Nureki Chimuo Archive

I had some acquaintance with Tako Hachiro, but as I wrote before, it wasn’t anything involving SM.

But there was just a tiny bit.

No, wait, maybe it wasn’t really SM after all. Anyway, I’ll write it down.

At a small theater, more like a movie theater stage, under Mihara Bridge in Higashi Ginza, they were performing a play titled “The Beast-Men of Yapoo,” and Tako Hachiro was in it.

That movie theater is now called Cine Pathos and has become a somewhat unique Western film specialty house. But back then, it only showed so-called “pink films.”

Pink films were being churned out one after another, showing signs of a boom.

It was run by a certain production company that owned several directly managed pink film theaters in Tokyo. Alongside the films, they staged daily “live performances” lasting about an hour as attractions.

By “live performances,” they meant plays. That is, theater.

They had two or three small theater troupes for this purpose. These were pink troupes, centered around pink film actresses.

Among them was a troupe called “Theater Group Flame,” with five or six members. I had a connection there and spent a period working as something like their resident writer.

I remember the years it was, from around Showa year X to around year Y, but I have no records.

All the scripts for my plays performed by “Theater Group Flame” were published in “Uramado” and “Suspense Magazine,” so researching them would reveal the details. My pen name at that time was Fujimi Iku.

But even if I knew exactly which Showa year I wrote scripts for Aoki Mari or Mizusaki Yoko of “Theater Group Flame,” it wouldn’t really matter.

During this period, my main job was as editor-in-chief of Uramado.

I finished the editorial work in a week, left the minor tasks to the staff, and enjoyed my days involved with these plays.

Ah, I remember now. Before getting involved with “Theater Group Flame,” I also had a period where I wrote scripts for TV movies. That was also during my time as editor-in-chief.

If I start writing about that, I’ll stray further and further from the topic of “Tako Hachiro,” so I’ll return to the main point.

Because of the script for “Theater Group Flame” that had to be staged next at this movie theater, I went to see the play “The Human Cattle of Yapu,” which featured Tako Hachiro.

It was an extremely poor play, almost entirely unrelated to “The Beast-Man of Yapoo,” which, at the time, had the general media buzzing with “Who on earth is Shozo Numa?”

The only scene I remember is Tako Hachiro naked, dressed as an alien, constantly shouting out strange cries of “kyaa, kyaa!” while flailing his arms and legs about.

It was so utterly ridiculous, I didn’t even get angry.

Tako Hachiro on stage spotted me in the audience. Thinking it would be rude to just leave silently, I called him outside.

The backstage area and dressing rooms were cramped. There was no room for outsiders.

Even if I’d called him outside, he wasn’t the type to engage in conversation, so I just said, “I saw it. It was great. Keep up the good work,” and parted ways with him.

He had absolutely no idea what “The Human Cattle of Yapu” was about, so conversation was impossible. Tako Hachiro and SM simply didn’t connect.

When Tako Hachiro was performing in plays like this, what was happening with the “Takobeya” business?

The manager of Inoue-so or some acquaintance must have opened the shop and run it. The real owner of “Takobeya” was originally the manager of Inoue-so.

I don’t really know about those details. I never even tried to ask.

One night, when I went to the “Takobeya,” Fukai Toshihiko and Tako Hachiro were unusually deep in earnest conversation about something.

There were no other customers in sight.

“See, that’s why I say you’re an idiot. If you’re the only one looking back at a time like that, it ruins the whole atmosphere of that scene where everyone’s running for their lives. You won’t get hired by that director again. You really did something stupid.” Fukai Toshihiko was lecturing him.

“Wow, what an unusual thing,” I thought, and listened silently.

I’d never seen Fukai get angry or lecture anyone before.

He was a quiet man with a naturally low voice.

He was missing both his upper and lower front teeth, probably from cavities.

Because of this, his upper and lower lips were pulled back, making it hard for him to speak loudly and clearly.

He talks in a low murmur, breathing from deep in his throat.

His gentle, low voice suited his features well. Arched eyebrows, soft, narrow eyes, and black-rimmed glasses.

He rarely visited barbershops, so his hair grew freely, naturally forming a rugged, slicked-back style that flowed long and loose behind him.

Standing nearly 190 centimeters tall, he always walked with his back hunched.

Seeing this tall, slouching, middle-aged man with unkempt, bushy hair stroll nonchalantly through Shinjuku, the dancers called him the “Beggar Lion” or “Lion Beggar.”

Of course, these were affectionate nicknames born of familiarity and fondness.

Though somewhat grubby, and perhaps a bit disdainful, he was nonetheless kind and a good-natured fellow, making him popular with the dancers.

He was gentle with everyone and always joking around. Even everyday conversations were carried out entirely through jokes.

As mentioned earlier, when Minomura Ko and I visited, he’d squint his eyes happily, grinning, and say something like, “Hey, the pervy duo’s here. Well then, count me in too. Let’s make it the pervy trio!”

It was unusual to see that same Fukai Toshihiko talking to Tako Hachiro with a serious expression on his face.

“You see, an actor has to move as if he were the director. You won’t get hired by that director anymore,” Fukai said, hunching his back deeply and leaning in close to Tako Hachiro’s face.

“But listen, Master, I turned around back there because I wanted to be recognized as an actor, even just a little. I had my actor’s stance!” Tako Hachiro refused to back down.

The two were discussing a scene from director Kinji Fukasaku’s film “Battle Without Honor and Humanity.”

In that film, there’s a scene where a group of petty thugs and yakuza are being chased and flee, either from a police squad or another rival gang.

Among that group of small-time yakuza is Tako Hachiro. He’s a step behind the others, and there’s a shot where he glances back for just a split second.

Looking back means, essentially, looking towards the audience watching the screen.

Tako Hachiro insists that he did it intentionally as an actor wanting to make himself stand out as a performer.

Fukai Toshihiko scolds him, saying that doing something like that would ruin the harmony of the entire scene and must not be done.

I happened to be watching that movie.

I clearly remembered that scene, when seven or eight men huddled together then scattered and ran off. Tako Hachiro deliberately lagged behind, turned around, and showed his face directly to the camera.

And indeed, at that moment, I thought, “Ah, Tako Hachiro is in it!” The actor Tako Hachiro made an impression on me.

But Fukai Toshihiko’s point isn’t wrong either.

As a director, I wouldn’t want them doing that on their own.

Director Fukusaku used that scene as-is because the filming was done fluidly with a handheld camera. Even if there was some camera shake or other imperfections, his intent was to realistically express human movement, and he likely prioritized that effect.

Tako Hachiro was only visible for a split second, so the director probably didn’t think it warranted a reshoot.

The glass door of the “Takobeya” rattled open, and a customer whose face neither Fukai nor I recognized entered. This halted the master-apprentice debate, but what stuck with me was Tako Hachiro starting to say something like, “As an actor’s attitude…”

Mid-debate, Tako Hachiro looked at me and asked, “Hey, what do you think, Sensei?”

Naturally, I believed Fukai’s opinion was correct. Yet I was somewhat moved that Tako Hachiro, who everyone treated like a fool, had his own convictions. I gave a vague reply, “Hmm, yeah, I guess so,” and left it at that.

I never once thought Tako Hachiro was stupid. I always believed he was just pretending to be.

Tako Hachiro always behaved politely. Rumors circulated about him suffering from brain damage after boxing, even losing bladder control, but I never actually witnessed it.

I thought his strategy for navigating the entertainment world was to pretend to be stupid, keep a low profile, and just get by.

The sharpness of his gaze as he spotted me and called out to me in the bustling, crowded chaos of a busy festival night, and the warmth and intimacy radiating from his entire being at that moment, were extraordinary.

I bumped into Tako Hachiro unexpectedly in Golden Gai, Shinjuku.

“Sensei, I’m in this movie called ‘The Yellow Handkerchief of Happiness’ by director Yoji Yamada! I get punched by Ken Takakura! You gotta see it!” He said it with a high-pitched voice, and he smiled happily with one eye.

My diary doesn’t record what year, month, or day of the Showa era that was.