Chapter 164: Critics’ Shock! This Isn’t Filming Samurai—it’s Bushido!
Shinjuku District, Tokyo, at this historic old movie theater, the doorway was crowded with people, bustling with excitement.
In one corner of the movie theater lobby, five figures stood out awkwardly.
They were well-dressed in suits, their faces serious, completely unaffected by the festive atmosphere, instead exuding a cold austerity that kept others at a distance.
They were the senior film critic team from《 Film Report》, renowned in the industry for their harsh tastes and sharp writing.
Leading them was Kenta Tanaka, a stern man over fifty with his hair combed meticulously.
His gaze was sharp, as if he could see through the truth or falsehood of any movie at a glance.
“Tanaka Senior, look over there.”
The young film critic Hiroshi Suzuki pointed at the huge poster for《 Samurai of the Cherry Blossom Tree》, and the young girls screaming in front of it, his tone laced with a hint of contempt: “Idols are indeed ruling. Those little girls can pack the theater just for that face.”
Ichiro Sato, a film critic around forty, slightly plump, with a mocking smile always on his face, also sneered: “No way around it, that’s market rules. The more developed the economy, the more those idol stars who can’t do anything are chased. After all, appreciating art requires a threshold, but swooning over a pretty face doesn’t.”
“I reckon this《 Samurai of the Cherry Blossom Tree》 is just another flop with pretty images but a terrible plot.”
The only female film critic, Mieko Kato, chimed in agreement. She wore a well-tailored black coat, her eyes filled with fatigue: “I really don’t know what those producers are thinking, spending billions to hire a bunch of vases to act, when they could invest in directors with real talent.”
“Enough, say less.”
Kenta Tanaka finally spoke, his voice tinged with impatience: “We’re not here to watch those little idols. Even though it’s Christmas, we still have to submit our manuscripts to the paper tomorrow. For that paycheck, we have no choice but to suffer here.”
He paused, his gaze falling on the poster for《 Seven Samurai》, his eyes deep.
“But that《 Seven Samurai》… it’s somewhat interesting.” Kenta Tanaka adjusted his glasses, his tone probing: “Director Kurosawa’s reputation, plus that young man Hiroshi Nohara who’s been making waves lately… I hear the entire film industry is waiting for reviews of this movie tomorrow. The bigger the controversy, the more worth our look. Let’s go, buy tickets and head in.”
The others smiled knowingly upon hearing this.
They were professional film critics, naturally disdainful of those idol movies.
But for movies with controversy and buzz, they had an almost obsessive persistence.
After all, only such movies could stir up waves in their writing, allowing them to showcase their unique “sharp” insight among peers.
The group went to the ticket counter, bought their tickets, and headed toward the entrance.
“Hm?”
Just as Kenta Tanaka was about to hand his ticket to the usher, his peripheral vision caught three familiar figures.
All three were wearing masks and hats, keeping a low profile at the end of the line.
One was tall and elegant in demeanor, another slim but upright like a silent mountain.
And the young man in the center… though wearing a hat and mask, his composed bearing and those profound eyes that couldn’t be hidden made Kenta Tanaka’s heart skip uncontrollably.
Hiroshi Nohara?
And… Deputy Director Asumi? And… Director Kurosawa?!
Kenta Tanaka’s body stiffened slightly, and he instinctively stopped.
“Tanaka Senior, what’s wrong?” Hiroshi Suzuki asked puzzled.
Kenta Tanaka shook his head, a thoughtful smile appearing on his face: “Nothing, maybe I saw wrong. Let’s go, inside.”
He handed the ticket to the usher, then walked with heavy steps into that dark space about to witness a miracle.
……
Inside the theater, the lights gradually dimmed, and the noisy chatter subsided.
Light and shadow flowed on the massive screen.
Accompanied by drumbeats filled with tragic and heroic fate, images of land ravaged by war appeared before all the audience.
That was the opening of《 Seven Samurai》.
The movie began.
In the auditorium, soon only occasional suppressed gasps and focused gazes glued to the screen remained.
Kenta Tanaka and his group were also completely captivated by the film’s unique charm within ten minutes of the opening.
The film’s opening, like an ink landscape painting, presented the turbulent land of the late Warring States period to the audience.
The bandits’ iron hooves, like black tides, mercilessly crushed the unarmed farmers again and again.
They were ragged, their eyes numb, like penned livestock trembling under the threat of death.
“This… this opening is a bit oppressive.” Hiroshi Suzuki muttered softly.
However, as soon as he spoke, the scene shifted.
The down-and-out samurai Kanbei Shimada, to save a child, shaved off his topknot symbolizing samurai status, disguised as a monk, and completed the rescue in a nearly humiliating way.
Moreover, his unshakable composure afterward, and the compassion deep in his eyes, instantly made the character three-dimensional!
“This samurai… interesting.” Ichiro Sato’s eyes lit up; he saw in this role a humanity that transcended the traditional samurai image.
Or rather, this was the positive image of samurai now recognized by all!
Then, one by one, vivid characters who seemed to leap off the screen appeared in succession.
Kyuzo, a samurai who lived only to pursue the pinnacle of swordsmanship.
Silent and terse, masterful in swordsmanship.
In his introduction scene, in a flash, he defeated two arrogant ronin with a bamboo stick; that calm power elicited suppressed gasps throughout the auditorium!
“This action scene… crisp and clean, no muddling! Textbook level!” Mieko Kato whispered in admiration. She had thought it would be a dull art film, but the opening was astonishing.
Heihachi Hayashida, always cheerful, able to defuse companions’ tension with a joke even in desperation.
His optimism and openness were like sunlight piercing the film’s opening gloom, bringing rare relief to the audience.
Gorobei Katayama, proficient in strategy, seemingly mercenary but full of wisdom.
His strategic composure showed the audience the deeper wisdom of samurai beyond mere force.
And the young samurai of noble birth, naive to the world, harboring the purest longing for samurai spirit: Shichiro Katsushiro.
His youthful idealism added a rare warmth to this tragedy-filled story.
Each character was like a distinct puzzle piece, together forming a glorious and tragic group portrait of the “samurai” class.
Yet, what truly made everyone’s scalps tingle was that controversial and contradictory impostor—Chiyo.
From his entrance, he showed rudeness, lechery, and boastfulness, with an obvious low-class flaw.
And from the plot introduction, they knew he had forced his way into this team not his own with a forged family tree and stolen samurai sword.
He was like a clown barging into a sacred hall, pretending to be a samurai with his comical and clumsy performance.
“This character… too subversive!” Hiroshi Suzuki’s eyes widened; he never imagined such an “oddity” in a samurai film.
“Yeah… he’s downright defiling ‘Bushido’!” Ichiro Sato frowned slightly; as a traditional critic, he instinctively disliked this “heretical” setup.
However, Kenta Tanaka just silently watched the screen, his eyes growing brighter, all contempt and fatigue gone, replaced by focus.
From his professional view, he could tell this Chiyo was no mere “clown.”
He must hide the story’s deepest and cruelest core.
Midway through the film, the samurai began training the farmers and building defenses.
The images shifted from oppressive darkness to vibrant hope.
Under the samurai’s guidance, the farmers took up weapons, learned to fight; their eyes no longer numb, but igniting with desire for survival.
Yet this brief peace and hope was shattered by the bandits’ return!
Torrential rain poured, the world shrouded in gray despair.
The bandits’ hooves like black tides battered the fragile line of flesh and blood again and again.
The samurai fought in the mud, fell in the firelight.
Heihachi Hayashida, that always cheerful man, to cover his companions, was pierced by several spears; even in death, his face held that familiar warm smile.
Kyuzo, who lived for swordsmanship, to protect Shichiro Katsushiro, was hit by a musket; as he fell, his eyes showed no fear, only faint regret for not facing a stronger foe.
Death came like autumn leaves, fierce and tragically heroic.
This sequence was filmed brilliantly.
The pace was extremely fast.
It barely allowed any audience time to think, forcing them to rush forward with the plot.
In the auditorium, the audience held their breath; some emotional ones were already silently wiping tears.
And in that blood-soaked battlefield, the once-despised impostor Chiyo erupted like a thoroughly enraged beast with unprecedented, heart-pounding energy!
Watching his companions fall one by one, seeing the farmers he once scorned shine with human glory to protect their home, his cunning and desirous eyes burned for the first time with prairie fire!
He no longer fought for false glory.
He fought to protect, for those weaker than him!
When he raised the flag, facing the bandit leader’s musket, roaring thunderously and perishing with the enemy…
The entire deliberation room fell into dead silence.
Everyone held their breath, their shocked faces left only with awe!
The film reached its end; the bandits were defeated, the village saved.
The surviving farmers danced and sang on that blood-soaked land, celebrating their hard-won harvest.
That merry song contrasted sharply and satirically with the four lonely graves topped with samurai swords on the hillside.
The surviving Kanbei, looking at the jubilant fields, slowly uttered that cruel line dimming all heroic narratives.
“We lost again; the winners are the farmers.”
Then came that line, taken out of context at the press conference, sparking uproar—
“What do you take farmers for, Bodhisattvas? Ridiculous. Farmers are the most cunning; won’t give rice when asked, say no wheat when asked, but they have everything. Lift the floorboards—it’s not underground, it’s in the storeroom; you’ll find plenty: rice, salt, beans, sake… Go deep into the valley; there are hidden rice fields! They seem honest but lie best, lie about everything! In war, they kill stragglers for weapons. Listen, farmers are the stingiest, most cunning, cowardly, malicious, incompetent murderers!”
“But who made them that way?”
“You, you samurai! Go die! Burning villages for war, ravaging fields, forced labor, raping women, killing resisters—what should farmers do? What can they do!”
When this dialectic and satirical speech exploded from the screen in Chiyo’s rough yet powerful voice…
Everyone in the auditorium fully understood.
They understood what Hiroshi Nohara meant by the “Easter egg” at the press conference.
They understood the film’s true intent: transcending class and good-evil, piercing straight to humanity’s profound core!
The lights came on.
The three-and-a-half-hour movie ended.
The auditorium remained pin-drop silent.
Everyone sat stunned, their faces etched with shock, awe, and numb worldview upheaval.
After a long while, suppressed sighs arose.
“…This… is this really a movie humans can make?” Hiroshi Suzuki’s voice trembled.
His young face was pale, conquered by art.
“Masterpiece… this is a masterpiece!” Mieko Kato slowly removed her glasses, wiping the uncontrollable moisture from her eye with her hand.
Her voice trembled uncontrollably: “I’ve… watched movies for nearly thirty years. I never imagined a samurai story could be told so… epic, so heart-piercing!”
“Yes!” Ichiro Sato nodded emphatically, his usually picky face full of genuine admiration: “This is no mere samurai film! It’s deconstructing ‘class’ and ‘humanity’! Deconstructing the era!”
“Especially that Chiyo!” Hiroshi Suzuki flushed with excitement: “He’s an impostor, but more ‘samurai spirit’ than any true samurai! He shows ‘Bushido’ is defined not by status, but by ‘heart’! This… divine stroke!”
Praise surged like a tide!
But Kenta Tanaka, chief critic of《 Film Report》, just sat silently.
His eyes, seen countless rises and falls, shed all scorn, left with deep shock and awe!
He recalled Hiroshi Nohara’s press conference words.
“We always discuss samurai, farmers. Elites, commoners. But we overlook the true, ultimate, sole protagonist deciding all their fates.”
“That’s the era.”
“The end of the samurai era wasn’t because they lacked elite status. It was because guns appeared, letting a trained farmer easily kill a swordsman of twenty years. Victory of technology, productivity, the era.”
“The commoner era’s arrival wasn’t instant. It evolved into our current national era of equality, where anyone can change their fate. Also the era’s progress.”
“We, elite or commoner, are but insignificant waves in the era’s tide.”
“What we can do isn’t complain about class solidification or envy others’ success. It’s like me: seize every era-given chance to change our fate.”
Back then, he thought Hiroshi Nohara was quibbling.
Concept-swapping.
But now, having seen the movie…
He understood…
That young man wasn’t quibbling.
He was stating history-verified plain truth!
Nor concept-swapping.
He was using a timeless, class-transcending, humanity-probing profound perspective.
To reexamine our nation’s bone-deep tragic fate!
Kenta Tanaka slowly stood, walking to the auditorium exit.
His calm gaze swept over the stunned audience, faces full of shock.
He recalled the three figures at the entrance.
He finally understood.
That young man wasn’t manipulating public opinion.
He was using the subtlest means only a monster who sees through eras and hearts could, paving the film’s path to the “altar”!
Every word he said, every act, was but a small foreshadowing in his grand narrative!
“Let’s go.” Kenta Tanaka’s voice held unprecedented fatigue, yet deep relief after catharsis.
“We… should go back and write the manuscript.”
His soft voice clearly reached his speechless, shocked companions.
“Tanaka Senior, you… how will you write it?” Hiroshi Suzuki asked cautiously.
Kenta Tanaka didn’t speak; he slowly turned, a complex smile on his face.
“I plan to…”
“I plan to write a review about a ‘miracle.'”
“About how a 23-year-old young man, single-handedly, thoroughly subverted the entire neon film industry and even society—a ‘miracle’!”
His words stunned the other four critics.
They looked at Kenta Tanaka, eyes filled with incredulous horror.
They knew this usually harsh man wasn’t joking.
He truly thought that.
And having said it, he absolutely planned to do it!
He was declaring an era’s end.
He was welcoming the final arrival of a whole new era belonging solely to that young man!
“…” The others fell silent, minds replaying the plot and classic lines, breaths quickening.
They realized this wasn’t an ordinary samurai film or action flick.
It was… a Bushido movie!
A film transcending ordinary samurai, expounding what Bushido is and what it represents in its era—at the ‘Dao’ level!
“The wind is rising.” One critic spoke slowly, tone full of heartfelt emotion.
The others didn’t deny, nodding in agreement.
For they all believed it true!
“Wait!” Hiroshi Suzuki suddenly remembered something, glancing at the poster for another samurai film next door, shouting: “No, we can’t leave! We have other tasks! Don’t forget,《 Samurai of the Cherry Blossom Tree》 still needs our review!”
Kenta Tanaka, eager to rush home and pour his excitement into words, paused slightly.
Remembering the president’s order to also see《 Samurai of the Cherry Blossom Tree》.
He frowned but suppressed: “Hm, true. Since the president assigned it, let’s go see it.”
So he led everyone, turning toward the adjacent auditorium’s ticket counter.
