N-M Chapter 106 That Man Who Sends Chills Down Your Spine
Chapter 106 That Man Who Sends Chills Down Your Spine
Chapter 106 That Man Who Sends Chills Down Your Spine
On Monday morning, box office statistics came out of Toho's distribution department's fax machine like a white death notice.
Box office revenue fell far short of expectations, and attendance rates were severely polarized.
In Yurakucho, Shinjuku, Shibuya—major ticket markets—attendance rates were less than 30% for many screenings.
In some of the more remote cinemas, there were even awkward situations where there were only two or three audience members besides the cleaning staff.
This is not surprising.
The air in Tokyo right now is thick with anxiety and despair.
Newly unemployed office workers, housewives burdened with debt, and company presidents watching their stocks plummet—people go to the cinema to escape, to find a dark room to dream for two hours, or to watch a mindless, nonsensical comedy and have a good laugh.
Who would want to pay to watch a movie that tears open their wounds and rubs salt into them?
Life is hard enough; there's no need for the big screen to remind them how miserable they are.
Following the box office failure came a backlash from public opinion.
The wall fell and everyone pushed.
Juzo Itami has been a tyrant in this industry for so many years, and his sharp tongue has offended many people; while Shin Kitahara rose to fame too quickly, blocking the path of too many people. In the past, when these two were at the height of their fame, no one dared to say a word, but now that they have stumbled, those film critics and rival companies who were full of bad intentions immediately pounced on them.
The headlines of the entertainment tabloids at the newsstand were increasingly glaring:
Juzo Itami's Waterloo: Self-Indulgent Preaching is Nauseating
Kitahara Shin's Painful Transformation: From Nation's Boyfriend to Expressionless Doorman
The biggest box office disaster of the Heisei era
One well-known, acerbic film critic even wrote in his column: "We don't deny Kitahara Shin's explosive performances in Takeshi Kitano's films, nor do we deny his deep emotion in 'Tokyo Love Story.' But Itami Juzo's films don't need that kind of simple yakuza ruthlessness," nor "an idol's smile." His attempt at depth in "Grand Hotel" resulted in him looking like a blank-faced, expressionless actor. Clearly, without violence and filters, his acting isn't up to the task of portraying such complex characters.
Although a few authoritative film critics attempted to speak out, praising the film's ingenious structure and profound theme, these few words of praise vanished instantly amidst the overwhelming wave of negative reviews, like a few grains of rice falling into a garbage can.
One bad apple spoils the whole bunch.
The office of Itami Manufacturing was filled with smoke.
The most scathing newspapers and magazines were spread out on the table.
The producer was so anxious that bubbles were forming on his lips. He kept making and receiving phone calls, trying to contact a public relations firm to find a way to salvage his reputation.
But Juzo Itami, the director, was sitting on the sofa with his legs crossed, holding a glass of whiskey in his hand, showing no sign of anxiety, and even humming a tune.
"Director, shouldn't we issue a statement in response?"
The producer wiped his sweat, "If this kind of cursing continues, forget about breaking even, we might even get all the screenings cut."
"Respond? Respond to what?"
Juzo Itami took a sip of his drink, then casually tossed the newspaper into the trash can. "Discussing the taste of truffles with a bunch of livestock who can only see pig feed? Don't waste your energy."
Kitahara Shin sat opposite him and asked with some curiosity.
"You're so calm?"
He looked at the eccentric director and said, "People outside are saying that you've run out of ideas."
77
"They're blind."
Juzo Itami chuckled, pulled an envelope from his pocket, and tossed it onto the table. "Take a look at this."
Kitahara Shin picked up the envelope, pulled it out, and looked inside.
It was an invitation from Europe.
Although it was all in a foreign language, the famous film festival logo was exceptionally eye-catching.
"We've been shortlisted."
Juzo Itami pointed to the paper, his tone incredibly arrogant, "And it's in the main competition. The selectors there, after watching the sample footage, described it as the most incisive allegory about the decay of capitalism. When I walk the red carpet and come back with a trophy in my hand, these guys back home who're only good at bullying their own kind will immediately change their tune."
Kitahara Shin was somewhat surprised.
He knew the film was good, but he didn't expect it to gain international recognition so quickly.
"Are you really that confident you can win the award?"
"Because I know best what we filmed."
Juzo Itami lit a cigarette, the smoke spreading across his face. "I watched the monitor the whole time, observing how you acted and how each frame was edited. I know the quality of this film."
He exhaled a smoke ring, his eyes becoming somewhat profound: "Besides, at my age, why should I care about public opinion? I film what I want to film, whether it's criticized or praised, it's none of my business. It's for people who understand."
These words are arrogant, but they also reveal a kind of purity as an artist.
Kitahara Shin looked at him and put the envelope back on the table.
"It seems I need to learn this mindset from you."
"you?"
Itami Juzo glanced at him sideways, then suddenly laughed, a sly smile that seemed to see right through people. "Don't you dare try to copy me. I'm old, it doesn't matter to me anymore. But you're different."
He pointed a finger at Kitahara Shin's chest in the air: "You're all talk and no action. While box office revenue in this small area may be important, you don't really care about it, do you?"
Your ambitions probably extend beyond this.
Kitahara Shin smiled and did not refute.
Don't worry.
Juzo Itami raised his glass. "This film will absolutely not disappoint you. Right now it's a stone that hurts your foot when you hit it. But in a few years, it will turn into a diamond."
Meanwhile, in a movie theater in Yurakucho.
The 2 PM showing was completely empty in the theater, with only seven or eight people sitting in the middle.
It was Takashima, the head waiter at the Okura Hotel, who was with several colleagues on leave.
She paid for the meal herself, saying she wanted to support her "former colleague's" work.
"Takashima-san, I heard this movie got really bad reviews—" the young girl next to her whispered. "Everyone says it's very depressing to watch."
"Shut up, they just don't understand."
Takashima gave a stern reprimand, but her palms were actually sweaty. She was also afraid, afraid that the diligent and gentle "Sato-kun" who had once worked under her might really have messed up his performance, just like the newspapers said.
The movie begins.
Two hours later.
The lights came on.
Takashima sat in his seat, not moving for a long time.
Her body was trembling slightly, a chill that seeped from the very marrow of her bones.
Was that person on the screen just now really Sato-kun, the one who would bring her lunch and smile as he said "Thank you for your hard work"?
The face was exactly the same, even the 15-degree bow was identical.
But that look in his eyes.
The look in his eyes as he trembled while cleaning his glasses until they gleamed, the smile he gave at the end as he looked down into the empty corridor.
It's so unfamiliar.
It was so unfamiliar that it terrified her, yet so real that it made her want to cry.
She had worked in hotels for almost twenty years and had witnessed far too many moments when people had to swallow their conscience in order to survive.
She understood that feeling all too well. She desperately wanted to yell it out, but in the end, she had to grit her teeth and swallow it down, while putting on a smile and pretending nothing was wrong.
That's how it is in the service industry.
"Takashima-san————"
The colleague next to him was also a little stunned, "This...this is too..."
"That's amazing."
Takashima took a deep breath, his voice a little hoarse.
She took out a handkerchief from her bag and hastily wiped away the tears that had started flowing without her noticing.
"He really brought our lives to life."
Stepping out of the cinema, the sunlight outside was a bit dazzling.
Takashima stared intently at the poster featuring Kitahara Shin by the roadside.
"I want to buy a few more tickets."
She told her colleagues, "I'll bring those interns to see it again next week. I don't care about what they're saying outside. They need to see for themselves what a truly good movie is."
Even if it's just a few insignificant tickets, even if it's just a drop in the ocean compared to that huge box office black hole, it's the greatest respect she can give as an ordinary viewer.
however.
Reality isn't a shonen manga, after all.
The efforts of Takashima and a few fans did not revive the box office of "The Grand Hotel Lies".
In this cold winter, it is destined to be a work abandoned by the public.
With the end of its theatrical run, the box office figures settled at a less-than-ideal level.
Fans were disappointed.
They expected to see the debonair "Kanji Nagao," the handsome idol, but instead they saw a chilling monster.
"Why would Kitahara-kun take on a film like this?"
"It was so depressing; watching it made me feel even worse."
Doubts and disappointment spread within the fan club.
Kitahara Shin sat in the van, flipping through the box office report in his hand, which only had a few pages.
Outside the car window, the lights of Tokyo Tower still shone brightly, but they couldn't penetrate the shadows of the city.
He closed the report, showing little sign of disappointment.
There's also "Ocean Waves" that hasn't been released yet.
The art card has been played out.
There's also Volkswagen.
Despite the box office flop and widespread criticism, in several corners of Tokyo, some people are clumsily and stubbornly protecting this film in their own way.
Roppongi, Being Recording Studio.
Izumi Sakai had just finished a full day of recording, and her voice was a little hoarse.
She looked at the sound engineers and arrangers in the control room, who were exhausted and slumped over their tables, and pulled out a stack of movie tickets from her bag that still smelled of ink.
"Um—thank you all for your hard work." She placed the tickets on the mixing console, her voice soft but firm. "These are tickets for 'The Grand Hotel's Lies.' If anyone's free this weekend, could you go see it?"
The agent looked at Izumi with some surprise: "Izumi-chan, you bought so many? This film hasn't been getting much good reviews lately."
"Actually, there's no grand principle behind it." Izumi Sakai lowered her head, arranging the lyrics on the music stand, and somewhat embarrassedly curled the ends of her hair with her fingers.
Faced with her agent's questioning, her cheeks flushed slightly, but she still raised her head, her clear eyes revealing an unusual stubbornness: "I bought this with my own pocket money, without using the company's funds." She paused, as if to cover up her selfishness, and then clumsily added a seemingly serious reason: "Besides—it's also for learning performance skills."
Doesn't the club president always say that singing should be emotional?
I think his gaze in the movie is very valuable for reference.
"Please, everyone, do me a favor and come with me to class, okay?"
Everyone watched Sakai Izumi's reaction, especially President Nagato.
He sighed helplessly, seemingly already used to it.
"Since the spring water said it's a free movie, let's go."
President Nagato was the first to take a ticket and waved his hand, saying, "Is everyone free? Let's treat this as a group field trip."
A movie theater in Shinjuku.
Rie Miyazawa wore a baseball cap pulled very low and a large face mask, covering herself up completely.
This is her third visit.
Every time she saw the scene of him wiping his glasses, she couldn't help but curl up in her seat.
"Shin-kun is a monster—acting with me is a completely different experience."
As she walked out of the movie theater, she couldn't help but shiver.
Although she was quite frightened, she still took out her phone and called a new friend she had recently met while filming the new movie: "Hey? This is Rie. Have you seen 'The Grand Hotel's Lies'? Oh my god, no matter what the newspapers say, you absolutely have to see Kitahara-senpai's new movie! — I don't care about any of that! Anyway, the tickets are on you, you have to go! If you don't go, don't ever call yourself my friend again! Seriously, after you see it you'll know how we're inferior to others."
In a practice room at the famous "Oscar Promotion" agency.
Nanako Matsushima was blocking several of her fellow interns at the door.
"I'll say it again, this is a textbook!"
She waved her notebook, filled with notes, like a fervent missionary. "Don't you all complain about how boring acting classes are? Go see this movie! See how Sato acts with his back to the camera! I've already bought tickets for two seats together. No one is allowed to skip this weekend, everyone has to go!"
The interns exchanged bewildered glances, stunned by this seemingly gentle girl who became terrifying when it came to acting, and could only nod obediently.
The one who made the biggest splash was Akina Nakamori.
During a highly-rated radio live broadcast that evening.
The host cautiously brought up a recent topic: "The recently released film 'The Grand Hotel's Lies' seems to have received very polarized reviews; many critics say it's too dull —"
"That's because they don't understand."
Akina interrupted the host directly.
Speaking into the microphone, her voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable firmness, and that "yakuza boss" aura traveled through Tokyo via the radio waves: "People these days might find it hard to calm down and watch a film like this. But I can responsibly tell my listeners—if you missed the last five minutes of Kitahara Shin's performance in this movie, then you missed the most brilliant performance of the Heisei era."
"Don't believe those film critics who only know how to write; believe me."
-
"It's a masterpiece. Go see it in the theater, you won't regret it."
Although these efforts may be just a drop in the ocean compared to the enormous box office black hole.
But in this cold winter, at a time when everyone is mocking Kitahara Shin, these glimmers of warmth from different corners are like a few faint but stubborn flames.
They don't care what others think, nor do they care about box office data.
All they knew was that the man who, even when playing the most indifferent character, was still passionate at heart, deserved all this support.