Chapter 148: Dual Directors! 《super Change Change Change》 Recording Site Chaos!
On Monday morning, Hiroshi Nohara woke up amid a teeth-grinding sound of bones stretching.
He wasn’t sleeping on the soft tatami in his home that could accommodate any wild imagination, but curled up on the somewhat cramped single sofa bed in the study room.
Covering him was a thin blanket full of cartoon little bear patterns, emanating a faint, sweet body fragrance belonging to a young girl.
“Hiss—” He rubbed his old waist that felt like it had been plowed by a hundred cows, a wry helplessness appearing on his face.
Last night, he, the head of the household, had been helplessly driven out of his own bedroom by that pair of sisters who had taken over the nest.
Of course, the most crucial was Mogae Nohara.
But it was fine.
Last night, Misae Nohara had shyly sneaked into his study room and comforted him for an hour.
So Hiroshi Nohara was still quite content.
“Not bad!” Hiroshi Nohara stretched lazily with force, feeling it was another refreshing day.
The sunlight outside the window had already poured in brightly, dyeing the dancing dust in the air with a layer of warm golden yellow.
Hiroshi Nohara glanced at the wall clock: 9:03.
“Well, late.” He smiled self-mockingly, picked up the jacket beside him, fished out the portable mobile phone that was still rare in this era from his pocket, and skillfully dialed the extension to Yō Kitagawa’s office.
The phone was answered almost instantly, and Yō Kitagawa’s crisp, energetic voice came through: “Minister! Good morning! You today…”
“I have something outside today, count me as field work.” Hiroshi Nohara made up an excuse.
“Hi! Got it!” Yō Kitagawa on the other end responded immediately without hesitation.
Then, her voice carried uncontrollable excitement and worship: “By the way, Minister Nohara! Director Eiji Kurosawa is already here, waiting in your office for almost half an hour. I told him you might be late today, and he said it’s fine, he can wait. Now, he’s drinking tea in Deputy Director Asumi’s office.”
“Got it.” Hiroshi Nohara hung up helplessly.
It seemed Director Kurosawa’s efficiency was even faster than he imagined.
That 《Seven Samurai》, which could be said to have subverted the entire neon film history in his previous life, was probably already taking shape.
He stood up, moved his somewhat stiff neck, and decided to take a shower first to wash away the fatigue on his body.
After all, last night after he came back, he hadn’t even had time to shower before being exiled to the study room.
And after the midnight battle.
Now he still felt sticky.
However, when he pulled open the wooden door of the study room, the scene before his eyes made his heart pound uncontrollably again.
In the living room, the pair of sisters who should have already gone out were now wearing matching cute pajamas; one was humming a tune in the kitchen frying eggs, while the other was like a lazy kitten, curled up on the sofa, yawning while flipping through the latest fashion magazine.
That image was full of the gentle tranquility of the years, yet it also exuded a scalp-numbing, untimely leisure.
“Brother-in-law! Good morning!”
Mogae Oyama was the first to spot him; her big, lively eyes instantly curved into a sweet crescent moon, waving the small hand still holding the fashion magazine at him.
That contented posture made it seem like he, Hiroshi Nohara, was the guest in this home.
“…”
Hiroshi Nohara’s temples instantly sprouted several clearly visible black lines.
He ignored the quirky little girl and just turned his gaze to the nominal “President” who was walking out of the kitchen holding two plates of golden yellow, tempting tamagoyaki.
“Misae, you two… why are you still at home?” His voice carried a trace of puzzlement he himself hadn’t noticed: “Aren’t you the president? It’s Monday, don’t you need to go to the company?”
“Ah!” Misae’s pretty face, fresh from the bath, flushed red in an instant; she placed the plates on the dining table, stuck out her tongue somewhat embarrassedly, her voice as fine as a mosquito’s: “That… last night… slept too late, so this morning, just… just got up late.”
As she spoke, her watery big eyes guiltily stole a glance at the study room full of “crime evidence,” the shyness and sweetness in that gaze almost overflowing.
“Cough cough!” Hiroshi Nohara opened his mouth but couldn’t say a word, could only use a dry cough to cover his guilty conscience.
Of course he knew that last night, this bold little woman had sneaked into his study room after Mogae fell asleep, using a gentle method full of “presidential consolation” to give him, the “hardworking investor,” an hour-long “hands-on guidance.”
“Exactly! My sister is the president!” Beside him, Mogae Oyama immediately puffed up like a mother hen protecting her chicks, sticking out her small chest that was modest in size but full of momentum, declaring righteously: “Can the president’s business be called late? That’s… that’s flexible work system! Right, brother-in-law?”
As she spoke, she playfully winked at Hiroshi Nohara, her lively big eyes sparkling with the excitement of watching a show.
“…” Hiroshi Nohara felt his temples throbbing wildly.
He was powerless to retort and could only nod, acquiescing to this crooked reasoning full of “decadent capitalist aura.”
He pulled out a dining chair and sat down, picked up the cup of warm milk already prepared for him, and asked casually: “By the way, uncle and aunt? Are they still at the hotel?”
“Nope.” Misae handed him chopsticks while smiling: “Dad and Mom went to the television station early in the morning with that ‘Land of Fire Taiko Drum’ art troupe. They said today is the official recording day for 《Super Change Change Change》, and they’re going to the site to cheer for our Kumamoto Prefecture representative team!”
“Oh.” Hiroshi Nohara nodded; this was within his expectations.
He took a sip of milk, looking at the two vivid and fragrant girls before him who both tugged at his heartstrings; the bit of helplessness from his disrupted plans was filled with that warm, worldly-life vibe.
“What about you two? Any plans today?” he asked.
“Of course going to the site to watch the competition!” Mogae Oyama answered without thinking, her youthful face full of infinite longing for the upcoming carnival: “I heard there will be so many stars as guests today! Maybe I can even get an autograph from the most popular star now, Shunsuke Kamiki!”
Hearing this, a trace of doubt flashed in Hiroshi Nohara’s eyes.
Shunsuke Kamiki?
Don’t know him…
“Alright.” He didn’t say much, just calmly swallowed the last bite of tamagoyaki.
Now, entertainers all had to know him, Hiroshi Nohara.
“In that case, don’t dawdle. I happen to be going to the television station too; I’ll give you a ride on the way.”
“Yay! Brother-in-law, you’re the best!” Mogae Oyama cheered joyfully.
So, after buying some bento boxes at the familiar convenience store on the road to solve the breakfast problem for the three who weren’t full, the black Toyota Crown Majesta sped off like a black lightning bolt, carrying this family of three full of laughter and joy toward that dream palace already going crazy for them.
After safely dropping off the chattering sisters at the already crowded audience entrance of Studio Number Three, Hiroshi Nohara turned the car around and drove into the underground passage exclusive to the production bureau executives.
When he stepped back into that 【Hiroshi Nohara · Independent Production Department】, which had become a “holy land” of the entire Tokyo Television Station, the hour hand had quietly pointed to ten o’clock.
After briefly instructing the three section chiefs who had been waiting for a long time on subsequent work arrangements, he didn’t linger and headed straight to the power throne at the topmost and core of the entire floor.
Deputy Director Asumi’s office.
Before he could knock, a hearty burst of laughter suddenly penetrated from behind that thick redwood door!
That laughter was full of vigor, brimming with excitement and fanaticism!
Eiji Kurosawa’s laughter.
Hiroshi Nohara’s lips seemed infected by the laughter, curving into a knowing smile.
He pushed open the door.
In the office were only Asumi and Eiji Kurosawa, two men adding up to nearly 150 years old, excitedly gathered in front of that Sony projector.
On the screen was playing a rough-cut sample film without music, not even special effects added yet.
That tragic and heroic battlefield full of mud and blood, those seven towering figures standing like mountains between heaven and earth, that cunning yet compassionate group portrait of farmers…
Like a lost classical oil painting full of epic sense, silently narrating the fall of an era and the elegy of a class.
“Hiroshi-kun! You’re here!”
Asumi spotted him first; his usually elegant and steady face was now full of undisguised excitement!
“Monster! You… you’re simply an outright monster!”
Asumi’s voice became somewhat hoarse from extreme excitement: “I… just now with Director Kurosawa, we watched all the footage you shot, from start to finish! I… I really don’t know what to say!”
“This… this is no longer just a simple movie!” He pointed at the screen, two blazing fires burning in his eyes: “This is art! Art worthy of representing our neon to impact the Oscars, to shock the whole world, immortal art!”
This exaggerated praise carried more weight than any ratings report.
Eiji Kurosawa, this true art master, also said admiringly: “Indeed, this is a film that can impact the Oscars. I really didn’t expect it to be so brilliant after editing!”
He spoke slowly, his voice hoarse:
“I’ve filmed samurai my whole life. I thought I’d captured all their glory, their tragic heroism, their helplessness. But today, after reading the story you wrote, I realize that what I… what I filmed was just childish playthings not fit for the stage.”
“You are the one who truly understands ‘samurai’ and our nation’s tragic fate deeply ingrained in the bones.”
Eiji Kurosawa looked at Hiroshi Nohara with infinite emotion.
“So, I’ve decided.”
He paused, and under the increasingly tense gazes of the two, slowly threw out that final decision that could drive the entire Tokyo Television Station crazy.
“For this 《Seven Samurai》, there can only be one chief director—”
He pointed at the young man: “Only you, Hiroshi Nohara!”
“As for me, this old guy…”
Eiji Kurosawa’s lips curved into a relieved smile: “Just give me the empty title of ‘art guidance,’ so I can have the chance to witness firsthand how a brand new era belonging only to you descends. That… would satisfy me.”
The atmosphere fell into a nearly solidified solemnity.
This master revered as a “living legend” in the neon film industry was now gazing at Hiroshi Nohara with a solemn, entrusting look, his soul-deep admiration undisguised.
“Director Kurosawa, you’re too serious.”
Hiroshi Nohara responded with the respect of a junior to a senior to this already deified master who was now humble like an apprentice: “The story of 《Seven Samurai》 originated from my creativity, but to perfectly present its era-specific tragic heroism and weight on the big screen, only you in all of neon can do it. So, the chief director position belongs to no one but you.”
These words were watertight, giving the other face while cleverly positioning himself in the most appropriate and safe place.
Even Asumi nodded repeatedly, admiring Hiroshi Nohara’s high emotional intelligence.
However, Eiji Kurosawa bristled like a cat whose tail was stepped on!
“Nonsense!”
He glared with bulging eyes, his face full of stubbornness: “I’ve made movies my whole life, and what I value most is ‘rightful name’! What’s yours is yours! I absolutely won’t claim credit, turning your talent into gold on this old bones’ face!”
“This…” A wry helplessness appeared on Hiroshi Nohara’s face too.
He realized this old stubborn’s temper was even more unyielding than he imagined.
“Oh dear, Director Kurosawa, don’t take it so seriously.”
In this standoff full of “artistic integrity,” Asumi, the old fox most skilled at muddling through, finally found his stage.
He carried two cups of steaming fragrant tea, chuckling as he approached and handed them to the two.
“Hiroshi-kun is young, energetic, full of ideas—that’s good. But the film industry’s waters are deep. You are the sea-fixing needle of our neon film industry; with you in charge, this project is foolproof. How about this…”
His eyes turned, throwing out a win-win proposal:
“Let’s emulate Hollywood and do a ‘dual director’ system. You take the nominal chief director, overseeing the overall artistic style and filming direction. Hiroshi-kun as co-director, handling script refinement and on-site execution. This way, it ensures the work’s artistic height, fully utilizes Hiroshi-kun’s talent, and… helps this junior stand firm in the film industry. What do you think?”
These words were watertight, giving Eiji Kurosawa huge face while unobtrusively nailing Hiroshi Nohara’s merits to the merit book.
Hearing this, Eiji Kurosawa’s thick eyebrows knitted like a “river” character finally relaxed a bit.
He glanced at the young man who had been calmly smiling throughout, then at Asumi’s face full of “give me face,” and finally let out a long breath, acquiescing to this compromise full of “neon characteristics.”
“Hmph, do as you say.” He snorted lightly through his nose, but the stubbornness was gone from his tone: “But I say this upfront! This movie, from start to finish, is Hiroshi-kun’s work! I’m just assisting! If word gets out with any deviation, I’ll be the first to object!”
“Hi! Hi! Naturally! Naturally!” Asumi agreed repeatedly, the huge stone in his heart finally landing.
With the director issue settled, Eiji Kurosawa’s heart, already ignited by creative desire, could no longer be contained.
“Hiroshi-kun, any ideas on the music?” He pushed the script he’d read countless times to Hiroshi Nohara like the humblest student.
“Music is the soul of a movie.”
Hiroshi Nohara didn’t polite; he knew that in front of a true artist, any humility was a disguised insult.
He calmly used words to construct that immortal melody already verified countless times by a movie master from another spacetime in his mind.
“I hope the film’s music has two distinct styles.”
“The first, for the samurai. I hope it fuses our neon traditional gagaku, Noh drama elements, using the shakuhachi’s desolation, shamisen’s passion, taiko drum’s majesty to express the samurai class’s tragic elegy.”
“The second, for the farmers. I hope it’s more grounded, using the simplest folk tunes, even… those labor chants full of rustic flavor, to express their cunning yet primitive vitality, tenacity and unyielding.”
“When these two styles of music intertwine and clash on the battlefield, it will be an epic tragic heroism full of fateful sense.”
This professional, vivid description was like the sharpest key, instantly unlocking Eiji Kurosawa’s long-dry inspiration gate!
“Good! Good! Good!” He slapped his thigh hard: “That’s it! I’ll go find my old buddy now! He’ll be so excited by your idea he’ll go three days and nights without sleep!”
With that, he grabbed the script like a gust of wind and rushed out of the office without looking back.
That back showed no trace of a hero’s late decline, clearly a fanatic youth who found his lifelong pursuit!
The office was left with only Asumi and Hiroshi Nohara.
Asumi looked at the still-slightly-swaying door, then at the young man calmly sipping tea as if he’d just casually mentioned the weather, and a wry bitterness finally appeared on his elegant face.
“Monster… a real outright monster…” he murmured: “Hiroshi-kun, I truly believe now. Perhaps there really are people whose brains have been kissed by deities.”
He looked at Hiroshi Nohara like he was a national treasure capable of changing history.
“Deputy Director, you flatter me.” Hiroshi Nohara set down the teacup, smiling as he pulled the topic back to the project he cared most about: “So… about 《The Tale of Hachiko》…”
“Cough cough!” Asumi’s old face reddened: “That… Hiroshi-kun, rest assured! As long as… as long as 《Seven Samurai》’s box office can… exceed two billion yen! No! One point five billion! As long as it exceeds one point five billion! I guarantee! Even if I have to kneel, I’ll beg Director Sakata to approve the budget for 《Hachiko》!”
“Then it’s a deal.” A confident arc curved on Hiroshi Nohara’s lips.
He knew this game; he had already seen the ending.
The two briefly discussed 《Seven Samurai》’s release slot, ultimately locking onto the must-win battleground that drives all film people crazy—one and a half months later, the year-end slot at the end of December.
“Alright, Deputy Director, if nothing else, I’ll go check out the 《Super Change Change Change》 recording site.”
After all, his quasi father-in-law and mother-in-law were still there.
…
Tokyo Television Station, Studio Number Three.
The backstage air was filled with a unique atmosphere of tension and excitement.
Makeup artists shuttled through the individual dressing rooms like the most diligent worker ants, doing final touch-ups for the stars about to take the stage.
However, amid this seemingly orderly busyness, a sharp voice full of arrogance and impatience inappropriately shattered the tranquility.
“Are you pigs?! How many times have I said it! I want the center seat! Center! Can’t understand human speech?!”
Shunsuke Kamiki, the special guest for the sixth episode and currently super popular among young girls as an idol star, was now like a Persian cat whose tail was stepped on, hysterically roaring at the on-site director already scared pale.
His originally somewhat effeminate handsome face was slightly distorted in anger, his peach blossom eyes carefully lined staring deadly at the guest seating chart arranged not far away.
“Why?! Why let that has-been comedian Yūhachi Kaneko take the C position?! I’m the hottest now! My fans outnumber his by a hundred times! Arranging me at the very edge—do you want my fans to laugh me to death?!”
This childish, self-centered rant made the busy staff around subconsciously pause their actions.
Strange expressions appeared on their faces.
Kei Tanaka, this already transformed variety show section chief, rushed out from the control room upon hearing the news.
Looking at the “top idol” throwing a tantrum like a spoiled child, even kicking the prop box nearby, a layer of icy frost instantly covered his already stern face.
“Kamiki-kun.” His voice wasn’t loud, but like a perfectly measured basin of ice water, instantly extinguishing the about-to-explode powder keg: “The seating was arranged by the program team based on all guests’ seniority, popularity, and role in this episode. If you object, you can appeal to your management company. But now, please return to your dressing room immediately to prepare for recording. Otherwise, we will consider it your unilateral breach of contract.”
This professional and unquestionable tough attitude was like an invisible slap, harshly landing on Shunsuke Kamiki’s handsome face!
He was stunned.
He never imagined a mere “errand boy” on-site director in his eyes would dare speak to him in this tone!
“You… what the hell are you?!” His voice sharpened from extreme humiliation: “Do you know who I am?! Believe it or not, one call from me and you can never survive in this industry?!”
However, Kei Tanaka just looked at him calmly, his gaze like watching a jumping, utterly ridiculous clown.
In this tense atmosphere, a light, breezy voice suddenly floated over from behind the crowd of onlooker staff.
“Oh? Really?”
That voice carried just the right playful amusement.
“I’d like to see which call has such power to make my Tanaka section chief unable to survive in this industry?”
Hiroshi Nohara slowly walked over.
He gently raised his head.
Looking at the effeminate-faced, delicate-looking star entertainer before him, a disdainful curve appeared on his lips: “It couldn’t be our Director Nobuhiko Sakata, right?”
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