Chapter 2 God Bless You - part 2

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The next morning, Tokame shook a hungover Isono awake and entered the shooting location at 8:00 a.m. sharp. The first scene would be Scene 3, shot in the protagonist Hisae’s room on the second floor. The lighting team was already there, adjusting lights from the front, left, and back of the cramped space, packed to the brim with people and equipment. The room was fairly dark even during the day, and without proper lighting, the footage would end up too dim. The lights were set to brighten the actors' faces naturally, ensuring that their expressions were visible. Creating this effect with lighting was challenging, and it looked like it would take a while longer.

Eager to finally capture the setup process on film, Tokame started recording right away. But the cramped space made it hard to get anything other than cluttered, repetitive shots, so he stopped after a few minutes. Heading downstairs, he found Isono in the kitchen arranging dishes for Hisae’s character. When he turned and spotted the camera, Isono grinned and flashed a thumbs-up, shouting, “Yeah!” Grateful for the cooperation, Tokame couldn’t help but think Isono’s direct gaze into the lens was a bit too much.

As Tokame put away the camera, Isono added, “Make sure you use that shot, alright?” Tokame replied with a casual “Sure,” but mentally apologized, knowing it wasn’t usable. Then again, maybe he could slip it in during the end credits like a snapshot.

The props team was down to just Isono and Hyakukoku today, with the other members busy prepping sets for scenes in the coming days.

“Even if they say it’s just a set and no one’ll notice,” Isono complained, “they could’ve at least given us a working fridge. Instead, I’ve gotta keep the yohan jelly for the scene stuffed in a cooler bag. This heat’s gonna melt the dry ice in two hours, tops, and that stuff’ll go bad in no time.”

He continued his endless tirade while shuffling plates around on the shelves. Hisae was supposed to be laid-back widow, so Isono figured she wouldn’t neatly arrange her dishes, piling them haphazardly instead. The mess instantly lent the shelves a lived-in feel, giving the kitchen more personality.

“Hey, props guy—got a minute?”

Isono’s face went stiff as ice. “What is it?” he replied in a voice dripping with irritation.

The speaker, a man around Isono’s age with a beauty mark under one eye, swayed side to side in rhythm as he spoke, his black T-shirt stretched tight over his chest, and his shorts hanging low on his hips.

“About the tray Hisae uses,” he said, “make it plastic, yeah?”

Isono’s thin eyebrow twitched.

“There weren’t any material specs for the tray,” Isono replied, gesturing to the well-used wooden tray at his side. The man, whom Isono addressed as Shimabara, just laughed.

“Well, the director wants it plastic, so that’s that,” he replied, drawing out his words in a way that grated on the ears even for those listening in.

“Impossible to change it now,” Isono shot back. “You’re the one who originally specified no requirements for the material, Shimabara.”

This must be the third assistant director that Isono had been venting about yesterday. Shimabara put his hands on his hips with a breezy shrug.

“C’mon now, Director Ishikawa’s a busy guy, and we were pressed for time with such a short prep period. Just work with me here and go with the flow, okay? We’ve still got time, so let’s make sure it’s just right, alright?”

Isono kept his eyes fixed on Shimabara, his silence speaking volumes. Finally, when Shimabara opened his mouth to push again, Isono cut him off, “As soon as I’m done here, I’ve got another scene to prep for, so sorry, can’t do it.”

“But the director wants—”

“I said, sorry.”

Isono’s refusal was blunt, and irritation began to creep across Shimabara’s face. From what Tokame could tell, the blame lay on Shimabara, who hadn’t even checked with the director. But at this point, bickering about who was right or wrong wouldn’t get the tray to walk itself onto the set.

With a sigh, Tokame clapped Isono on the shoulder, still tense with anger. “I’ll go look for one.”

Relief spread across Shimabara’s face as he raised a hand and made a quick exit. “Right, thanks for that!”

“Wait a second. Size and color specifications?” Tokame called out, stopping him in his tracks.

Shimabara glanced up as if trying to recall something, which filled Tokame with a sense of foreboding.

“Well, uh… just, you know… whatever seems close enough.”

Now he understood exactly why Isono had been so infuriated.

“At least confirm that with the director,” Tokame insisted, his voice firm. After a pause, Shimabara muttered “Got it,” and trudged off down the hallway, looking like a scolded dog.

“That guy definitely forgot to confirm the tray with the director. Ishikawa’s busy, but he wouldn’t cut corners like that. Why do I have to clean up his mess?” Isono vented to the empty air left by the man’s departure, then sighed heavily.

“...I’ll go get the tray myself. It’s my job, after all.”

“You’ve got setup work to finish. I don’t have any shots planned just yet,” Tokame replied. “There was a supermarket down the hill; I can be back in twenty minutes.”

Isono lowered his head in thanks. Just then, Shimabara returned, calling out from afar, “Something smallish, looks a little worn,” and scurried off like a grade-schooler fleeing the gaze of a caged beast.

“Yorozu, that guy can go to hell,” Isono muttered venomously as Tokame reassured him and stepped outside. The glaring sunlight, a stark contrast to the dim interior, made him squint instinctively.

There was something timeless about the area around Hisae’s house—the weathered wooden homes, the rough concrete steps poured over stones, and the mossy stone walls. It all seemed suspended, like a scene from decades past. A young woman in a short skirt and high heels walked toward him, her polished appearance at odds with the old town around her. She looked as out of place as a flash of color in a black-and-white photograph.

The narrow lane made it easy to brush shoulders as they passed. The sun seared his skin, sweat breaking out instantly, and his shadow, dark and heavy, clung to the heated concrete beneath him. From somewhere, the relentless buzz of cicadas amplified the stifling heat.

As he reached a wider street, a railroad crossing came into view. Just as he arrived, the gates came down, halting his progress. Even standing still, the heat seeped into him. Looking around for shade, he spotted a hanging “Ice” banner to his right. Beneath the broad eaves of an old house sat a long bench where two boys in track pants slurped shaved ice, savoring it in the heat. Judging by their builds, they looked to be about junior high school age.

...Back in his school days, he had never bought food just for fun. He barely had enough to eat three meals a day, and pocket money was unheard of. Out of habit, his hand slipped into his pocket. Now, he felt the small change in his coin purse.

The crossing alarm kept clanging, but the train still hadn’t arrived. His gaze drifted to the “Ice” banner. Curious, he walked toward the shop. Peering inside, he found it empty, the dim interior devoid of customers. The boys on the bench had nearly finished their ice, leaving behind only the neon green and yellow syrup pooling in their glasses.

His eyes locked onto the plastic tray beneath the glasses. About the size of an A4 sheet, the tray was worn, the checkered pattern faded in patches.

The door creaked open, and a woman in her sixties with an apron stepped out.

“Hello. Ice is all I’ve got right now,” she called out, noticing him as she moved to clear the boys’ glasses off the tray. She was about to take it away. Before he realized it, Tokame had spoken up.

“Excuse me. I’m with the film crew shooting up the hill.”

She stopped, turning to him with a puzzled tilt of her head.

“I’m actually looking for a tray for the shoot. Would you mind lending us this one for a few days?”

Her gaze hardened, skepticism clear on her face. She looked at him as if thinking, What is this suspicious man talking about?

“I know him!” one of the boys piped up. “My sister said they’re filming a movie at that house on the hill.”

“So there are actors here? Cool!” The boys buzzed excitedly. The woman, visibly fed up, ushered them off, “You’re done eating, so get going!”

Left alone with her, the air between them grew awkward. Tokame swallowed nervously.

“...If it’s too much trouble, please feel free to say no.”

She studied his face for a moment, then let out a sigh.

“It’s just an old tray. I don’t mind,” she said, wiping the leftover condensation off the tray with her apron and holding it out to him.

“Ah, thank you. I'll make sure to properly thank you when I return it later," Tokame said.

"Don’t mention it. Just take it," the woman mumbled nonchalantly.

"Well, but..."

The production budget wasn’t exactly generous, so if she was giving it to him, he’d be grateful. Grateful, yes, but he couldn’t just take it for free. His eyes fell on the menu displayed outside. Shaved ice was listed for 300 yen each.

"Well then, I’ll have one of the 'Mizore' shaved ice, please."

He pulled out his coin purse from his pocket and handed her a 1,000 yen bill.

"Here’s the payment. You can keep the change," he said.

The woman accepted the money wordlessly. When the shaved ice arrived, it was so massive it looked like it could cover a person’s entire head. Tokame stood there, stunned. Perhaps it was her way of being kind, but with the filming schedule pressing, he couldn’t afford to waste time. Tokame quickly shoveled the icy treat into his mouth.

The giant mound of shaved ice, cold enough to send a sharp pain to his temples, was sweet beyond measure and seeped deep into his body like a chill that spread through him.

◇:-:◆:-:◇

The moisture from the shaved ice was all sweated out by the time Tokame made his way back up the hill. Covered in sweat, he returned to the filming location and handed the used tray to Isono, who let out a high-pitched exclamation.

Turning it over multiple times, he muttered, "This is great. The wear on it is just perfect. Where did you find this?"

"I found it at a shaved ice shop at the bottom of the hill. I explained the situation, and the lady gave it to me."

Isono, with a serious face, replied, "Your 'handsome aura' works on women of all ages, huh?"

Tokame protested, "That’s not the case," but Isono wouldn’t let it go, insisting, "No, seriously."

"This thing’s got fingerprints all over it, but it’s better if we don’t clean it, right?"

Isono placed the slightly dirty tray on the dining table and gazed at it lovingly. Suddenly, he pointed out the window, saying, "That guy in the yellow polo shirt over there, that’s the art director, Inoue. You haven’t introduced yourself to him yet, right?"

Tokame quickly went outside and approached the art director to greet him. With Isono's guidance and introductions, he was able to meet the lighting director, the props crew, and the costume staff.

However, he hadn’t yet greeted the chief assistant director, Habu. There was a role in the set known as "stand-in," where someone has to take the place of the actor for lighting adjustments, and this task is typically done by the assistant director. The man currently standing in for the actor in the set was probably Habu, but Tokame couldn’t approach since it would interfere with the lighting.

Thinking it might be good to get a shot of the entire house set, Tokame aimed the camera at the building from the garden. As he stepped inside, he noticed the lighting had already been set. The actress Yuko Kamonagi, who played the widow Hisae, was sitting in the middle of the room, preparing for the rehearsal.

Kamonagi, a legitimate beauty who had represented Japan in Miss Universe, had transformed into the character of Asanaga Hisae, a plain thirty-something widow who had lost her husband. In the role, she wore minimal makeup, a simple shirt, and an unflattering skirt.

The rehearsal took place twice, with detailed discussions with the director before the actual shoot began. At the director's cue, the camera started rolling. On a clear, summer afternoon, inside the dimly lit room, Kamonagi's portrayal of the widow Hisae began eating yokan in a dazed manner.

The worn tray enhanced the image of the "withered" woman around her. The lighting, intentionally set darker with backlighting, still ensured her facial expressions were visible, with a light focused on her to accentuate them. Even though the scene wasn’t particularly intense, Tokame found himself captivated, unable to look away. The way she ate wasn’t exaggerated, but it had an oddly erotic feel to it. Without thinking, he found himself inching the camera closer to her lips.

"Cut."

At the director's call, the languid atmosphere around Kamonagi evaporated like smoke, and she smiled softly, saying, "I was so nervous."

"Hey, you!"

Tokame was roughly grabbed by the shoulder and spun around. He almost dropped the camera, panicking and clutching it to his chest with both hands. His heart skipped a beat.

"Who gave you permission to film?"

The man glaring at him, holding him by the shoulder, was the chief assistant director Tokame had suspected—Habu. He was in his late twenties, a little shorter than Tokame. His hair was tied in a style reminiscent of a young samurai. Though he wore a simple vertical striped shirt and shorts, there was something about him—a certain refinement, like that of an actor—when he had been the stand-in.

All eyes in the room, including those of the actors and directors, were now on the two of them.

"Sorry for the delay in introducing myself. I’m Shunji Tokame, and I’m here to film the making-of video for this movie, in place of Tsuzuki-san."

Habu’s right corner of his mouth curled into a grin as he released his grip.

"I thought some random person had mixed in with the crew. If that's the case, you should have introduced yourself sooner. You shouldn’t just stay quiet until someone asks who you are. In this industry, greetings are important, you know?"

Even if Tokame explained that he hadn’t had the chance to greet everyone due to the busy schedule, it would probably sound like an excuse.

"Sorry about that."

Habu seemed satisfied with the apology, letting out a slight snort.

"Everyone, sorry for the commotion."

Habu bowed his head to the surrounding staff and returned to the director’s side. Tokame realized that while Habu had made him introduce himself, Habu had never introduced himself. It was contradictory—telling others to introduce themselves but not doing so himself.

It wasn't particularly funny, but it was impossible to ignore the frustration that came with it. The fact that he hadn't introduced himself was true. The filming had just started, so perhaps the man had been nervous and on edge.

"Kamonagi-chan, that was really good, but can we do it one more time?"

At the director’s call, Kamonagi replied with a soft, "Yes." The filming resumed as though nothing had happened. They moved the camera and adjusted the lighting, taking their time with the shot.

Most directors Tokame had seen so far had the habit of deciding on a composition for a scene and filming it from only that angle. But Ishikawa, the director, was more American in his approach—filming a scene from multiple directions to gather as many shots as possible. This method could be grueling for the actors since they were often asked to perform the same scene repeatedly. Kamonagi was good enough to handle it, but if it were a less experienced actor... the thought of that made him shudder.

Once Scene 3 was completed, they moved on to a scene set in the kitchen. The staff shuffled around, and Tokame filmed them for a few minutes before lowering the camera. It was then that Isono hurried over, as if he'd been waiting.

"…The third assistant director is crap, but the chief is the worst."

He muttered this directly into Tokame's ear.

"The guy who publicly humiliated you in front of everyone, Chief Assistant Director Habu, apparently asked Ueda, the lighting guy, before the shoot started, 'Who's that over there?' when he saw you. Once he found out you were here to film the making-of, he apparently got really mad, saying, 'he greeted the lighting crew, but he didn’t come to me, the assistant director.' That’s why he made a public example out of you like that. Unbelievable. Ueda was just as dumbfounded, saying, 'That’s harassment, right?'"

Tokame felt that it was a rather childish thought process, believing he had been intentionally ignored and venting his frustration by accusing him in front of everyone. The more he thought about it, the more absurd it seemed.

"…What are you laughing about?"

"I was just thinking, he’s a kid. He's probably younger than me, and he must have felt like he was being looked down on."

"Even so, his approach is a bit underhanded, don’t you think?"

Isono was more pissed off than Tokame himself.

"He seems to have a lot of pride, so I’ll be careful not to step on his toes."

Isono pouted, his lips poking out and his nose snorting.

"By the way, is the kitchen set okay? The shoot's about to start, right?"

"Of course it’ll be done before the lighting even gets set up. As long as that island dog doesn't start complaining, my work is perfect."

The name "Shima Inu" (Shiba Inu) had become a derogatory term in Isono’s mind for Shimabara, effectively reducing him to something less than human. Tokame made a mental note not to repeat this in front of him. With that, he moved toward the kitchen on the first floor. Even though the air conditioning had been working earlier, the place felt suffocating as the number of people increased.

The lighting adjustments were already underway, and the director stood in place for the camera, with Habu by his side. When Tokame met the gaze of the prideful chief assistant director, Habu turned his head away, clearly dismissing him.

"By the way, the tray looked great—it really gave the right impression. It was exactly what I had in mind. I was worried when I first saw the one that was prepared, but..."

The director muttered quietly. Isono, hearing this, glanced back at Tokame and gave him a thumbs-up, winking.

"I think the props department finally started working seriously, trying to make up for their earlier mistakes."

Tokame immediately understood the implication in Isono's voice. Sure enough, Isono’s expression grew dark, almost as if he were a dog about to bare its teeth. The mistake of not conveying the proper image for the tray was Shimabara's fault, the third assistant director’s mistake. Judging by Habu’s tone, it seemed that Shimabara, not wanting to take the blame for his mistake, had shifted the responsibility to the props department. Habu had blindly accepted Shimabara’s words and had made that comment in front of Isono, knowing full well that he was there.

Filming was a team effort. If you hide your mistakes and shift the blame onto the staff, you lose trust. Shimabara was at fault, but Habu wasn’t blameless either. It was one thing to grumble internally, but once you voiced it, that was the end. A machine whose gears didn’t fit properly couldn’t run smoothly.

"Hey, props!"

Called by the lighting crew, Isono entered the kitchen with a sulky look on his face. The next scene would take place right after the character Hisae had an affair with a younger man, Yuki Sakiya. Starting with Scene 3, they would suddenly jump to Scene 35. Changing emotional gears was always difficult, but movie filming didn’t always go in a straight line. Professional actors knew how to adjust to these shifts.

“Hey, Tokame. Are you filming something right now?” Isono came hurrying over.

“No.”

“Could you do me a favor and sit in that chair over there? Lighting needs someone to adjust the setup. I got called away by Shima Inu…”

Standing in as a model for lighting is usually the assistant directors’ job, but it seemed that everyone from the chief down to the third assistant was too busy. Even Habu, who had been standing beside the director just a moment ago, had vanished.

“Got it.”

Following the instructions from the lighting team, Tokame sat in the chair in the kitchen. They were aiming for a dimly lit effect, so the lights were set low, but it was still hot—even with the air conditioning running.

Tokame played the role of Sakiya, while across from him, Yashiro from the transportation team sat as Hisae. Yashiro, who had turned thirty, had switched from truck driving to handling logistics for a production office twenty years ago, and he boasted of having driven a location bus to thirty-five different prefectures, from Okinawa to Hokkaido, while patting his thinning hair.

Once the lighting was set, Tokame and Yashiro were finally released from the oppressive heat of the lights. Just then, Kamonagi entered the set, dressed for rehearsal. She’d changed her outfit, and her makeup was a bit heavier than before.

“Is Sato here yet?” The director, back on set, tilted his head slightly in his chair.

“Sorry!” A slender, short-haired woman in glasses who stood beside him lowered her head. A stopwatch dangled around her neck, swaying gently… she was probably the script supervisor. Her fair skin made her freckles especially noticeable.

“Sato had a mix-up with his manager and missed the earlier train, so he only arrived on site five minutes ago. He’s getting changed and touched up in makeup now, so it’ll be about ten minutes,” she explained.

The director responded, “Alright… I’ll be in the garden for a quick smoke then. Let me know when he’s ready,” and left the kitchen. The woman in glasses apologized again to his retreating back and then hurried over to Kamonagi, who was seated on a folding chair.

“Kamonagi-san, would you like to take a break as well?”

“I’m alright. It’s a hassle going back to the waiting room, and it’s cool here,” Kamonagi replied with a small smile, causing the woman to visibly relax as she nodded.

It was the chief assistant director’s responsibility to manage the actors’ schedules, but Habu was nowhere in sight.

As the woman in glasses passed by Tokame, he opened his mouth to greet her, but she spoke first.

“You’re Tokame-san from the making-of, right? I’m Ichinose, the script supervisor. Pleased to meet you.”

Thanks to Habu’s “public scolding,” his name and role had spread to every corner of the crew—even to those he hadn’t introduced himself to. Whether that was a good or bad thing… he gave a faint smile and replied, “Nice to meet you,” as Ichinose stared at him, clearly a bit awkward.

“Um… is something wrong?” he asked.

“Tokame-san, you’re really handsome, you know? Has anyone ever tried to scout you?”

“I’m just a wooden actor,” he replied casually, dodging her comment. Ichinose laughed heartily for a woman.

Though she looked plain in her T-shirt and shorts, her features were actually quite well-arranged behind her glasses.

“I actually wanted to be an actress at first,” she confessed. “But I was so bad at acting that one of my seniors told me, ‘You couldn’t be an actress even in another life.’ So I quit on the spot. I still love the industry though, which is why I’m a script supervisor now. The Ishikawa set is a bit intense, but I’ll be counting on you till the end!” With a polite bow, she flitted out of the kitchen like a nimble little squirrel.

“Whoa!”

A sudden shout made him turn around. A junior member of the lighting team was clinging to a service light, which swung wildly back and forth before barely stopping, only hitting a reflector.

“S-sorry! I tripped on a cord…” The young staffer mumbled, but his senior smacked him on the back of the head, saying, “You idiot!”

“Sorry about this. The light’s position shifted, so we’ll need to recalibrate it. Could two people jump into the set, please?” the senior lighting staff called.

…A light toppling over happened from time to time, and at least it hadn’t broken this time.

“Hey, someone jump in!”

Tokame looked around but didn’t see any assistant directors nearby. He entered the set and sat in one of the chairs, but the chair across from him was empty. Yashiro seemed to have disappeared too.

"Someone, anyone—sit in Hisae’s place!”

The irritation in the lighting crew’s voice was evident; they wanted to fix everything before Sato arrived. Just then, Kamonagi herself strode onto the set. The lighting chief quickly chased after her, saying, “Kamonagi-san, please don’t worry about it. If the heat from the lights affects your makeup—”

Kamomagi gave a warm smile. “It’s fine; I don’t really sweat much on my face.” With that, she took a seat across from Tokame. Their eyes met, and she greeted him with a friendly nod. Although this was their first meeting, he felt her gaze lingering on him several times. When he looked away briefly and then back, she was still watching him.

“Didn’t you show a film at the Yokosuka Film Festival, Tokame-san?” she asked out of the blue.

“Yes, I did.”

“I thought so!” Kamonagi clasped her hands together. “I went to see it. Michi Yuki was wonderful and so moving.”

Michi Yuki had only shown on that one day, and with an audience of around a thousand, it surprised him to think Kamonagi had been among them.

“I try to go to film festivals as often as I can,” she explained, “since there aren’t many chances to see emerging filmmakers’ work on the big screen.” She was, evidently, an avid film enthusiast, attending festivals from Hokkaido to Okinawa, large and small alike. She even admitted she once damaged a Century stand, which he thought meant she knew her equipment well—turned out she’d worked on a self-produced film with friends back in school, a surprising revelation.

“Alright, we’re set,” someone from lighting called, signaling they were done. As Tokame stood up, Kamonagi spoke up.

“Oh, Tokame-san, could we chat again sometime when you’re free?”

“Ah, sure.” He responded, but he could feel the curious stares from the crew around him, as if silently asking, What’s he doing getting all cozy with an actress?

The director returned to the set, and at the same time, a man entered the kitchen. “I apologize for being late. I’m Sato Kon, playing the role of Yuki Sakiya. Pleased to meet you,” he said, his clear, refreshing voice echoing in the room. Bowing deeply, he showed a genuine humility, and standing beside him, Habu patted his shoulder reassuringly. The friendly gesture suggested they had a personal relationship beyond the set.

As rehearsal began, Tokame readied his camera. Sato’s acting wasn’t particularly impressive, but he had the height, a small face, and a fresh, clean look. With his charming smile, he’d been cast in ads for toothpaste and hair products.

Based on the script, Tokame had envisioned Sakiya as a darker, more complex character—far from the bright, wholesome roles Sato was used to. At first, he’d thought it was miscasting, but he realized it would be interesting to see if the director could transform Sato’s image.

However, after watching the rehearsal, Tokame felt a sinking feeling. Sato’s performance had no shadows, no subtlety. The scene required him to convey the awkward guilt of having fallen into a relationship with an older woman, despite having a girlfriend, but he projected no sense of regret. He seemed to be trying to express it through his lines, but his forced intonation came off as stiff and unnatural.

Even as the director urged him, “Try to bring out more of the awkwardness,” Sato didn’t seem to fully grasp the idea. Each rehearsal looked the same, with only slight shifts in tone, never capturing the scene’s emotional undercurrent.

As they moved to the actual filming, Sato’s acting remained unchanged, and the retakes began piling up. His limited range was becoming painfully obvious. However, the director persisted, adjusting Sato’s physical movements and even guiding his eye direction in an attempt to convey what Sato couldn’t express. At first, Sato was quick to apologize, responding sharply, “Yes, I’m sorry!” But after ten retakes, the mounting frustration was etched into his tense expression every time the director called for “one more take.”

Ironically, that tension offered a glimmer of hope. The frustration and bewilderment Sato was feeling from the endless retakes began to align with the awkward, uncomfortable feelings of his character, Sakiya.

But by the time they reached the fiftieth take, Sato seemed to lose all enthusiasm for acting, suddenly reverting to a lifeless, uninspired performance. It was as if all the effort they'd put into building a tower of blocks had been knocked down in an instant. Tokame nearly sank to the floor in frustration, but the director remained unfazed and simply said, "Let’s go one more time."

Carefully choosing his words, the director continued to patiently convey the direction he envisioned, working diligently to guide Sato’s performance back in line, rebuilding the tower that had crumbled. Just watching this process was exhausting; it was a test of endurance.

Halfway through the fifty-eighth take, the brightness on set suddenly dimmed—a lightbulb had gone out. Taking the opportunity to replace it, the crew announced a fifteen-minute break, instantly relieving the tension in the air.

The lighting crew quickly got to work on the repairs, while other staff shuffled outside. Checking the time, Tokame realized they were nearing the three-hour mark, just for one scene. Though it couldn't be helped, it was concerning. At this rate, there was no way they would finish within the scheduled days. Still, there was little he could do about it.

Parched, he went to the staff lounge to find a drink, only to discover that not a single bottle of tea or soda was left in the cooler. The kitchen area was crowded with lighting equipment and cameras, so with no other options, he stepped outside to the garden, turned on a faucet, and drank the lukewarm water directly from the spout.

In the southern garden, with an ocean view, the props, art, and camera crew members were all smoking. It had been nearly a year since he quit smoking, but on a set brimming with frustration, it was hard not to give in to temptation. To block out the sight and smell, he walked to the western side of the garden. There, shaded between the building and some trees, he sat beneath one, and the droning hum of cicadas filled the air above him.

"Enough of this!"

A voice yelled from behind the house, on the northern side.

"That director’s got it out for me, doesn’t he? Right, huh?!"

The voice, heated and frantic, was unmistakably Sato’s.

"Keep it down. What if the other crew hears you?" Another voice, possibly Habu’s, chided him.

"I don’t care. That damn director!"

Though Tokame could understand the urge to yell, the truth was, the other crew members were just as frustrated. They, too, wished Sato would hurry up and deliver a performance that would get the director’s approval. For someone with such a fresh, sunny appearance, Sato’s language was harsh. Feeling he might overhear more than he wanted to, Tokame decided to leave.

"I’ve never had to do this many retakes before. That director just keeps muttering nonsense. He’s totally holding a grudge because I was fifteen minutes late. He knows I’m a newcomer with little experience and thinks I’ll have to obey no matter what.”

"Director Ishikawa is known for doing a lot of retakes."

“Yeah, well, Kamonagi hasn’t been scolded once, and it’s just me taking the heat. I know she’s a veteran, but am I really that bad? Nearly sixty takes… Just tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

After a brief pause, Habu’s voice replied, “I think it’s fine to interpret the role as you have, based on your reading of the script.”

“So then, I really am being bullied, aren’t I?”

With a sigh, Tokame made his way back to the southern garden. While Habu seemed friendly with Sato, his comment wasn’t helpful. The director had made it clear that Sato’s current performance wasn’t hitting the mark. The difference in opinion between the director and the assistant director was only adding to the actor’s confusion. The director had a specific vision in mind and was adamant about drawing that out of Sato. Habu, on the other hand, couldn’t grasp that vision.

When it comes to capturing and interpreting an actor’s performance, it’s a matter of perspective, making it hard to definitively label one approach as “right.” However, the actor still needed to follow the director’s guidance. The director was, after all, in charge, and any attempt to disrupt that control—no matter how “right” one might think their approach is—would be inappropriate.

As Tokame sat on the south veranda, he made eye contact with one of the art crew members sitting next to him, cigarette in mouth. They exchanged greetings, but Tokame couldn’t recall his name.

“By the way, for the next scene, we were supposed to shoot Scene 24 after Scene 35, but now it’s changed to Scene 36. Ichinose just came by to let us know,” the man helpfully informed him.

“I figured that might happen. The sun’s setting, and there’s no way we can shoot that outdoor scene at night. Of course, that’s assuming we even finish Scene 35 anytime soon—now that we’ve entered the marathon of retakes.” With a self-deprecating chuckle, the man added, “But hey, it’s Director Ishikawa, so what can you do?”

“To be honest, Sato’s not that great, is he?”

It seemed everyone felt the same way. Exhaling smoke and gazing into the distance, the man turned back to Tokame with a “Hm?”

“Aren’t you with props?” he asked.

“I’m with the behind-the-scenes filming crew.”

“Oh!” The man let out a surprised chuckle and slapped his knee. “I thought you were with props because you’re always hanging around Isono. Now that you mention it, yeah, you’re always holding a camera.”

With the break over, crew members began filing back into the house one by one. Despite the brief reprieve, the thought of the relentless standoff between the director and Sato resuming cast a heavy shadow over Tokame. As he returned to the kitchen, he saw Ichinose, clutching her clipboard, pacing anxiously around the director, who was seated and ready.

“Does anyone know where Sato is? He’s not in the waiting room…” Ichinose asked, her face showing near desperation.

Tokame whispered, “I saw him in the back garden,” and she darted outside.

Before long, Habu and Sato reappeared, and filming resumed. Despite the director’s numerous suggestions, Sato’s post-break performance was identical to his first take. Habu’s earlier advice seemed to have steered him in the wrong direction. Sato, exuding confidence as if to say, “How about this?” stood in stark contrast to the director, who watched silently, expressionless.

The director eventually rose from his chair, leaving only the words, “Take a ten-minute break.” The oddly-timed break right after another break unsettled the crew, who could only murmur among themselves, caught in the heavy atmosphere of confusion.

“Who knows what the director’s thinking?” Habu muttered with a put-upon sigh, casting himself as the bewildered assistant director.

“Just endless takes—it’s such a waste of time. Poor Kon,” he said, shrugging in exasperation.

“But…” Ichinose interjected. “I think, as he mentioned earlier, the director wants Sato to bring out a stronger sense of unease. With all these retakes, I thought he was starting to get there… Maybe Sato’s emotions come through directly in his acting?”

Habu’s expression hardened.

“Wait a second. Saying his ‘emotions come through’ is a bit insulting to Kon, isn’t it? He’s an actor—that’s his job, you know. Besides, I thought his performance just now was fine. During those takes, didn’t it all feel way too dark? That’s definitely not what the script intended.”

Ichinose fell silent, and Habu seemed pleased with his victory, walking off with a satisfied look on his face. The script’s intent. The script was just the foundation; it was the director’s role to add depth to it, not Habu’s as the assistant director. Did Habu really understand that fundamental aspect?

Sato probably hadn’t tackled any role outside his comfort zone before. If he just followed the “good enough” pattern that Habu approved of, the shoot might go smoothly, and the production would likely come together as a film. But with Sato’s unrefined performance, it would lack emotional depth and risk becoming a lackluster piece.

“…It’s because his current performance isn’t good enough that we keep having retakes,” Ichinose murmured to herself.

“I think so too,” Tokame replied quietly.

Ichinose spun around with a look of surprise.

“No matter how you look at it, Sato just isn’t grasping the director’s vision. It’s tough… I was terrible at acting myself, but still…” she whispered conspiratorially.

“It seems like his mental state shows through in his acting. So if he could genuinely feel some dislike for Kamonagi, it might bring out the atmosphere we’re looking for. But it’s not easy for someone to actually dislike a woman—unless she’s really mean or unhygienic… You know, I heard Sato is a real clean freak, so maybe we should spread a little rumor that Kamonagi hates baths and never takes them,” Ichinose said mischievously.

Tokame was left speechless by her bold suggestion, until Ichinose laughed. “Just kidding!” she added with a smile. Still, it seemed outlandish… But as he thought back to his days as an AV director, he remembered how many beautiful actresses struggled to act convincingly. During intimate scenes, if the actress wasn’t fully in the moment, it could feel awkward—almost like a bad school play. In those cases, it was a work trick to compliment the actresses, even if it wasn’t entirely true, to lift their spirits and draw out their best expressions.

“If it comes down to the question of whether we should or shouldn’t play with the actor’s emotions, I’d say it’s fair game,” he remarked.

Ichinose looked up at him in surprise.

“Of course, we’d have to explain things to him later and make sure we smooth it all over,” Tokame added.

Ichinose went quiet for a moment, then asked, “Do you think it’s worth a try?”

“Well, at this point, going from 60 takes to 61 won’t make a difference,” he replied lightly. Ichinose blinked in surprise, then grinned, clenching both fists as if to pump herself up before dashing off toward Sato. After a brief conversation with him, she returned to Tokame’s side with a sigh of relief, clutching her chest.

“My heart was pounding at the thought of tricking an actor like that!” she said, as if worried she might grow too fond of the thrill.

Tokame was beginning to think this scripter was a bit of an oddball when the director returned. Sitting down in his director’s chair, he called out, “Sato-kun.” A peculiar tension rippled through the set.

“Just relax and don’t overthink it,” the director advised.

“Yes,” Sato replied stiffly, still looking a bit tense. Habu, watching the director’s back, seemed like he had something to say, but instead took his place beside the camera in silence. And so began the sixtieth take.

The moment the camera started rolling, Tokame could see a change in Sato’s expression. The look on his face and in his stance conveyed a complex mix of emotions, a blend of dislike and discomfort toward Hisae, the character played by Kamonagi. This was likely the tension the director had been seeking all along. …This take might be the one.

When the director called “Cut!” he reviewed the monitor and then whispered to Habu.

“All right. That scene’s good,” Habu called out cheerfully. At the long-awaited “OK,” Sato looked stunned for a moment before his expression softened in relief.

They quickly shot two additional takes of the scene from different angles, focusing only on Kamonagi, so Sato wasn’t in the frame. These went smoothly in just a few takes, and they wrapped up the kitchen scene as if all the previous delays had been a lie. With the next scene set at the front entrance, the staff began shifting over in unison. As Tokame stayed behind to dust off the camera lens, Ichinose came running up to him.

“It worked perfectly! Just that little mention of ‘Kamonagi not bathing’ was enough, and it had an amazing effect. Thanks for the encouragement,” she said with a smile.

Believing Ichinose’s fake tidbit, Sato had channeled his real feelings of discomfort toward Kamonagi into his character, skillfully layering that emotion with his on-screen discomfort toward Hisae. It was rare to see an actor so strongly influenced by his emotions that it transformed his performance.

“This kind of tactic probably isn’t ideal, though,” Tokame murmured. In theory, actors should be able to regulate their own emotions on set.

“But it’s fine!” Ichinose replied firmly. “The director gave his OK, so that’s all that matters. I’ve got a feeling the next scene will go just as smoothly. And once we finish the entrance scene, I’ll make sure to clarify things with Sato so he’s not left with the wrong impression.”

Ichinose hugged her file, filled with her notes and records, to her chest.

“I’m really glad to have someone nearby who gets the director’s vision and is easy to talk to. If Sato hits another roadblock, please let me run things by you again!”

With that, Ichinose dashed toward the entrance. Since they had been informed of the scene change in advance, the lighting setup for the entrance was prepared alongside the kitchen, making it quick to set up. Following Scene 35, they proceeded directly to Scene 36, sticking to the script’s original order. Sato still carried traces of that lingering discomfort, and they managed to get an OK on the fifth take. Since they changed the camera angles, there were effectively no retakes—things were going smoothly.

They moved back to shoot interior scenes, and by the time they wrapped, it was past 1:00 a.m. Although they had planned to film six scenes that day, Sato’s sixty takes earlier had limited them to four. The remaining scenes would have to be pushed to a later day. As the actors left, the crew quickly began clearing the set and preparing for the following day.

Tokame joined Isono in packing up the rental equipment they had used. Hearing voices, he glanced over to see Habu and Ichinose in deep conversation in the hallway. They were likely discussing the next day’s schedule. Besides managing the shot records, screen checks, and secretarial tasks for the director, the script supervisor also had a hand in coordinating the filming process. With two scenes rescheduled, they now had to adjust the actors' schedules, preparations, and other logistics.

“Kon was so grateful to you, you know. He said your ‘coaching’ really helped him nail his performance,” Habu’s excited voice echoed loudly down the hallway. Ichinose replied modestly, “Oh, it wasn’t anything as grand as ‘coaching,’ really.”

“Honestly, your approach was way more effective than the director’s own advice. Keep supporting Kon whenever you can,” Habu encouraged.

“Y-yes, I suppose…” Ichinose replied hesitantly, while Tokame inwardly sighed. Needing this much backstage maneuvering from start to finish was going to be challenging. But it was only the first day. Over time, as they progressed through more scenes, Sato might come to understand the director’s vision.

As the staff gradually headed out one by one, Tokame went to find Isono, who was setting up props in the changing room for the next day’s shoot. The towels on the shelves varied from faded to newer ones, giving the space a lived-in feel. Tokame had seen many prop staff who would just throw things together for a quick shot, but Isono cared about the details, regardless of genre.

“Almost finished?”

“Ah… yeah,” Isono replied, turning with a toothbrush in hand, carefully fraying its bristles a bit.

“Is Ichinose still here?”

“She’s talking with Habu in the hallway.”

“Are they still going at it? They’ve been at it forever,” he sighed.

“Well, since we’re already behind by two scenes on the first day, there’s a lot for them to sort out.”

“Yeah, I get it, but still…”

Isono shoved the well-worn toothbrush into a plastic cup.

“…Forget it. Let’s head out,” he said.

Tokame had thought Isono might want to talk to Ichinose, but he didn’t call out to her as they left. They finally returned to their lodging at 3:00 a.m. Weaving their way through the rumbling snores of the transport crew, Tokame flopped onto his futon without even changing clothes. He knew he smelled of sweat, but he would deal with that in the morning. Apparently, others were thinking the same; despite the air conditioning, the air was filled with a faintly musky scent.

As he struggled to keep his eyes open, he checked his phone. Seeing a flashing notification for an email, his exhaustion lifted briefly—until he saw the sender’s name and sighed.

It was Yoshida, a friend and workmate from his days in the AV industry. Despite his initial disappointment, his eyes widened as he opened the attached photo: a newborn baby. The baby had arrived just a bit early; the due date had been next week.

The caption made him chuckle: “A considerate kid, arriving just before I headed out for location filming.” Yoshida had also written, “I’ll stop by for a visit when I pass through Onomichi on my way back.”

Tokame wanted to reply with congratulations, but it was the middle of the night. Feeling a bit uplifted by Yoshida’s happy news, he drifted off to sleep.

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