Chapter 144: Eiji Kurosawa’s Bow! 《seven Samurai》 Officially Greenlit! Spy Kenji Sato!
Tokyo Television Station, Production Bureau Headquarters Building.
Asumi’s office.
“…Farmers are the stingiest, most cunning, cowardly, malicious, and incompetent! But who made them like this? It’s you, it’s you samurai!”
Eiji Kurosawa, the master revered as a “living legend” in the Japanese film industry, was now like a devout student, repeatedly, almost greedily, savoring the earth-shattering lines just spoken by Hiroshi Nohara.
In his sharp eyes, which had captured countless classic shots, a terrifying brilliance burned, capable of igniting the entire room!
His large hand, covered in age spots yet still powerful, was still tightly grasping Hiroshi Nohara’s arm, as if he were not holding a young man’s arm, but a lifeline that could pull him completely out of the withered mire of his inspiration!
“Nohara-kun! Your… your idea… is simply… simply genius!” His voice, hoarse from extreme excitement, had become somewhat hoarse, and all the fatigue and confusion had faded from his weathered face, leaving only a fervent shock, after glimpsing the light of divine wisdom in the darkness!
“Director Kurosawa, please calm down,” Hiroshi Nohara said with a wry, helpless smile.
He knew he had accidentally poked a hole in the sky.
Asumi, standing beside them, was completely stunned by the scene.
He stared blankly at the national treasure master, then at the young man who had been calmly smiling all along, feeling utterly absurd!
Eiji Kurosawa!
That old stubborn man, whom even he, the Deputy Director, respectfully addressed as “Director Kurosawa”!
Now, he was like a fangirl, grabbing the arm of a young man younger than his grandson, his face flushed red, begging the other person to “teach him”?
This… this was no longer a simple matter of “appreciation”!
This was clearly a divine miracle!
“Hiroshi-kun, those ‘Seven Samurai’ you mentioned…” Eiji Kurosawa took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing the fervor in his heart, his eyes fixed on Hiroshi Nohara, as if trying to see through him: “Do these seven people… each have their own story?”
“Yes,” Hiroshi Nohara nodded. He knew that once some things were ignited, they could never be extinguished.
He might as well sit back down on that soft sofa and, in front of those two important figures he had completely captivated, slowly begin to construct that magnificent world that would subvert the entire history of Japanese cinema.
“Director Kurosawa, your script’s core was ‘the tragedy of a fake samurai.’ But my idea is, why can’t we broaden the scope a bit more?”
His voice was calm, yet it struck Eiji Kurosawa’s heart like a heavy hammer.
“We are not talking about one samurai, but a class. We don’t need one protagonist, but an ensemble. Seven samurai, seven distinct personalities, seven different lives. Each of them represents a core virtue within the spirit of ‘Bushido’.”
He paused, and under their increasingly fervent gazes, he slowly extended a finger.
“First, the leader, Kanbei Shimada. He is battle-hardened, wise and brave, but he is already tired of slaughter. He represents ‘benevolence’—the benevolent are invincible, a compassionate heart that chooses to step forward despite seeing the impermanence of the world.”
“Next, the swordsmanship master, Kyuzo. He is taciturn, his swordsmanship is divine, and his life is dedicated to pursuing the ultimate in kendo. He represents ‘honor’—a samurai’s honor is heavier than life.”
“And Kanbei’s old friend, Shichiroji. He was once a samurai, but he has long since shed his armor and become a peddler. Yet, at his old friend’s call, he returned without hesitation. He represents ‘loyalty’—a promise between men that transcends life and death.”
“Then there’s Heihachi Hayashida, who is always cheerful, and even in desperate situations, can ease his companions’ tension with a joke. He represents ‘courage’—true courage is not fearlessness, but choosing to smile in the face of fear.”
“And Gorobei Katayama, a wise man skilled in military strategy, who represents ‘wisdom’.”
“Katsushiro Katsushiro, a young samurai of noble birth but ignorant of the world, who embodies the purest aspiration for the samurai spirit, representing ‘sincerity’.”
“And finally, the most crucial person.” Hiroshi Nohara’s lips curved into a meaningful arc: “Chiyo. A man who came from a farmer’s background, but forcefully squeezed into the samurai ranks with lies and brute force—a fake. He is rude, lecherous, and a braggart, possessing almost all the bad habits of a farmer. But he desires to become a true samurai more than anyone else. He represents ‘compassion’—sympathy for the weak, and an inseparable pity for his own origins. He will be the most important bridge connecting the two opposing classes of ‘samurai’ and ‘farmers’.”
“…”
The entire office fell into an eerie, pin-drop silence once more.
Eiji Kurosawa sat there blankly, all expression having faded from his weathered face, leaving only a numbness and emptiness, completely crushed by the absolute genius of the concept.
Seven samurai, seven virtues.
Benevolence, honor, loyalty, courage, wisdom, sincerity, compassion…
This… this was no longer a simple story!
This was an immortal epic, capable of completely deconstructing and sublimating the entire spirit of “Bushido”!
“What about… what about the farmers?!” Eiji Kurosawa’s voice, hoarse from extreme excitement, sounded like a drowning man grasping for the last straw!
“The farmers are the true core of this story.”
Hiroshi Nohara looked at him, a profound insight into human nature flashing in his calm eyes: “Director Kurosawa, you said your story was too flat. That’s because you wrote the farmers as too ‘good’.”
“They are simple, kind, oppressed by bandits, waiting for salvation from the samurai. This is a classic heroic narrative. But it’s not real.”
“What is real?”
“The truth is, farmers are more terrifying and cunning than bandits!”
Hiroshi Nohara slowly, clearly, uttered the “theory of farmers” that would subvert the three views of everyone present, word for word.
“They are stingy, cunning, cowardly, malicious… but who made them like this? It’s you samurai!”
This dialectical and satirical discourse, like the sharpest scalpel, precisely sliced open the hypocritical veil of the pastoral idyll that had been beautified countless times in countless artistic works.
It starkly revealed the bloody, cruel reality filled with class conflict and human struggle to everyone present!
“Class… conflict…”
Asumi murmured to himself, and for the first time, a deep fear from the marrow of his bones appeared in his eyes, which always gleamed with shrewdness.
He looked at the young man, feeling as if he were looking not at a director, but at a terrifying monster capable of understanding the underlying logic of the entire operation of society!
“Exactly! That’s it! That’s it!” Eiji Kurosawa suddenly slapped his thigh, and a near-resplendent vitality returned to his formerly somewhat withered old face!
“I understand! I understand it all! We are not telling a simple story of samurai saving farmers! We are telling a tragedy about ‘trust’ and ‘betrayal,’ ‘protection’ and ‘exploitation,’ filled with human struggle!”
“The samurai protected the farmers, only to be abandoned by them in the end. The farmers exploited the samurai, but also found their lost dignity in the samurai’s protection. This… this is the true, high-level twist, full of tragic aesthetics!”
Like a martial arts master who had opened the gates of heaven and earth, he paced excitedly around the office, muttering incessantly, his sharp eyes bursting with a creative fervor that would draw anyone’s attention!
“Then… what about the ending? What’s the ending?” Asumi, watching the two men lost in creative fervor, couldn’t help but ask the question that concerned him the most.
“The ending?” Hiroshi Nohara’s lips curved into a cold, scalpel-precise arc.
“The ending, of course, is victory. The bandits are eliminated, the village is saved, and the farmers celebrate the harvest with song and dance. But…”
He paused, and under their increasingly tense gazes, he slowly uttered the cruel answer that would overshadow all heroic narratives.
“Four of the seven samurai died. Only three survived.”
“Why?!” Asumi blurted out.
“Because the three who survived represent the true tragic core of this story.”
Hiroshi Nohara looked at him, his eyes like a deity looking down on mortal war, filled with peace and indifference.
“The first is the leader, Kanbei. He watched the celebrating farmers and spoke the line I set for him—’We lost again; the farmers won.’ His survival symbolizes the complete disillusionment of the samurai class with this new era.”
“The second is Shichiroji. He took off his armor and went back to being a peddler. His survival symbolizes the helpless compromise and transformation of the samurai spirit in the face of reality and profit.”
“The third, and last, is the young man, Katsushiro. He fell in love with a farmer’s daughter from the village and ultimately chose to stay in the village, becoming a farmer. His survival symbolizes the complete integration of the samurai bloodline with the farmer class. It also foreshadows the end of the era of glory and slaughter that belonged to the samurai.”
Silence.
A deathly silence.
Asumi sat there blankly, his professional brain, filled with the “iron rules” and “experience” of traditional television, was blank at this moment!
This was too brilliant!
He finally understood that this young man was composing an elegy for the demise of a class, using the fate of the seven samurai—a most tragic and profound elegy!
This… this was no longer mere cinema!
This was art! Immortal art that could be savored repeatedly by future generations, even a hundred years later!
“Good… good! Well said, ‘We lost again’!”
Eiji Kurosawa could no longer hold back. The master, who had dominated the Japanese film industry for half a century, let out a long-suppressed, ecstatic laugh of joy, like a pilgrim who had finally found his life’s pursuit!
He suddenly turned around, and under Asumi’s disbelieving, almost ghost-like gaze, he once again bowed deeply before the young man who was younger than his grandson.
He bowed again!
“Nohara-kun!”
Eiji Kurosawa’s voice was no longer hoarse or confused, but full of energy, as if he had narrowly escaped death: “Please allow me to follow you and film this 《Seven Samurai》! Let this old man witness your monstrous mind!”
“I, Eiji Kurosawa, implore you! Together with me, let us bring this great work, which can change the entire history of Japanese cinema, into the world!”
“Please!”
“This is truly a film that transcends my previous understanding, no longer simply a film about samurai, but a film about Bushido, which is akin to the Way!”
This was too solemn.
Hiroshi Nohara reached out his hand and, with the respect of a junior to a senior, steadily helped up the master, who had long been deified in the Japanese film industry but now looked like a lost child, from his ninety-degree bow full of seeking and humility.
“Director Kurosawa, you are too kind.”
Hiroshi Nohara’s face regained its gentle smile: “It is my honor to collaborate with a master like you.”
It was Asumi, standing beside them, who was completely stunned.
He stared blankly at the two figures, one old and one young, two generations of legends, in his office, as if completing some sacred handover ceremony.
The scene was absurd.
Yet it carried a fated harmony.
Eiji Kurosawa, the national treasure master whom even he, the Deputy Director, had to respectfully address as “Director Kurosawa,” the old stubborn man known throughout the Japanese film industry for his “aloofness” and “stubbornness,” was now… truly convinced by a few casual words from this young man younger than his grandson?
This… this could not be summed up by the simple word “talent.”
This was a precise insight into and absolute control of the human heart!
“He’s a real monster!” Asumi thought to himself.
Just as Asumi was still immersed in his shock, Hiroshi Nohara’s gaze calmly turned to him.
“Deputy Director Asumi,” Hiroshi Nohara smiled, “You see, now, even a senior like Director Kurosawa is willing to condescend to collaborate with me, a junior. Then, can my unformed 《The Tale of Hachiko》 film project… also be put on the agenda?”
Asumi’s body trembled violently!
A wry smile also appeared on his face.
He finally understood.
This young man was not “helping.”
He was setting the stage!
He had used Eiji Kurosawa, a golden signboard that no one in the entire film industry could shake, to attach the most powerful engine to his own soon-to-be-launched, unknown and perilous giant ship, an engine capable of crushing all doubts and obstacles!
“Alright!” Asumi nodded heavily, his voice filled with resolute tragedy: “Hiroshi-kun, don’t worry! As long as your 《Seven Samurai》 is successful, no! Even if it’s not successful! I, Asumi, will beg Director Sakata and those old guys on the board of directors, even if I have to kneel, to approve the budget for 《Hachiko》 for you!”
“Then thank you, Deputy Director,” Hiroshi Nohara said gratefully.
“Let’s go! Nohara-kun! Then let’s go!”
Eiji Kurosawa, who was beside them, couldn’t wait any longer: “To my studio! Now! Immediately! Right away! I want you to tell me the story of those seven samurai, word for word!”
He said this, and without further ado, he pulled Hiroshi Nohara and rushed out of the office, which he had already turned upside down, like a gust of wind.
Only Asumi remained standing there, looking at their two contrasting figures with a helpless smile on his face.
“The film industry is going to change too,” Asumi sighed and shook his head.
…
Eiji Kurosawa’s studio was located in an unassuming two-story building on the outskirts of Tokyo.
There were no modern glass curtain walls, nor cold metal decorations.
Only simple decor, ivy climbing the walls, lush green plants, and classical artistic landscape gardens, telling of the owner’s aloofness and persistence, out of step with this impetuous era.
“Please have some tea.”
Eiji Kurosawa, a tyrant outside who could make any producer tremble, was now like the humblest apprentice, personally pouring Hiroshi Nohara a cup of steaming green tea.
His large hand, covered in age spots yet still powerful, trembled slightly with imperceptible nervousness as he lifted the teacup.
He looked at the young man who was calmly surveying his “humble abode,” and a slight embarrassment and awkwardness appeared on his weathered face.
“Well… Nohara-kun,” he cleared his throat, his voice carrying a hint of unspeakable helplessness: “To be frank, I’ve been fussing over my 《The Samurai in the Blacksmith’s Shop》 for nearly half a year, revising the script over a dozen times, auditioning hundreds of actors… Now, the five hundred million yen budget allocated by the board has been… almost entirely used up.”
As he said this, his old face turned somewhat red, like a child who had done something wrong.
“Currently, the funds available in the account, at most, are… only a little over one hundred million.”
A little over one hundred million.
This figure might still be considered ample for an ordinary film.
But for an epic samurai masterpiece that required thousands of people in battle and real-world sets, it was no different from a drop in the bucket.
However, Hiroshi Nohara just smiled calmly, as if one hundred million was just a normal number.
“It’s enough.”
Hiroshi Nohara said, “Director Kurosawa, don’t rush. Could I see the footage you shot before?”
“Ah? Oh! Yes! Yes!” Eiji Kurosawa quickly led Hiroshi Nohara into the editing room, which never saw sunlight.
He personally operated the somewhat dated editing machine and projected the rough cut sample, which he had already watched countless times, onto the large screen once more.
Hiroshi Nohara watched quietly.
He saw the solitary figure of the samurai, full of tragedy and determination, standing alone under the setting sun.
He saw the deceitful and treacherous lord, revealing a sinister smile on the city walls.
He even saw the brutal siege battle, which, although not on a large scale, had every shot filled with Eiji Kurosawa’s unique violent aesthetics.
The images were beautiful, the composition was meticulous, and the actors’ performances were impeccable.
But, as Eiji Kurosawa himself said.
It was too flat.
Like a bottle of sake that had been opened and left out for too long; although still mellow, it lacked the fiery intensity that could burn the soul.
“How is it?” When the last image froze, Eiji Kurosawa’s voice once again carried that hint of nervousness.
“It’s very good,” Hiroshi Nohara gave his most honest assessment. He pointed to several visually impactful war scenes on the screen, his clear eyes flashing with the brilliance of a professional producer: “Director Kurosawa, there is a lot of material you shot before that we can use directly in 《Seven Samurai》.”
“Huh?!” Eiji Kurosawa was stunned.
“Look,” Hiroshi Nohara stood up and walked to the screen, pointing like the most skilled battlefield commander on the interplay of light and shadow: “We can use this long shot of the bandits harassing the village. This montage of the protagonist training the foot soldiers, if we speed up the rhythm slightly, it can also be kept. And this siege scene, we only need to reshoot a few close-ups of the protagonist to seamlessly integrate it.”
“This way, we can save at least thirty million in production costs.”
“And,” Hiroshi Nohara’s lips curved into a confident arc: “Most of the story of 《Seven Samurai》 takes place in a dilapidated, impoverished mountain village repeatedly plundered by bandits. We don’t need a magnificent castle, we don’t need exquisite streets. We only need to find a desolate, textured location and use the least amount of money to depict the most realistic ‘poverty’.”
“As for the actors…” He turned around, a foxy smile blooming on his face: “Director Kurosawa, don’t forget. We have an entire army of Kanto Faction actors at our disposal, who are cheap and easy to use!”
“Good! Good! Good!”
Eiji Kurosawa slapped his thigh heavily, his once-grey old face now extremely radiant!
Because Hiroshi Nohara was right!
“Let’s do it your way! Nohara-kun! From today onwards, you are the chief producer of this film! I, Eiji Kurosawa, will be your executive assistant director!”
He paced excitedly, not even giving Hiroshi Nohara space to speak, and immediately decided: “This is your script, your creativity, your concept! If you are not the chief producer and chief director, then I, Eiji Kurosawa, would be falsely claiming the title of chief director, and I might as well commit seppuku!”
Seeing the senior Eiji Kurosawa’s serious demeanor, Hiroshi Nohara smiled helplessly: “Alright then.”
…
The shockwave caused by Hiroshi Nohara’s impending entry into the film industry quickly swept through the entire Tokyo Television Station with an unstoppable force.
【 Hiroshi Nohara, Independent Production Department.】
The enormous office was already like a fish pond into which a depth charge had been thrown, completely boiling!
“Have you heard?! The Department Head… he’s decided to start filmmaking!”
“What?! Is it true?! Who are we collaborating with?!”
“Who else could it be?! Eiji Kurosawa! That legendary Director Kurosawa! I heard Deputy Director Asumi’s secretary say that yesterday, Director Kurosawa personally visited to ‘invite’ the Department Head to come out of retirement!”
“Damn! This… this is too magical?! The Department Head… he’s only twenty-three years old!”
“What’s so strange about that?” Hoshi Minamimura, a fanatical admirer who had long since deified Hiroshi Nohara, now stood with his hands on his hips, his young face beaming with pride as if it were his own achievement. “Haven’t you seen who our Department Head is! In television dramas, animation, or variety shows, in which field did he not achieve god-like status the moment he entered? This mere film industry, isn’t it a piece of cake for him?”
“Exactly! Exactly!”
“When a Department Head takes action, it’s bound to be a masterpiece!”
“I’m already looking forward to it! I wonder what kind of mind-blowing masterpiece the Department Head will bring us this time!”
For a time, the entire department was immersed in a near-blind worship and fanaticism for their own department head’s god-like abilities.
They had long been accustomed to following the young man’s footsteps, witnessing one seemingly impossible miracle after another.
They firmly believed this time would be no exception.
However, amidst this atmosphere filled with the joy of victory, in a corner of the Drama Department, one figure appeared somewhat out of place.
Kenji Sato, the nominal “Liaison Officer,” was currently lowering his head, seemingly organizing the documents in his hands.
The eyes hidden behind the gold-rimmed glasses, however, gleamed with a sharp light that was out of step with the fervent atmosphere surrounding them.
He got up calmly and gave Yamamoto Tsuyoshi, who was engrossed in conversation beside him, a perfectly fitting, apologetic smile.
“Section Chief Yamamoto, I’m going out for a cigarette.”
“Go on, go on.”
No one noticed his subtle abnormality.
Kenji Sato walked out of the office, which was filled with light and heat, and came to the secluded escape window at the end of the corridor.
He didn’t light a cigarette, but instead took out the pager from his pocket, which he had already polished to a brilliant shine.
He skillfully dialed a number he knew by heart, and uttered a suggestive codeword.
【 Do you want coffee? 】
It wasn’t long before the pager vibrated subtly.
Above, there was only a short, icy cold reply.
【 A storage room on the first floor. 】
Kenji Sato’s eye twitched imperceptibly.
He took a deep breath, put the pager back into his pocket, and then, with his usual gait, walked towards the employee elevator that led to the building’s lowest, darkest corner.
First floor, storage room.
A dim, flickering incandescent bulb overhead crackled, casting two men’s shadows long and full of suppressed tension and scheming on the icy cold cement floor.
“Speak.”
Toshihide Takada, the Number Two Person of the Tokyo Faction, was standing in a corner filled with discarded props.
His voice was as flat as a bottomless, stagnant pool, giving no clue to his emotions.
“He… he’s really going to make a movie.”
Kenji Sato lowered his head, and in his voice, there was a hint of awe for that young person, a feeling he himself hadn’t noticed: “Collaborating with Eiji Kurosawa, the project seems to be about samurai and farmers.”
He respectfully handed over the proposal outline printed from the internal system.
Toshihide Takada did not answer immediately.
He slowly turned around, his icy cold eyes like two unsheathed sharp swords, piercing the depths of Kenji Sato’s soul.
“Sato-kun.” His voice, light as a devil’s whisper, carried a cruelty that could send a chill down anyone’s spine. “Do you know? I… am very disappointed.”
Kenji Sato’s body trembled violently.
“I thought you were the sharpest knife I had placed by his side. I needed you to deliver a fatal blow from behind when he was at his most triumphant.”
Toshihide Takada slowly walked up to him, reached out, and patted his still slightly trembling shoulder heavily.
“But you? You did nothing. You just watched him, step by step, from an unknown nobody, grow into a behemoth that even I find difficult to handle.”
“I…” Kenji Sato’s throat felt as if it were stuffed with a ball of scalding cotton. He opened his mouth, but not a single word could come out.
A hint of fear, from being seen through, appeared on that face that always carried a few traces of a gentle smile.
“But it doesn’t matter.”
Toshihide Takada’s lips curled into an icy, devilish smile. “Now, the opportunity has arrived.”
He finally accepted that proposal.
If he could defeat Hiroshi Nohara in the same field, perhaps that would allow him to finally vent his frustration?
Looking at Kenji Sato, whose face was filled with fear, he also smiled and gently patted his arm: “Alright, you are after all the distant nephew of Chairman Tokugawa Sato. No matter what, I will give you some face. Go back now, you’ve done very well.”
