I, Hiroshi Nohara, the star of Japanese cinema

Chapter 157 Lord Fujiwara! It's none other than Hiroshi Nohara!
On Fujiwara Hideaki's usually calm face, an undisguised look of shock finally appeared!

He looked at Eiji Kurosawa's face, which was full of openness and pride, and then at the young man who had been calmly smiling from beginning to end, whose heart had been hardened by countless power struggles. Suddenly, he felt overwhelmed by an absurd and unreal feeling!
A master who has been a legend in the Japanese film industry for half a century would actually play a supporting role for a young upstart.

This can no longer be explained simply as "mentoring younger generations".

Fujiwara Hideaki is, after all, Fujiwara Hideaki.

In his eyes, which had witnessed countless ups and downs of life, all surprise was instantly replaced by a deeper sense of inquiry.

He had known Eiji Kurosawa for decades and knew all too well his old friend's stubborn temper, which was harder than a samurai sword.

The fact that he said those words could only prove one thing—this movie called "Seven Samurai" definitely has something beyond his imagination.

"Okay." Fujiwara Hideaki nodded slowly and didn't ask any further questions.

He calmly pressed the intercom button on the table, his voice carrying the nonchalant air of someone accustomed to a high position: "Have all the committee members in the first review room come over, let's start the screening."

He turned his head and looked at the two directors with different expressions, a meaningful smile curving his lips: "Kurosawa, Nohara-kun, I'm also very curious. What kind of 'surprise' have you two prepared for me?"

Not long after, more than twenty middle-aged men in suits and ties, with solemn expressions, filed in.

They are the core censors of "Eirin," the true judges who hold the power of life and death over all Japanese films.

Each of them has been immersed in their respective fields for decades, possessing keen insight and discerning taste.

When they saw that in the deliberation room, besides the legendary director Kurosawa, there was also an unfamiliar face that was too young, a look of confusion appeared on their usually serious faces.

However, as the heavy soundproof door of the deliberation room slowly closed and all the lights in the room went out, and the three powerful titles of "Seven Samurai" were projected onto the huge screen, all the confusion and scrutiny were instantly overwhelmed by a deeper, more tragic atmosphere filled with a sense of destiny.

The movie begins.

There was no grand opening, no rousing background music.

There was only a land ravaged by war, and a group of ragged farmers with eyes filled with numbness and despair.

Like a herd of domesticated livestock, they trembled under the iron hooves of the bandits, offering up their already meager rations.

The scene was so oppressive it was suffocating.

In the deliberation room, several committee members, accustomed to blockbuster commercial films, subconsciously frowned.

However, when Shimada Kanbei, a down-on-his-luck samurai with a shaved head and eyes that seemed to have seen through the vicissitudes of life, appeared on screen, the air in the entire deliberation room seemed to be sucked out in an instant.

He didn't say much, but when he saw a child being bullied by thugs, he shaved off the topknot that symbolized his samurai identity and saved the child in an almost humiliating way.

That unwavering composure, that deep compassion hidden in his eyes, struck the hearts of everyone present like an invisible hammer.

Then, one after another, vivid characters, seemingly able to transcend the screen, appeared on stage.

Silent and unassuming, with unparalleled swordsmanship, Kyuzo dedicated his life to pursuing the ultimate in swordsmanship.

The moment he appeared, he defeated two arrogant ronin with a bamboo stick in the blink of an eye. His calmness and strength caused a collective gasp to rise in the deliberation room.
The action scenes were crisp and clean.

The filming was excellent.

Always cheerful, Hayashida Heihachi can defuse his companions' tension with a joke even when in dire straits.

Katayama Gorobei is a master of military strategy, seemingly mercenary but actually full of wisdom.

And then there's Okamoto Katsushiro, a young samurai of noble birth, yet naive and innocent, who harbors the purest yearning for the samurai spirit.

Each character is like a sharply defined piece of a jigsaw puzzle, together constructing a portrait of the "samurai" class, full of glory and tragedy.

However, what truly sent chills down everyone's spine was the controversial and contradictory imposter—Kikuchiyo.

He was rude, lecherous, and boastful, possessing almost all the worst traits of a peasant.

He used a stolen samurai sword and a forged family tree to force his way into a group that didn't belong to him.

He was like a clown who had broken into a sacred temple, constantly challenging everyone's preconceived notions of the word "samurai" with his comical and clumsy performance.

"This guy... he's practically defiling 'Bushido'!" An older committee member who looked rather conservative finally couldn't help but let out a disdainful snort.

However, no sooner had he finished speaking than the tragic battle filled with mud and blood descended upon the screen with an unparalleled force!

The rain poured down, and the whole world seemed to be shrouded in a gray despair.

The bandits' iron hooves, like a black tide, repeatedly crashed against the fragile defense line built of flesh and blood.

The warriors fought in the mud and fell in the firelight.

Hayashida Heihachi, the always cheerful man, was pierced by several spears while covering his comrades. Even in his dying moments, he still wore that familiar, warm smile on his face.

Kyuzo, the man who dedicated his life to the pursuit of swordsmanship, was shot by a musket while protecting Katsushiro. When he fell, there was no fear in his eyes, only a faint regret that he had not been able to fight a stronger opponent.

Death, like fallen leaves in autumn, is filled with a tragic sense of destiny.

In that blood-soaked battlefield, the imposter Kikuchiyo, once despised by everyone, unleashed an unprecedented and chilling energy, like a wild beast that had been thoroughly enraged!
He watched his companions fall one by one, and saw the humanity that the farmers he had once despised shone through as they fought to protect their homes. For the first time, a raging fire, big enough to start a wildfire, ignited in his eyes, which were always filled with cunning and desire!
He no longer fights for that false glory.

He fought to protect, to fight for those weaker than himself! When he raised high the banner bearing six circles representing the six warriors and a triangle representing himself, facing the bandit leader's musket, he let out a deafening roar, ultimately perishing alongside his enemy…

The entire deliberation room fell into a deathly silence.

Everyone held their breath. On those faces that were filled with shock, there was only one thing left: a deep numbness and... awe, as if their values ​​had been repeatedly crushed by a heavy hammer!
In the end, the bandits were wiped out, and the village was saved.

The surviving farmers sang and danced on the blood-soaked land, celebrating their hard-won harvest.

The cheerful singing contrasted sharply with the four solitary graves on the hillside, each with a samurai sword stuck in its socket, creating a stark and ironic scene.

Kanbei, who survived, looked at the jubilant field and slowly uttered that cruel line that would make all heroic narratives pale in comparison.

"We lost again; the farmers won."

The lights come on.

The three-and-a-half-hour movie has ended.

The deliberation room was still so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

After a long while, a long, suppressed sigh, as if it were about to expel the weight of the entire soul, finally broke out.

“…Good story.”

An elderly committee member with gray hair, known in the industry for his "sharp tongue," slowly took off his reading glasses and wiped away the uncontrollable moisture from the corner of his eye with the back of his hand.

His voice trembled slightly, barely suppressed: "I...I've been watching movies for almost forty years. I never imagined that a story about a samurai could be told so...magnificently, and so deeply movingly!"

“Yes!” Another committee member nodded emphatically, his usually critical face now filled with heartfelt admiration: “This is no longer a simple samurai film! This is deconstruction! It’s using the fate of seven samurai to deconstruct our entire nation’s deeply ingrained tragic destiny regarding ‘class’ and ‘humanity’!”

“Especially that Kikuchiyo!” A rather young-looking female committee member was so excited her face turned red: “Although he was an imposter, he possessed more ‘samurai spirit’ than any real samurai! He showed us that the so-called ‘bushido’ is never determined by status, but by the ‘heart’! Director Kurosawa, your idea this time is just too lofty! It’s simply… a stroke of genius!”

In an instant, praise poured in like a tidal wave!
Everyone generously lavished the most eloquent words upon the man they believed had created a miracle—Eiji Kurosawa.

However, Eiji Kurosawa simply sat there calmly, his weathered face revealing no emotion.

He slowly turned his probing gaze toward the man who had been sitting quietly in the corner the whole time, seemingly detached from the situation.

Hideaki Fujiwara.

The man who held the fate of all of them in his hands was leaning back on the sofa, his chin resting on one hand. In his calm eyes, a chilling, hawk-like glint was gleaming.

His gaze shifted back and forth between Eiji Kurosawa's open and honest face and Hiroshi Nohara's composed face.

After a long time, he slowly spoke.

The sound was like a thunderclap that ripped through the long night of eternity, striking the hearts of everyone present!
"Kurosawa, tell me the truth."

His voice was calm, yet it carried an undeniable authority that could make anyone tremble.

"Who actually made this movie?"

"..."

The entire deliberation room fell into an eerie silence.

Everyone seemed to be strangled by an invisible hand, unable to utter a word.

They stared blankly at Fujiwara Hideaki, their faces filled with disbelief and absurdity.

Lord Fujiwara... what... what is he saying?
If this movie wasn't directed by Kurosawa, then who else could it be?

Could it be that...that driver or junior colleague who looks a few years younger than their youngest intern?!
This...this is simply...absurd!
What kind of young people could make a samurai film that almost deconstructs Bushido, the samurai spirit, class, and humanity, and is considered near-perfect in their eyes?
They looked at the young man with disdain, who had simply smiled calmly throughout.

There was no indication in his eyes that he was being taken seriously at all!
However, amidst this atmosphere of absurdity and contempt, Eiji Kurosawa, a master revered as a "living legend" in the Japanese film industry, stood up from the sofa that symbolized his status as a distinguished guest.

Then, under the incredulous, almost ghost-like gazes of everyone...

He bent down.

Bow ninety degrees.

"Mr. Fujiwara."

Eiji Kurosawa spoke earnestly:
"You're right."

"There is only one true director, one true filmmaker, and one true artist who completed this work of art."

He slowly straightened up, his weathered face etched with the candor of a craftsman from a bygone era.

"It really is him..."

"Hiroshi Nohara!"

(End of this chapter)