Nureki Chimuo Archive

To my Acchitei Master,

I would like to give you an update on how things are going.

Yesterday, I went to Yurakucho to see “Seven Samurai.” I was accompanied by Director Nakahara.

She has been so kind to me, and I’ve long felt that taking her to see “Seven Samurai,” a film she hadn’t seen yet, would be a way for me to thank her while I’m still alive, as well as a gift to her.

I saw this film when it first came out, and I’ve watched it repeatedly ever since whenever I’ve had the chance. I’ve probably seen it over a dozen times by now.

I’ve also seen it a few times on TV, and every detail of each scene is etched into my memory.

Even for each of the minor characters with almost no lines, memories from my own life decades ago, from each of those eras, came flooding back, and every time the face of such an actor appeared on the screen, I would briefly lose myself in those memories.

For example, whenever Akira Tani, with his beady eyes, appeared (He was an actor with real character, but I remember he committed suicide partway through his career. I don’t know what troubles he faced as a Toho actor, but hanging himself is such a grim story), I found myself suddenly recalling my younger self, who was deeply shocked by that.

Whenever I saw Kichijiro Ueda, dressed as a bandit’s henchman and being dragged around by the peasants, I was instantly reminded of Minomura Ko.

It is said that Minomura Ko, when he was very young, before joining “Kitan Club,” once worked as an extra at a film studio in Kyoto.

“You know, Uekichi-san, even though he has such a scary face, he’s actually a kind person. He was really nice to me and spoke to me kindly about all sorts of things,” and so on, and so on.

I also suddenly recalled stories about how Kichijiro Ueda and Kazuo Hasegawa were related by marriage.

That Kazuo Hasegawa’s wife was Kichijiro Ueda’s daughter. Or was it Seinen Hayashi’s?

I’ve forgotten. My memory is a bit hazy.

The gossip that a heartthrob whose fame echoed throughout the land and an actor who specialized in villains were close relatives was fascinating to my younger self, and it still lingers in the back of my mind.

Come to think of it, back then, I was quite good at imitating Kichijiro Ueda’s voice.

I can still do it. But even if I did it now, no one would listen anymore.

As for Hidari Bokuzan, I’ve actually seen him perform on stage many times.

Right after the war, when the Toyoko Department Store in Shibuya had nothing to sell and had converted the fifth and sixth floors entirely into movie theaters and performance halls, I saw Hidari Bokuzan quite often performing in light theater productions there.

(I was a fan of light comedy plays.)

Once, completely unrelated to the flow of the play, Hidari Bokuzan suddenly appeared on stage, looked around in bewilderment, said “Oh, I guess it wasn’t my turn yet,” and went backstage. It was so funny, just like that old peasant in “Seven Samurai,” that I laughed until my stomach ached.

He was that kind of actor, full of gossip and fun.

I also saw Saburozen at the Daito Theater in Asakusa and the Kagetsu Theater. Just seeing him appear was entertaining.

I also saw him at the Nichigeki Small Theater in Yurakucho.

He played the role of the temple priest, a key character in “Gokumonjima,” based on the novel by Seishi Yokomizo.

His unique, deadpan delivery at that time was strangely vivid and possessed a peculiar realism. It still rings clearly in my ears.

On that stage at the Nikkatsu Small Theater, I also saw Minoru Chiaki, who played one of the seven samurai in Akira Kurosawa’s “Seven Samurai.”

Minoru Chiaki was the leader of a theater troupe called the Barazaka, and he was performing a play titled “Tokyo Elegy,” written by Kazuo Kikuta, alongside an actress named Tomoe Sasaki. Tomoe Sasaki was also Minoru Chiaki’s wife.

(How on earth did I, a boy at the time, know all this? And why do I still remember it now that I’m 82?)

“Tokyo Elegy” is set against the backdrop of the ruins of Tokyo’s entertainment district, which had been destroyed by American air raids.

play.

Characters such as street urchins and prostitutes, known as “panpan girls,” appear in the

It was a play that reflected the spirit of the era.

…Ah, if I keep writing about things like this, I’ll never stop. I wasn’t supposed to be writing about these old memories.

Just as I had expected, Director Nakahara was deeply moved by “Seven Samurai.”

Actually, the extent of her emotion might have exceeded my expectations.

Actually, after watching “Seven Samurai” yesterday, I had planned to go with her to the exhibition of photographer Kyoichi Tsuzuki’s work and the talk show featuring Tsuzuki-san and another guest (Akito Inui-san) held at the venue.

So, as soon as the movie ended, she and I immediately went outside the building where the theater was located.

I felt weighed down.

“I must have gotten tired from fighting the thirteen remaining rogue samurai in the pouring rain.”

After watching nearly four hours of this intense film in one sitting (though there was a fifteen-minute intermission), I was feeling exhausted.

The theme music, rising and falling, had taken hold of my entire body, and Takashi Shimura’s character, Kanbei Shimada, drawing his sword and bracing himself, had possessed me.

When she heard what I said, she understood immediately and said with a laugh, “I’m tired too.”

It wasn’t raining in front of Yurakucho Station, but right before my eyes, the rain was pouring down diagonally, and I could see a bandit on horseback galloping past, just inches from my nose, kicking up a spray of mud.

The venue for Tsuzuki-san’s event, where we were headed, is located near Ebisu Station.

It’s a venue called “Nadiff Apartment,” a place neither she nor I had ever been to before.

(Dark Night Alley)

A talk event for a solo exhibition subtitled “Ueno-Asakusa Underground Cruise” was set to begin at six in the evening.

It sounded interesting.

If it has the word Asakusa in it, it’s bound to be interesting.

Asakusa is my hometown.

(It’s a coincidence, but I’ve recently been thinking of rereading Naoya Shiga’s “Dark Night Journey,” and I currently have the edition published by Chuo Koron-sha sitting on my bedside table.)

Kensaku Tokito.

To go see Tsuzuki-san, I have to take the train from Yurakucho Station and ride the Yamanote Line for about half a lap.

The invitation says it’s about a six-minute walk from the station.

I’ll have to walk using a map that’s been stylized so neatly it looks hard to follow.

(It really is just like “Dark Night Alley.”)

I muttered to myself.

“Let’s take a taxi,” I said to her, and hailed a cab that happened to be passing by.

I was surprised to see a large photo displayed in the venue’s exhibition room showing me standing on stage at Asakusa Kba-tei alongside the rakugo performer Umeko.

It is an honor to be portrayed in this way by an outstanding artist like Tsuzuki-san, who possesses such a resilient and authentic poetic spirit.

In fact, that evening, Director Nakahara and I were deeply moved by the exquisite artistry of Tsuzuki-san’s talk.

For me, that emotion was, in a sense, comparable to that of “Seven Samurai.”

So, even before I began writing, I had already decided on the title for this “Talking Theater,”: “‘Seven Samurai’ and Tsuzuki-san’s Talk Show.”

For the second half, I intended to write a piece wholeheartedly and with all my soul, praising Tsuzuki-san’s storytelling skills. It was truly an educational experience.

And last night, while eating Kikakata ramen, she and I had a passionate conversation about how wonderful it would be if we could emulate this warm, heartfelt atmosphere of Tsuzuki-san’s for our Tomoshibi photo album completion celebration, an event where my acchitei master is also well acquainted with our group.

I’ll report on how that went in my next post.

I’m grateful for my acchitei master for the long relationship we’ve built over time, almost without realizing it.

Even though I always try to sound like I know what I’m talking about, I’ve always been selfish and spoiled by my master.

This has turned into a bit of a rambling post.

Well, see you later. Sorry about that.