quickly disappearing.
at last.
He stopped all his movements.
It was a desolation after everything had been shattered.
He slowly stood up.
He put his gleaming glasses back on his nose.
He pushed up his glasses.
With this action, the weak, terrified young man transformed.
It turned into a monster that calmly faces this cruel reality.
He straightened his perfectly wrinkle-free tie, clasped his hands in front of him, bowed slightly, and gave the empty corridor a perfect smile.
The corners of his mouth turned up fifteen degrees.
Standard, elegant, yet as cold as ice.
The last glimmer of humanity in those eyes behind the lenses went out.
He bent down, grabbed the handle of the linen cart, and began "working" quickly and professionally.
Just like how he usually deals with guests' dirty clothes.
The transformation to the dark side is complete.
The grand hotel swallowed him up.
Or rather, he became part of the grand hotel.
"Cut!!"
Juzo Itami's voice trembled, even cracking.
The scene was silent for a full ten seconds.
This time, no one dared to breathe loudly.
The heavy and oppressive feeling emanating from the screen made every staff member present feel a tightness in their chest.
Behind the monitor, Juzo Itami scratched his head hard and let out a long breath.
"That kid—"
The director stared at the chilling smile on the still frame and muttered to himself, "This effect is practically indistinguishable from a horror movie, but that's precisely the kind of tension that's good. Really good, really good!"
He originally thought Kitahara Shin would be lucky to get an 80, but he never expected him to deliver a perfect 120. This process of tearing humanity apart and piecing it back together, bit by bit, was terrifyingly delicate.
in the corner.
Tang Ze Toshiaki remained in the same peek-in position, clutching the can of oolong tea that had long been warm in his hand.
His palms were sweaty.
My heart was pounding violently in my chest, as if I had just finished a marathon.
Is this what acting is all about?
It wasn't any loud shouting or exaggerated physical movements.
It truly achieved meticulous attention to detail.
Just a few gestures of wiping glasses, a change in gaze, are enough to convey a suffocating darkness of despair.
"Too...too powerful."
He felt a dryness in his throat, a sense of powerlessness—wanting to catch up yet feeling it was out of reach—mixed with extreme excitement, making him tremble all over.
On the other side...
Rentaro Mikuni closed the magazine in his hand.
He stood up and straightened the hem of his suit jacket.
As he passed by Kitahara Shin, the usually taciturn old man stopped in his tracks.
Kitahara Shin had just recovered from that extremely depressing emotion and was leaning against the wall, panting heavily. When he saw his senior coming over, he quickly tried to straighten up.
"Your last gesture of pushing up your glasses."
Rentaro Mikuni didn't look at him, but stared straight ahead, his voice still indifferent, "The unnecessary trembling is gone, the rhythm is right."
After saying this abrupt and incoherent remark, he walked away, leaning on his cane.
But after taking a few steps, he stopped, turned his head, and a very slight upturn appeared at the corner of his mouth on his wrinkled face: "Well done, kid."
Kitahara Shin paused for a moment.
Then, he leaned against the wall and revealed a tired but cheerful smile.
"Thanks."
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