dkrc Chapter 122 An Encounter in the Ancient Capital and New Equipment
Chapter 122 An Encounter in the Ancient Capital and New Equipment
Chapter 122 An Encounter in the Ancient Capital and New Equipment
The charcoal fire licked the diaphragm meat on the wire mesh, making a sizzling sound, and the grease dripped down, stirring up a cloud of white smoke with a burnt aroma.
The air in an old-fashioned yakiniku (grilled meat) restaurant in Pontocho was hot and noisy.
Hiroki Matsukata held the greasy beer mug in his hand and tilted his head back to take a big gulp.
Yellow liquid dripped down the corner of his mouth and onto the open collar of his floral shirt, but he didn't care. He simply slammed the cup down heavily on the wooden table.
"ha-
—
He exhaled a breath of hot air mixed with the smell of alcohol and barbecue. His face, which always looked fierce in front of the camera, was now flushed and relaxed from being drunk.
"Eat up, Kitahara."
Matsukata Hiroki pointed with his chopsticks at the meat on the grill that had already changed color. "Don't be shy, this place's sauce is the best in Kyoto. Only old folks like us know about it."
Kitahara Shin picked up a piece of meat, dipped it in the sauce, and put it in his mouth. Indeed, the rich garlic and sweet-spicy flavors exploded on his tongue, creating a very impactful taste.
"It tastes great," Kitahara Shin said.
"Right?"
Matsukata Hiroki grinned, revealing a set of uneven teeth. He filled Kitahara Shin's glass with beer, the movement a little too forceful, causing beer foam to spill out.
"Those old guys gave you a hard time on set just now, didn't they?"
The veteran actor suddenly steered the conversation back on track, his tone becoming somewhat ambiguous, "Don't take it to heart. Those guys have spent their whole lives in this dump; they consider the studio their home. Suddenly a handsome young man from Tokyo comes to their house and wants to play the lead role. They're unhappy, like their own daughter has been kidnapped by some pretty boy from out of town."
Kitahara Shin picked up his wine glass and took a sip.
"I understand. If it were me, I probably wouldn't have given you a pleasant look either."
"You're pretty easygoing, kid."
Matsukata Hiroki squinted, his gaze fixed intently on the charcoal fire. "Actually, they're not really targeting you. They're afraid."
"Afraid?"
"They're afraid of not having enough to eat, afraid of being left behind, afraid that this era no longer needs them."
Matsukata Hiroki stretched out his large, calloused hand and made a grasping motion in the air, as if trying to grab something invisible smoke.
"Do you know what finishing this film means? It means that Toei's 'real-life yakuza' line might be coming to an end. Five years. Everyone's made a living off this series, they've poured their lives into it. Now suddenly they're saying it's over, that they're going to change direction, that they're going to make some trendy action movies—where can those old guys who only know how to do lighting and make those old-fashioned props go?"
"They can only guard this old film studio, like guarding a tomb."
The old man's voice lowered, sounding particularly lonely amidst the noise of the surrounding diners.
Kitahara Shin looked at him.
The arrogant team leader who was on set just moments ago, the one who looked like he was going to gouge people's eyes out, has disappeared.
Sitting across from me was just an old man who felt lost about the future and powerless in the face of the industry's decline.
"The golden age of gangster films is coming to an end." Hiroki Matsukata shook his head, poured the remaining wine in his cup into the charcoal fire, causing a sizzling sound. "From now on, it's your turn, young people."
Kitahara Shin put down his chopsticks.
He neither echoed this pessimistic view nor offered any words of comfort.
He picked up the bottle and refilled Matsukata Hiroki's glass.
"senior."
Kitahara Shin watched as the clear liquor filled the glass, his tone calm. "Times are indeed changing, and audiences' tastes are changing too. But some things will never change. As long as there are people who want to see living people struggling and screaming in this quagmire, this kind of film will never die."
"It may change its shell or its name, but its spirit will remain."
"And—" He looked up, staring directly into Matsukata Hiroki's cloudy eyes, "it's not time to draw conclusions yet. This movie isn't finished filming."
Matsukata Hiroki was stunned.
He stared at Kitahara Shin for a few seconds, then suddenly burst into laughter, laughing so hard that tears almost streamed down his face.
"Good lad! Good lad!"
He slammed his hand on the table. "You're right! He's not quite dead yet, what's with the mourning? Come on, let's drink!"
The drinking lasted until late that night.
three days later.
In Kyoto, the afternoon sun is so intense it feels like it's going to peel off your skin.
Taiqin Film Village.
This is part of Toei Kyoto Studio and is also a theme park open to the public.
Tourists dressed in rented kimonos took photos on streets resembling those from the Edo period and ate expensive matcha ice cream.
Kitahara Shin has no scenes today.
Feeling bored in the hotel, he put on a baseball cap and slipped into the prop warehouse area deep inside the photography studio.
Tourists can't get in here; only staff members push carts and hurry by.
The air was filled with the musty smell of damp old wood, and the distinctive saccharin smell of blood from props.
-
He walked into a half-open old warehouse.
This place is piled high with discarded props from various film crews.
A broken armchair, a rickshaw with peeling paint, a mountain of foam stones, and a wig covered in dust hanging on the wall.
Kitahara Shin walked through the pile of junk, his fingers unconsciously tracing the rough surfaces of the props.
Sudden.
The lower right corner of my retina twitched.
That familiar light blue cursor was hovering above a wicker box piled high with old clothes.
Kitahara Shin stopped, walked over, and reached out to pull aside the moldy ninja outfit on top.
At the bottom of the box lay a roll of leather.
That was a measuring tape.
The outer layer is worn white, but the markings are still clear.
Kitahara Shin picked it up.
[Found an equipable item (white/common)]
【Item Name: A washed-up stylist's old measuring tape】
[Original owner: A veteran stylist who worked at Daiei Film Company during the Showa era. He had tailored costumes for countless screen stars and developed a keen eye for identifying actors' bone structure at a glance.]
【Item Type: Accessories/Tools】
[Condition: Old]
[Basic Attribute: Aesthetic Intuition +10%]
[Special term: Style Insight (Proactive)]
Note: Unroll the measuring tape and observe a person through the markings. You can see their bone structure, temperament, and the "type" that best matches their soul. Whether it's clothing style or role positioning, you can give the most accurate advice.
(Note: Some people are born to wear suits, while others are born to wear rags. Don't let the wrong packaging ruin a gem.)
"Style Insights ————"
Kitahara Shin weighed the measuring tape in his hand.
It is a support function device.
While it may not directly improve acting skills, it can be helpful in certain situations, such as helping someone choose clothes, or —
When producers are casting, it might have a surprising effect.
He casually stuffed the measuring tape into his pocket, turned around, and walked out of the warehouse.
The sunlight outside was so bright that it was hard to open one's eyes.
Kitahara Shin lowered the brim of his hat and walked back along the shadow at the base of the wall.
He stopped as he passed a corner of a vending machine.
There was a person standing there.
He's very tall, probably over 1.85 meters, making him stand out among the Japanese actors whose average height isn't particularly tall.
But he looks rather pathetic right now.
The man was wearing tattered burlap clothes, and his face was covered in black ash and blood, clearly indicating that he had just finished acting out a scene of being beaten or was a corpse.
He stood in front of the vending machine, clutching a few coins in his hand, his body somewhat stiff.
He wanted to buy water.
But that hand—that hand that should have been long and slender, suitable for playing the piano or holding a paintbrush—was now covered in black mud and fake blood used for special effects makeup. It hovered in front of the coin slot, trembled, and then withdrew.
Perhaps they were afraid of getting the machine dirty, or perhaps they were afraid of being disliked by passersby.
He stood there awkwardly, his Adam's apple bobbing, clearly very thirsty. But his deep-seated, even somewhat superfluous, upbringing and pride prevented him from bringing himself to use his dirty hand.
Like a stray dog abandoned by the roadside, with a bit of obsessive-compulsive disorder.
Kitahara Shin looked at that tall figure from behind.
It looks familiar.
He walked over, took a few coins from his pocket, and dropped them into the machine over the man's shoulder.
"Clang, clang."
Two cans of iced coffee rolled out.
Kitahara Shin bent down to take out the drinks, pulled the tab on one of the cans, and then handed the other can to the man.
"Give."
The man was startled and turned around abruptly.
A face covered in grime, yet still revealing its distinct features, was revealed.
Narrow eyes, a high-bridged nose. Although he was in a sorry state at the moment, that melancholy and decadent air seemed to be engraved in his bones, impossible to wash away.
Etsushi Toyokawa.
The future "King of Japanese Dramas," the man who drove women all over Asia crazy with his drama "Tell Me You Love Me."
Now, he's just an extra playing a corpse there.
Toyokawa Etsushi stared blankly at the coffee in front of him, then looked at the man wearing a baseball cap.
"Here, have a drink. In this awful weather, you'll get dehydrated if you don't drink water." Kitahara Shin shoved the coffee into his hand, the same dirty hand that had been hovering in mid-air, too afraid to insert a coin.
"Thank you—thank you."
Toyokawa Etsushi's voice was low, with a unique magnetism. He held the can of cold coffee somewhat awkwardly, as if it were a valuable item.
He recognized Kitahara Shin.
Although Kitahara Shin was wearing a hat, his aura and his face, which had recently been frequently appearing on newspaper headlines, were all too familiar to the lower-level actors who worked on film sets.
"You are... Mr. Kitahara?"
Toyokawa Etsushi was somewhat flattered. His body instinctively wanted to bow, but he was afraid that the dust on his clothes would rub against the other person.
"it's me."
Kitahara Shin leaned against the vending machine, took a sip of coffee, and said, "You're filming here too?"
"Ah, yes—yes."
Toyokawa Etsushi scratched his messy hair a little embarrassedly. "I'm an extra in that period drama crew next door, playing a ronin who gets hacked to death and thrown into the river."
"It's quite tough."
"It's alright, it's good enough to have something to do." Toyokawa Etsushi smiled wryly, pulled the tab, and took a big gulp of coffee.
The two stood in the shade under the blazing sun, chatting idly.
"I haven't been here long either. The lunchboxes here are a bit salty, and the dialects spoken by those uncles are giving me a headache," Kitahara Shin casually complained.
This kind of equal, slightly smoky complaining quickly bridged the gap between the two.
Toyokawa Etsushi's previously tense shoulders gradually relaxed.
He looked at Kitahara Shin, his eyes filled with a hint of envy, and a deep-seated, almost forgotten sense of confusion.
"Mr. Kitahara."
He hesitated for a long time before finally speaking, his voice filled with despair: "Um—though it may be presumptuous, may I ask you a question?"
"you say."
"Am I... strange-looking?"
Etsushi Toyokawa looked down at his mud-caked shoes. "The directors always say I'm too tall, making it hard for me to find roles. They also say I have a villainous face."
"They said my eyes were too gloomy, and my smile looked like that of a deranged murderer. I couldn't play a good guy convincingly, and I wasn't ruthless enough to play a yakuza."
He looked up, a self-deprecating smirk playing on his lips, a smile that carried an unsettling gloom: "I've tried playing those hot-blooded youths, and I've tried to imitate other people's exaggerated comedic style, but I find myself disgusted by the results. Should I get plastic surgery? Or—maybe I should just quit this industry?"
Kitahara Shin looked at him.
At this moment, Toyokawa Etsushi was like a piece of unpolished jade encased in mud, trying to break himself down to fit into those crudely made molds.
Little did he know that it was precisely this "gloomy" demeanor, this "perverted smile," that would become his weapon to captivate the masses in the future.
Kitahara Shin reached into his pocket and touched the cold measuring tape.
[Item Activation: Style Insight]
In Kitahara Shin's vision, some pale golden lines appeared on Toyokawa Etsushi's body.
The lines outlined his slender frame and his slightly颓废 (颓废 is a difficult word to translate directly, but it conveys a sense of listlessness, decadence, or dejection) posture.
Several lines of semi-transparent writing appeared above his head:
[Target traits: Melancholy, silent, dangerously gentle, long hair is highly suitable]
[Terrible genres: Hot-blooded idiots, exaggerated comedy, low-life thugs]
[Best acting roles suggested: taciturn artists, marginalized individuals burdened by a heavy past, or men who are dangerous yet deeply affectionate.]
really.
The system's assessment completely overlapped with Kitahara Shin's memories of his past life.
"Toyokawa-san."
Kitahara Shin put away the prop's effect, looked into his eyes, and spoke with certainty.
"Why get plastic surgery? It's a gift from God to you."
"Huh?" Toyokawa Etsushi was stunned.
"You said the director thinks you're like a pervert?" Kitahara Shin chuckled, took a step forward, and straightened the collar of his tattered costume. "Then go play a pervert."
"what?"
"But not the kind of screaming, freakish person." Kitahara Shin's voice softened a bit. "Try to tone down your movements. Your weapon is stillness."
3
"Play the quiet, reserved characters, the ones who keep their feelings bottled up. Those roles that may seem dangerous, even a bit like murderers, but are actually incredibly affectionate—that's your true calling."
Kitahara Shin looked at his angular face: "Try growing your hair a little longer, and wear a simple white shirt or trench coat. Don't try to smile like other people; just look at the camera with that gloomy look you had just given me."
"That sense of mystery that makes people want to explore it is the most lethal."
Toyokawa Etsushi listened blankly.
No one had ever said these words to him before.
All the directors would yell at him: "Louder!" "More exaggerated expressions!" "Are you made of wood? Move!"
Only the person in front of him told him to be "quiet" and to calm down.
Tell him that the gloom that everyone dislikes is actually "mysterious".
"Dangerous—Deep Affection—"
He murmured to himself, as if in the long, dark night he had finally seen a faint glimmer of light that belonged to him.
"remember."
Kitahara Shin patted him on the shoulder, his palm getting a little dust from Kitahara Shin's clothes, but Kitahara Shin didn't mind.
"Some actors are like water, they can take any shape; but some actors are like stone, you just need to find the position that suits you best, and then you are irreplaceable."
"I think you'll become famous. And incredibly famous."
After saying that, Kitahara Shin threw the empty can into the trash can with a loud "clatter".
"Alright, break time is over, I should head back now."
He pulled down the brim of his hat and turned to walk towards the photography studio.
Etsushi Toyokawa stood there, clutching the can of coffee that was no longer cold.
He watched Kitahara Shin's departing figure, which appeared exceptionally upright under the blazing sun.
He took a deep breath.
Then, he reached out and, mimicking Kitahara Shin's earlier actions, very slowly and solemnly straightened his tattered linen collar.
Although his movements were clumsy, the confusion and turbidity in his eyes seemed to have dissipated somewhat.
"Thanks----"
He bowed deeply to that figure, bending at a ninety-degree angle, and remained standing for a long time.
"I'll remember that, Mr. Kitahara!"
The wind blew through the streets of Taiqin Film Village, swirling up a few fallen leaves.
Kitahara Shin didn't turn around, he just waved his hand with his back to him.
It was just a casual act of kindness on a boring afternoon.
But he had no idea that this seed, planted casually, would grow into a towering tree in the Japanese entertainment industry in the future.
In that bizarre and fantastical future, this kindness will eventually resonate.
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