HPDBC Chapter 120 Toei Kyoto Studio
Chapter 120 Toei Kyoto Studio
Chapter 120 Toei Kyoto Studio
The rusty iron gate tracks emitted a dull creaking sound, completely isolating the outside world from Kyoto, which belonged to the Heisei era.
Toei Kyoto Studio.
Lacking the constant temperature and air conditioning comfort of Tokyo Studios, the air here is filled with a damp, musty smell that lingers year-round, mixed with the aroma of old wood, the tarry smell of cheap tobacco, and an indescribable rusty odor.
The ground was a bumpy cement road, and the drainage ditches along the roadside were piled with fallen leaves that hadn't been swept clean last autumn, which had long since rotted into black mud.
Several old men dressed in gray overalls, with hammers tucked into their waistbands, were squatting behind a huge backdrop, smoking.
When they saw a car coming in, they merely raised their eyelids, their eyes clouded, before lowering their heads again and muttering curses about last night's baseball game results in a thick Kansai accent.
"Kitahara-san, this way please."
The person in charge of receiving us was a young clerk named Taniguchi from Toei's Kyoto branch. He led the way while constantly taking out a handkerchief to wipe his sweat, even though the temperature wasn't high that day.
"Um—the people here speak loudly, so if you hear anything unpleasant, please don't take it to heart." Taniguchi lowered his voice and smiled apologetically, "They've been doing this for decades, they're all old fogies, and they're a little shy around unfamiliar faces."
Shy around strangers?
These people don't understand the meaning of politeness.
Not far away, several stagehands who were moving lighting equipment stopped what they were doing.
They didn't speak, just stared straight at Kitahara Shin with a naked scrutiny and rejection in their eyes.
This is the holy land of chivalrous films.
For these veterans who have been in this industry for decades, "The Wives of Yakuza" is their private domain.
They were used to those old acquaintances with fierce faces and a thuggish air about them.
And now, I hear that the "final chapter" of this series will be starring an idol from Tokyo?
absurd.
The unspoken message behind those gazes seemed to be: Has this kid been weaned yet? Does he even know what benevolence and righteousness are?
"When in Rome, do as the Romans do." Kitahara Shin forced a standard smile. "Lead the way."
Our first stop was the dressing room.
As soon as I opened the door, a strong smell of hairspray hit me.
The head of the makeup team was a middle-aged man with long hair and a stubble beard, known as "Old Mountain".
He was sitting in a swivel chair smoking when he saw Kitahara Shin come in. He simply pointed to the chair in the corner with the finger holding the cigarette.
"Sit there. Take your clothes off."
The next two hours were a silent torture.
Kyoji Sanada's back requires extensive tattooing.
Old Mountain Foot, holding an extremely fine paintbrush, dipped it in cool paint and walked along Kitahara Shin's back.
His movements were ridiculously slow.
I'll draw a couple of strokes, then stop and have a sip of tea.
He made a couple more strokes, then turned and chatted with a passing stagehand. He even went out for a couple of cigarettes, leaving Kitahara Shin shirtless in the air-conditioned dressing room.
The air conditioner vent was pointing directly at Kitahara Shin's back.
This kind of "passive aggression" is enough to make any big star lose their temper.
The person standing next to Taniguchi was sweating profusely and wanted to speak several times, but Kitahara Shin remained motionless.
He sat there upright, his hands on his knees.
Thanks to the tie clip, the body's instinctive trembling was forcibly suppressed, and even the goosebumps on the skin subsided.
The face in the mirror always wore a gentle smile, but the temperature under her eyes gradually dropped to freezing point.
Finally, Lao Shanxia seemed to realize that the kid's composure was a bit strange, so he stopped dawdling and hastily finished the job.
Kitahara Shin stood up and walked to the mirror.
The black dragon on his back, baring its fangs and claws, looked particularly ferocious under the light, and coupled with his cold eyes, it seemed as if it were about to devour someone at any moment.
After leaving the dressing room, we arrived at the props department's warehouse.
"This is Kyoji's personal item, keep it safe."
The bald prop master tossed him a crumpled pack of Seven Stars cigarettes and a metal lighter.
Kitahara Shin took the lighter and tried turning the dial.
"Click."
No fire.
He tried again.
"Click."
Still no fire. The flint is still there, but it's obviously out of oil, or the wick is broken.
"Master, it seems like we can't hit this." Kitahara Shin said calmly.
"Just a few more tries and it'll catch fire." The prop master wiped a samurai sword without turning his head, his tone perfunctory.
It's an old item, mainly for that vintage feel. It'll only appear briefly in the shot anyway, so what does it matter if it catches fire? You Tokyo people are just being delicate."
A few young staff members who were arranging the guns nearby let out a low chuckle.
It was clearly a deliberate attempt to make things difficult.
In a yakuza film that emphasizes "style," if the male lead pulls out a lighter in front of the camera in a cool manner but fails to light it, it's considered a performance mishap and the biggest joke.
Kitahara Shin looked at the scrap metal lighter in his hand, his fingers gently stroking the cold metal casing.
Just as he was about to say something.
"Who said it's for the sake of texture?"
A deep, hoarse voice suddenly came from behind.
The voice wasn't loud, nor was it a shout, but it carried a heavy sense of oppression, instantly drowning out all the noise in the warehouse.
The crew members who were just laughing and joking suddenly shut up like ducks with their necks being choked, standing ramrod straight and not daring to breathe.
Even the impatient prop master suddenly stopped what he was doing, hurriedly turned around, bent over at a ninety-degree angle, and cold sweat instantly appeared on his forehead.
Kitahara Shin slowly turned around.
Standing behind him was a man wearing a dark brown kimono.
He was in his fifties, with dark skin and deep wrinkles all over his face, especially the deep line between his eyebrows, which looked like a knife scar.
He was short and slightly overweight, holding a bottle of eye drops in his hand, tilting his head back to drip them into his somewhat red eyes.
Hiroki Matsukata.
Toei's signature tough guy plays the biggest villain in the film—the team leader.
"Mr. Matsukata!" The prop master's voice trembled.
Matsukata Hiroki ignored him, closed his eyes, let the medicine moisturize his dry eyeballs, and then took out a handkerchief to wipe them casually.
"I'm getting old. I used to stare at people too much, and now my eyes are full of dryness. I can't even stand slightly bright light."
He muttered these everyday words as he opened his eyes and looked at Kitahara Shin.
Those were a pair of somewhat cloudy eyes, full of red veins, yet exceptionally sharp.
"New here?"
Matsukata Hiroki looked Kitahara Shin up and down, his gaze lingering on the tattoo on his back for two seconds before he reached out his rough hand and patted Kitahara Shin's shoulder forcefully.
"The muscles are too tight."
The old man's voice was hoarse, with a hint of smoke and alcohol, and his tone was like that of a stern sports coach: "If you keep this tense up, you won't have the energy to act when filming actually starts. Relax, kid. The more tense you are, the more fake you'll look on camera."
Although the tone was harsh, it was indeed a senior instructing a junior.
"Yes, I've learned something." Kitahara Shin bowed slightly.
"Um"
Ok.
Matsukata Hiroki responded, his gaze naturally falling on the lighter in Kitahara Shin's hand.
He reached out and took the lighter directly.
"Click."
No luck.
"Click."
Still no luck.
The air in the warehouse seemed to freeze instantly.
Matsukata Hiroki looked at the lighter in his hand, his casual expression, which had been so casually instructing a junior, gradually turning cold. He didn't get angry or roar; instead, he frowned and asked in an extremely professional, business-discussing tone, "Yamamoto, is this the prop you prepared for the protagonist?"
The prop master named Yamamoto's legs went weak: "That—that was to make it look old—"
"Antique finish?"
Matsukata Hiroki gave a cold laugh.
He walked up to Yamamoto, threw the lighter on the table with a crisp "clang".
"Yamamoto, you've been working in props for twenty years, haven't you? Don't you know that the scene we're going to film later is in a dark alley?"
Hiroki Matsukata's voice was low, yet every word pierced the heart: "The lighting technician spent three hours setting up the lights for that shot. He had to light a cigarette in the dark; that flame wasn't just a light source, but also the character's desire. If the fire didn't light, the face would be black, and the eyes wouldn't come alive."
"Are you going to ruin three hours of the lighting crew's hard work for your so-called 'aged' look? Or do you think the audience won't notice we're faking it?"
"We're making a movie; everything here serves the film. If you don't care about that, then you shouldn't be doing this."
"I'm sorry! I'll change it right now! Right away!"
Yamamoto turned pale with fright. Without saying a word, he frantically rummaged through drawers and cabinets, found a brand-new, perfectly tuned Zippo lighter, and handed it over with trembling hands.
Matsukata Hiroki did not answer.
He put his hands behind his back, didn't even glance at the prop master, and simply gestured with his chin towards Kitahara Shin: "Give it to him."
Kitahara Shin took the new lighter.
"Click."
Ignite it once.
Orange-yellow flames flickered in the dim warehouse, illuminating Kitahara Shin's thoughtful face.
As Matsukata Hiroki looked at the cluster of flames, the wrinkles around his eyes finally relaxed a little.
"The scene to come is in a dark alley, and the only light in the entire theater is this. Don't rush to put it in your mouth after you light it; hold your hand next to your face for half a second."
He paused, then pointed to his eyes: "Give the camera time to focus. Otherwise, the firelight will be gone in a flash, and those three hours of light will be wasted."
After saying that, he put the eye drops in his pocket and walked out with his distinctive pigeon-toed gait.
His back was hunched, like an ordinary retired old man.
But no one in the warehouse dared to utter a sound until his footsteps were completely out of earshot.
Kitahara Shin closed the lighter and watched the wisp of smoke dissipate.
This is the real "monster".
He doesn't rely on yelling to scare people; instead, he has an almost obsessive control over every detail, which makes everyone feel suffocated.
"Been taught a lesson."
Kitahara Shin put the lighter in his pocket, and this time his smile held a more genuine respect.
This trip to Kyoto seems like it was the right decision.