PDLP Chapter 285 The Coming Financial Storm
Chapter 285 The Coming Financial Storm
Chapter 285 The Coming Financial Storm
In Yamagata Prefecture, amidst the first snow falling heavily, the crew of "Departures" was working diligently inside a traditional old Japanese house.
Shin Kitahara, wearing a thick black coat, sat behind the monitor, his eyes scanning the entire set with the sharpness of a hawk.
In the entertainment industry, transitioning from actor to director is often a bottomless pit. Many top actors who have won Best Actor awards often produce films that resemble lengthy and incomprehensible extended sketches when they sit in the director's chair. The fundamental difference lies in the fact that actors' perspectives are often "microscopic." They are accustomed to focusing all their energy on the emotional outbursts of their characters, the pauses in their dialogue, and the control of their facial muscles.
But a true director needs absolute "macro" control.
A director must not only understand acting, but also be proficient in choosing the right focal length, the interplay of light and shadow, the layering of spatial arrangement, and most crucially, the rhythmic flow of the final cut. Many actors who fail to transition to directing do so because they cannot shift their focus from "how should I act" to "how should the visuals tell a story," ultimately leading to a loss of control over the entire production and a disastrous audiovisual experience. Those few who successfully transition, such as Takeshi Kitano, rely on their absolute mastery of visual rhythm and a unique aesthetic.
For Kitahara Shin, the risk of losing control was nonexistent. On one hand, his extensive viewing of countless classic films from his past life gave him a solid foundation, allowing him to envision the perfect final product. On the other hand, as the investor and the absolute boss, he didn't need to compromise with any producer. The director of photography, lighting technician, and art director on set were all top-tier industry personnel he had amassed with substantial funds. His word was absolute decree on set, and all preparations were flawlessly executed under his strong leadership.
"Lighting crew, soften the backlighting on the tatami side a bit more. This is a scene about a farewell, the lighting can't be too harsh, it needs to convey a warm feeling full of ritual." Kitahara Shin held the walkie-talkie and gave instructions methodically.
In front of the camera, Masahiro Motoki and Tsutomu Yamazaki are performing a major scene where they cleanse the body of a deceased elderly woman for a medical examination.
The reason why the film "Departures" was able to dominate the box office and win an Oscar in its previous life lies in its core essence: it deconstructs the most feared unknown of all mankind—death—with a remarkably gentle, restrained, and reverent Eastern aesthetic. It strips away the bloodshed and gloom of death, depicting it as a tranquil door, a journey to the next stage filled with dignity.
Kitahara Shin watched the monitor. On the screen, Motoki Masahiro knelt beside the body, his hand movements fluid and rhythmic, like playing a cello. He keenly noticed the subtle changes in Motoki Masahiro's expression:
From the initial instinctive resistance and awkwardness towards the corpse, to gradually being infected by Tsutomu Yamazaki's solemn attitude, and finally the deep empathy for life revealed in his eyes.
Kitahara Shin did not have the photographer push out those deliberately sentimental close-ups, but instead maintained a medium shot with an objective perspective, allowing the image to flow with its own quiet power that strikes the soul.
As filming and scene direction were repeated, Kitahara Shin, sitting in the third-person perspective, suddenly had a strange realization.
Watching Masahiro Motoki's slow, restrained, and understated performance, Shin Kitahara began to reflect on his future acting career.
He's been constantly praised as a versatile actor who can "play any role convincingly," a true all-rounder with no weaknesses. But Kitahara Shin himself knows very well that saying he can "shoot anything and handle any style" is just empty talk. A truly soulful top actor inevitably possesses his own core essence and inclinations.
He had to admit that while characters like the male lead in "Departures"—who tell stories slowly, suppress all their emotions, and drive the plot with subtle micro-expressions—possess award-winning depth, they weren't the type of role he found "most enjoyable" to play.
He recalled his role as Goro Zaizen in "The White Tower," Komekado in "Legal High," and even the yakuza godfather in "Shinjuku Incident" not long ago. He discovered that the roles he truly enjoyed, the ones where he could give 200% of his energy, were those that exuded intense passion, ambition to climb the social ladder, and an extremely flamboyant and aggressive aura.
That kind of performance style, which is sharp and assertive, and has absolute dominance and a sense of oppression in front of the camera, is his truest preference deep in his soul.
Kitahara Shin gently stroked his chin, his eyes growing clearer. He had finally found his breakthrough point for his future Oscar run—he didn't need to deliberately pander to Hollywood judges or play a tragic, repressed, and restrained art-house film lead. What he needed to do was find or tailor a script that perfectly combined this intense aggression, sharpness, and profound human struggle. That was Kitahara Shin's unique trump card.
While the film was progressing smoothly on set in Yamagata Prefecture, thousands of kilometers away in Hong Kong, another storm was quietly brewing.
In a smoke-filled office, director Andrew Lau, with dark circles under his eyes, stared intently at the computer screen, his fingers flying across the keyboard. The ashtray on his desk was overflowing with cigarette butts.
Ever since that meal with Kitahara Shin in Tokyo, Liu Weiqiang seemed to have had his meridians opened up, and he fell into a state of euphoria where he could write with divine inspiration.
Not only was the initial script for "Infernal Affairs" successfully developed, but as the images in his mind were continuously filled in, those scenes destined to become classics in film history jumped out one after another like a movie: the first encounter in the audio equipment store with its sweet high and mid-range frequencies,
The standoff with guns drawn on the rooftop, and the classic line, "Sorry, I'm a police officer."
The only thing that needs a little polishing is the background setting. However, this is not a major obstacle. The underworld and legitimate society in East Asia actually have a lot in common. As long as the details are properly localized, Kitahara Shin's fluent and authentic Cantonese will blend seamlessly into the Hong Kong gangster background without any sense of incongruity.
In Andrew Lau's vision, Nobu Kitahara was simply the perfect candidate to play the undercover police officer lurking in the gangsters in the film.
There's a line in the script: "Three years later, then another three years, then another three years, and ten years later you'll almost be the boss!"
Liu Weiqiang can picture Kitahara uttering that line as soon as he closes his eyes. To cast Kitahara, a president who is always impeccably dressed and elegant, as a seemingly unkempt, bearded man who has been involved in the underworld, yet whose eyes always hold the sharpness and righteousness of a police officer, is truly remarkable.
This extreme contrast in image and personality, once brought to the big screen, will absolutely captivate audiences!
Now, Kitahara Shin's undercover role is firmly established in this script. The remaining question is who should play the undercover yakuza agent lurking in the police station, to act alongside Kitahara Shin.
Liu Weiqiang looked at the two thick files of actors on the table—one for Andy Lau and the other for Tony Leung.
He sighed inwardly, thinking that if nothing unexpected happened, in about two months, after Kitahara Shin's film wrapped up shooting, this phenomenal project, which had gathered the top cast from all over Asia, would finally have its final cast list. At that time, the Hong Kong film industry would undoubtedly experience an unprecedented upheaval.
As autumn deepens, filming for "The Inspector" is progressing smoothly.
Shortly after filming wrapped, Kitahara Shin brought the first rough cut of the film to Kitano Takeshi's private residence.
In Takeshi Kitano's heart, Shin Kitahara was not only a rare and invaluable friend despite their age difference, but also a great benefactor who pulled him out of a slump and solidified his status as a master filmmaker with "Kikujiro's Summer." Therefore, no matter how busy he was, the headstrong director would always cancel all engagements if Kitahara asked. Moreover, this was Kitahara's first feature film as director, so the two naturally had even more in common to discuss.
Several delicately prepared snacks and warm sake were laid out on the tatami mats. The television screen was playing the movie "Departures."
The scene.
Takeshi Kitano sat cross-legged, holding a wine glass, but didn't drink a drop. He stared intently at the screen, his previously casual gaze brightening slightly as the plot unfolded, becoming more focused than ever before.
Takeshi Kitano isn't a traditionally academically trained director, but he possesses a genius-level intuition that's hard to match. He has an almost animalistic sensitivity to visuals, colors, and the rhythm of storytelling; otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to create so many breathtaking masterpieces. It's precisely because of this that he understands so clearly just how stunning the audiovisual language flowing from the screen truly is.
For more than two hours, Takeshi Kitano seemed to be frozen in place, remaining completely silent.
Kitahara Shinya sat quietly beside him, not daring to disturb him. He held a cup of sake, also calmly re-examining his debut work from a third-person perspective.
To be honest, he did have a clear utilitarian goal in making this film—to break into the international stage and win an Oscar. But during the actual filming process, he didn't bring that eagerness for quick success into the shots. He knew very well that if a film is treated merely as a tool for winning awards, losing respect and dedication to the story itself, the final product will be a soulless, flawed work. So far, it seems he has maintained this bottom line.
Finally, the screen went dark, and the end credits slowly rolled.
Takeshi Kitano let out a long sigh, turned his head, and looked at Shin Kitahara with the eyes of someone looking at a monster.
"From my perspective—" Takeshi Kitano stroked his chin, his tone filled with undisguised surprise, "I find it very novel. You've shown me a completely different view of life and death. So this is how you see this story. It's truly amazing."
He picked up the now-cold sake and downed it in one gulp, continuing, "To be honest, I don't have many suggestions. Regarding the storytelling, perhaps the editing rhythm of some scenes in the latter half could be slightly adjusted to allow for more emotional pauses. However, the overall quality is already ridiculously high."
Takeshi Kitano suddenly laughed, teasing with his signature roguish air, "If someone told me this was directed by a seasoned professional director who's been in the industry for two or three decades, I wouldn't think it's an exaggeration at all. But you're saying this is your first time directing? I'd even suspect your vanity got the better of you, so you paid a fortune to hire a master ghostwriter and then credited yourself as the director, right?"
Hearing Kitano Takeshi's high praise and joke, Kitahara Shin couldn't help but laugh heartily.
The two chatted like ordinary close friends, enjoying snacks and drinks while discussing the details and potential for improvement in the film.
After discussing the movie, both of them were slightly tipsy. Takeshi Kitano popped a peanut into his mouth and suddenly asked, "Speaking of which, your career is really booming right now. When are you planning to get married?"
Kitahara Shin was clearly taken aback by this guy's sudden gossip about his private life. He paused for a moment, then a gentle smile appeared on his lips: "Three years from now."
"Three years from now?" Takeshi Kitano blinked, calculating the time. "You mean 1999?"
Kitahara Shin shook his head, a determined light shining in his deep eyes: "To be precise, it was the period from the end of 1999 to the beginning of 2000. I wanted to complete this major life event at the turn of the new century. This would be the most satisfactory explanation to everyone."
He paused, then said quite frankly, "I've already discussed this matter with them, and I believe it will be handled properly."
Hearing this, Takeshi Kitano wasn't surprised at all; instead, he burst into laughter: "I don't doubt your ability to control women. After all these years, with so many top-tier beauties around you, you've never had a single mishap. That's enough to prove that you're not only incredibly skilled, but also have amazing stamina!"
As he spoke, Takeshi Kitano sighed and patted his shoulder: "Unlike me, now even staying up all night makes me feel somewhat powerless."
"Then you'd better work out more," Kitahara Shin joked with a smile, raising his glass to clink with Kitano Takeshi's.
He tilted his head back and drank the wine in his glass. Kitahara Shin turned to look at the deep night outside the window, a bright light gleaming in his eyes.
There are still about three to four years until that grand milestone of the new century.
In the coming years, he not only wants to accomplish major life events, but also to achieve the ultimate success as an actor in Hollywood's highest hall of fame.
He remains full of expectations for the future.
It was already very late when I left Takeshi Kitano's private residence.
In the late autumn streets of Tokyo, a cold wind swirled a few fallen leaves along the road. Kitahara Shin sat in the back seat of a low-key black sedan, leaning back with his eyes closed, still reviewing the editing details he had just discussed with Kitano Takeshi.
When the car reached a slightly narrow, sloping intersection in Setagaya Ward, the driver, Ota, stepped on the brakes to wait for the red light.
"Bang—Crack!"
-
A dull thud, not loud but quite clear, suddenly came from the rear of the vehicle, followed by the sound of the bicycle falling to the ground and something scattering everywhere.
Ota's expression changed, and he quickly pulled the handbrake: "President, it looks like someone rear-ended us. I'll go down and check it out."
Kitahara Shin opened his eyes, glanced at himself in the rearview mirror, and got out of the car.
The two walked to the back of the car and saw a somewhat old women's bicycle lying on its side on the ground. The front of the bicycle had just scraped the expensive rear bumper of the car, leaving a conspicuous white mark.
The culprit was a girl who looked to be about sixteen or seventeen years old, wearing a thin trench coat. She seemed to have just finished get off work from a film set or a convenience store, with several rice balls and scripts scattered all over the ground from her bicycle basket. At that moment, she was frantically scrambling to her feet, her face pale with fright, not even bothering to brush the dust off her knees, and bowing frantically in the direction of Ota and Kitahara Shin.
"I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry! When I was going downhill, the brakes slipped a little and I lost control of the car—" The girl's voice was filled with undisguised panic and obvious sobs, and her eyes were brimming with tears.
She clearly recognized the car's value, frantically rummaging in her pockets until she pulled out a tattered coin purse, her hands trembling so much she could barely open the zipper: "Repair fees—I'll pay for the repairs in full! I'm so sorry! I'll pay it off even if it's on installments, please, please don't call the police—"
Da Tian frowned as he looked at the scratches on the car. He was about to scold her, since the repair costs were not something a young working girl could afford.
Kitahara Shin raised his hand, stopping Ota.
In the dim light of the streetlamp, Kitahara Shin could see the girl's face, pale with fear and still slightly chubby.
Memories of my past life flooded back like a tide.
Yuko Takeuchi.
That legendary actress, known in later generations as the "Queen of Smiles," who left this world with regrets at the height of her beauty.
In this timeline, she was just a nobody, riding a beat-up bicycle on the streets of Tokyo, nearly crying from fright after scratching a luxury car.
"Ota, it's nothing, just a little paint chip. We can just file a claim with the company's car insurance tomorrow," Kitahara Shin said casually, interrupting the girl's bewildered apology.
"?" The girl was stunned, holding the coin purse blankly, tears still welling up in her eyes, as if she couldn't believe that the other party had let her go so easily.
Kitahara Shin didn't notice her surprise. He simply bent down and picked up the few dusty pages of the script that were scattered on the ground, putting them back in her bicycle basket.
"The roads are difficult to drive on in the late autumn night. Remember to slow down in advance next time you go downhill." Kitahara Shin straightened the bike and, seeing her still shaken look, took out a business card from his coat pocket and gently placed it in her bike basket. "Don't worry about losing money."
However, I see you have a script with you. If you want to become an actor and later feel there's no future with your current agency, you can bring this business card to me. Consider it payment for the car repairs.
After saying that, Kitahara Shin didn't look at her again or wait for her to thank him. He simply tugged at the collar of his coat, turned around, and calmly got back into the car.
The car restarted and smoothly disappeared at the end of the street.
Yuko Takeuchi was left standing alone in the cold wind, staring blankly at the personal business card with gold foil embossing in the bicycle basket, which clearly read "Shin Kitahara, President of Kitahara Office".
In that instant, the girl suddenly covered her mouth, and her large eyes, which had been filled with terror, suddenly erupted with an unbelievable shock.
Back in the car, Kitahara Shin quickly put the little incident out of his mind.
The scenery outside the car window rushed past, and his thoughts had already crossed the present late autumn and turned to the upcoming year of 1997.
1997 was destined to be a momentous and historic year in human history. It was also the most crucial juncture for Kitahara Shin to complete his global capital accumulation and identity transformation.
He leaned back in the seat, his fingers tapping lightly on the leather armrest, his mind racing with two world-shaking events.
The first event is the Asian financial crisis, which is about to sweep across Southeast Asia and cause the wealth of countless countries to evaporate overnight.
George Soros, the financial tycoon, has already raised his scythe high, targeting everything from the Thai railway to the South Korean won, and even the lingering effects of Japan's bubble economy. This disaster is catastrophic for ordinary people, but for Kitahara Shin, who controls a massive cash flow and possesses a vision for the future, it's a once-in-a-lifetime wealth feast.
He plans to short the foreign exchange market and then use the huge profits he makes to buy up high-quality real assets and media companies in Japan and South Korea at bargain prices.
By reaping the benefits of this wave, the Kitahara Group will completely shed its "entertainment company" label and truly transform into a multinational conglomerate capable of wielding influence on the international stage.
The second major event is closely related to his identity and sentiments—Hong Kong's return to China in 1997.
This is a glorious moment imbued with a profound sense of history.
Kitahara Shin was well aware that the purpose of having Andrew Lau prepare "Infernal Affairs" was not only to conquer the box office, but also to inject a powerful boost into the Hong Kong film industry, which was in a period of confusion, at this special historical juncture.
At that time, he will not only dominate the financial market, but also personally participate in this grand event as a cultural bridge with enormous influence.