Chapter 157: Fujiwara-sama! It’s Hiroshi Nohara!
A trace of undisguised shock finally appeared on Hideaki Fujiwara’s face, which was always as calm as still water!
He looked at Eiji Kurosawa’s face full of frankness and pride, then at the young person who had been calmly smiling from beginning to end, and that heart, already tempered to be as hard as rock by countless power struggles, suddenly felt overwhelmed by a ridiculous, almost unreal sensation!
A master who had become a god in the neon film industry for half a century would actually be willing to play a supporting role for a fledgling young person?
This could no longer be explained simply as “mentoring a junior.”
Hideaki Fujiwara was Hideaki Fujiwara, after all.
In those eyes that had seen countless rises and falls of the world, all the surprise was instantly replaced by a deeper scrutiny.
He had known Eiji Kurosawa for decades and was all too familiar with this old friend’s stubborn temper, harder than a samurai sword.
For him to say such words could only prove one thing—this movie titled 《Seven Samurai》 absolutely had something beyond his imagination.
“Good.” Hideaki Fujiwara slowly nodded, asking no further.
He simply calmly pressed the button on the internal telephone on the desk, his voice carrying the indifference of long-standing authority: “Have all the committee members from the first deliberation room come over. Start the screening.”
He turned his head, looking at the two directors with differing expressions, a meaningful arc curving at the corner of his mouth: “Kurosawa, Nohara-kun, I’m very curious too. What kind of ‘surprise’ have you two prepared for me.”
Before long, more than twenty well-dressed, solemn-faced middle-aged men filed in.
They were the most core review committee members of Eirin, the true judges who controlled the life and death of all movies in neon.
Every one of them had immersed themselves in their respective fields for decades, with sharp eyes and discerning tastes.
When they saw that in the deliberation room, besides the legendary Director Kurosawa, there was also a stranger who was somewhat excessively young, a trace of confusion involuntarily appeared on those unsmiling faces.
However, when the deliberation room’s heavy soundproof door slowly closed, all the indoor lighting was extinguished, and on that huge curtain, the three powerful title 《Seven Samurai》 appeared, all the confusion and scrutiny were instantly thoroughly overwhelmed by a deeper, fate-filled tragic and heroic aura.
The movie began.
No lavish opening, no stirring soundtrack.
Just a land ravaged by war, scarred and devastated, and a group of ragged farmers whose eyes were filled with numbness and despair.
They were like a herd of penned livestock, trembling under the bandits’ iron hooves, offering up their already meager rations.
The image was oppressively suffocating.
In the deliberation room, several committee members accustomed to commercial blockbusters had already subconsciously frowned.
However, when the disheveled samurai with a shaved forehead and eyes carrying a bit of worldly world-weariness—Kanbei Shimada—appeared on screen, the air in the entire deliberation room seemed to be sucked out in an instant.
He didn’t say much, only shaving off the topknot symbolizing his samurai status upon seeing a child bullied by a thug, saving the child in a way almost humiliating.
That immovable steadiness, that compassion deep in his eyes, struck like an invisible heavy hammer on everyone’s heart present.
Immediately after, one vivid character after another, as if piercing through the screen, appeared in succession.
The taciturn Kyuzo, masterful in swordsmanship, who lived only to pursue the pinnacle of kendo.
In his entrance scene, in a flash of lightning, he defeated two arrogant ruffians with a single bamboo stick; that calm and power elicited a chorus of stifled gasps in the deliberation room!
This action scene was crisp and clean.
Filmed extremely brilliantly.
Heihachi Hayashida, always cheerful, who could defuse his companions’ nervousness with a joke even in desperation.
Gorobei Katayama, versed in military strategy, seemingly mercenary but actually full of wisdom.
And the young samurai from noble birth, naive to the world, harboring the purest longing for samurai spirit—Katsushiro Okamoto.
Each character was like a sharply edged puzzle piece, together constructing a group portrait of the “samurai” class, filled with glory and tragic heroism.
However, what truly made everyone present feel their scalps tingle was that controversial and contradictory impostor—Chiyo.
He was crude, lustful, boastful, possessing almost all the farmers’ vices.
With a stolen samurai sword and a forged family tree, he forced his way into this team that didn’t belong to him.
He was like a clown barging into a sacred hall, constantly challenging everyone’s ingrained notions of the term “samurai” with his comical and clumsy performance.
“This guy… he’s simply defiling ‘Bushido’!” A rather conservative old committee member finally couldn’t hold back, letting out a disdainful snort from his nose.
However, as soon as his words fell, on the screen, that tragic and heroic final battle filled with mud and blood descended with an unstoppable force!
Torrential rain poured, the entire world seemingly shrouded in gray despair.
The bandits’ iron hooves, like black tides, impacted again and again against that fragile defensive line built of flesh and blood.
The samurai fought in the mud, fell in the firelight.
Heihachi Hayashida, that always cheerful man, to cover his companions, was pierced through by several spears; even on his deathbed, his face still bore that familiar, warm smile.
Kyuzo, the man who lived only for kendo, to protect Katsushiro, was hit by a musket; in the moment he fell, his eyes held no fear, only a faint regret for not dueling a stronger opponent.
Death, like autumn leaves falling, was filled with fateful tragic heroism.
And in that blood-soaked battlefield of carnage, the impostor once despised by all, Chiyo, erupted like a thoroughly enraged beast with an unprecedented, heart-chilling energy!
Watching his companions fall one by one, watching those farmers he once despised burst forth with the brilliance of humanity to protect their homes, in those eyes always full of cunning and desire, for the first time, blazed a prairie fire!
He was no longer fighting for false glory.
He was fighting to protect, for those weaker than him!
When he raised high that flag with a circle representing the six samurai and a triangle for himself, facing the bandit leader’s musket, letting out a earth-shattering roar, ultimately perishing together with the enemy…
The entire deliberation room fell into dead silence.
Everyone held their breath; those faces full of shock showed only a deep numbness… and awe after their worldviews were repeatedly crushed by a heavy hammer!
At the movie’s end, the bandits were eliminated, the village saved.
The surviving farmers, on that blood-soaked land, sang and danced, celebrating their hard-won harvest.
That joyful singing contrasted sharply and satirically with the four lonely graves topped with samurai swords on the hillside.
Kanbei, who survived, looking at that merry field, slowly uttered that cruel line dimming all heroic narratives.
“We lost again. The winners are the farmers.”
The lights came on.
The three-and-a-half-hour movie ended.
The deliberation room remained pin-drop silent.
After a long while, a chorus of stifled, long sighs rose, as if expelling the weight of their entire souls.
“…Good story.”
An old committee member with white hair, renowned in the industry for his “sharp tongue,” slowly removed his reading glasses, wiping away the uncontrollable wetness at his eye corner with the back of his hand.
His voice carried an irrepressible tremor: “I’ve… watched movies for nearly forty years. I never imagined a story about samurai could be told so… epic and vast, yet so piercing to the heart!”
“Indeed!” Another committee member nodded heavily; that usually picky face now full of heartfelt admiration: “This is no longer just a simple samurai film! It’s deconstructing! Using the fates of seven samurai to deconstruct our entire nation’s deep-seated tragic fate of ‘class’ and ‘humanity’!”
“Especially that Chiyo!” A rather young female committee member, face flushed with excitement: “Though he’s an impostor, he embodies ‘samurai spirit’ more than any true samurai! He shows us that so-called ‘Bushido’ is never determined by status, but by the ‘heart’! Director Kurosawa, your… your intent this time is truly profound! Simply… divine inspiration!”
For a moment, praise surged like a tide!
Everyone lavishly offered their most ornate words to the man they saw as having created a miracle—Eiji Kurosawa.
Yet Eiji Kurosawa simply sat there calmly, his weathered face betraying no emotion.
He only slowly cast that probing gaze toward the man who had quietly sat in the corner throughout, as if detached from it all.
Hideaki Fujiwara.
This man who controlled all their fates was now leaning on the sofa, propping his chin with one hand; those calm eyes flickered with a chilling, hawk-like sharpness.
His gaze shifted back and forth between Eiji Kurosawa’s frank face and Hiroshi Nohara’s composed face.
After a long while, he slowly spoke.
That voice like thunder splitting eternal night struck hard on everyone’s heart present!
“Kurosawa, tell me the truth.”
His voice was flat, yet carried an unquestionable authority that could make anyone tremble.
“Who exactly directed this movie?”
“…”
The entire deliberation room instantly fell into eerie silence.
Everyone felt an invisible hand choking their throats, unable to utter a word.
They stared blankly at Hideaki Fujiwara, their faces full of incredulous absurdity.
Fujiwara-sama… he… what was he saying?
This movie wasn’t directed by Director Kurosawa, so who could it be?
Could it be that… that one who looked even younger than their youngest intern, maybe a driver or junior?!
This… this was simply… absurd!
What young person could direct such a near-perfect samurai film that deconstructed Bushido, samurai spirit, class, and humanity in their eyes!?
They looked contemptuously at the young person who had only calmly smiled throughout.
Their eyes showed no regard for him at all!
Yet, in this atmosphere of absurdity and contempt, Eiji Kurosawa, this master revered as a “living legend” in the neon film industry, stood up from that sofa symbolizing honored guest status.
Then, under everyone’s incredulous, almost ghostly gazes.
He bent his waist.
A ninety-degree bow.
“Fujiwara-sama.”
Eiji Kurosawa spoke earnestly:
“You’re right.”
“This movie’s true chief director, true filmmaker, the one who truly completed this artwork—there’s only one.”
He slowly straightened up, his weathered face full of the old era artisan’s frankness.
“It is indeed him…”
“Hiroshi Nohara!”
