Chapter 3 End Roll - part 2

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───Take 2

Yoshida had invited Satoru out to dinner, only to be turned down with a quick, “My girlfriend’s waiting at home with dinner.” Left to dine alone, Yoshida finished his solitary meal at a ramen shop, then slung his tote bag with his laptop over his shoulder and strolled around the city, muttering to himself, “What now?” His wife and kids had gone back to her family’s place the day before, so returning home meant going back to an empty house.

Just after 7 p.m., feeling it might be a bit early, he stepped into Bar Lagoon. The café he’d been working at earlier was already a likely spot to run into industry acquaintances, but this place was a known haunt for film professionals who had worked with Tokame. There was always at least one familiar face here.

“Yoshida-san, welcome. Meeting someone tonight?” asked the gray-haired bartender, who had long since passed sixty, flashing him a friendly smile.

“No, not exactly.”

“Tokame-san’s here,” the bartender added, jerking his thumb toward a seat in the back. Yoshida glanced over and saw Tokame drinking with cameraman Wakibuchi. Spotting Yoshida, Tokame raised his right hand in a casual wave and beckoned him over. Yoshida ordered a beer and quickly settled in beside Tokame.

“Busy with work?”

Tokame grinned, scratching his scruffy stubble. “Just finished the editing.”

A few days ago, when they spoke on the phone, Tokame had mentioned he was in the final stages of editing a thirty-minute short film for an international competition. Tokame’s works, in fact, had often been recognized overseas before they gained attention in Japan.

“And how’s the script on your end?” Tokame asked.

Yoshida heaved a dramatic sigh. “It’s slow going. You threw the whole thing on me, after all.”

Tokame chuckled, clearly unfazed by Yoshida’s frustration.

“Just keep at it. I like the scripts you write, so I’m looking forward to it.”

This, Yoshida thought, was Tokame’s real talent. A simple, “I’m looking forward to it” from someone with his level of success—an international award-winning director—was all it took to light a fire in Yoshida. Tokame, now in his mid-forties like Yoshida, was still as good-looking as ever, with an added, mature ruggedness. He had a boyish streak as well, making him the type women couldn’t ignore. But he openly identified as gay and was dating Yorozu Shirosaki, a younger man about twelve years his junior.

“So, Tokame-kun, working on a new project?” Wakibuchi interjected. Two years ago, Tokame’s film Ant Line had won the grand prize at a prestigious festival in France—a remarkable feat for a virtually unknown Japanese director. Wakibuchi had been the cinematographer for that film. Lately, Tokame handled the camera himself for his shorts and documentaries, but for his commercial feature films, he collaborated with Wakibuchi, a well-known cameraman with an impressive pedigree—both his parents were in the field. Yoshida had worked with him once and found him exceptionally quick to understand the director’s vision, a true professional with his craft.

“We’re thinking of doing a joint project—Yoshida writing the script, me directing. We finally secured a sponsor.”

“Even with that award-winning title, funding’s still a struggle, huh?” Wakibuchi muttered.

“Pretty much,” Tokame said, lifting his glass. “Investing in non-profitable films is always a gamble. Investors are tough to please. But hey, being able to make films and make a living from it in this economy—that’s good enough.”

“Still, these are tough times,” Wakibuchi sighed, slumping back on the sofa and rubbing his grizzled, white-flecked beard.

“It’d be a shame if cinema went all-in on commercialism. Not that I’m bashing it,” Wakibuchi added, then turned to Yoshida. “So, what’s the new script going to be like?”

“I’m still hashing out ideas,” Yoshida replied.

“Then how about this,” Wakibuchi leaned forward, eyes bright with enthusiasm. “What about a historical drama? Period novels are popular right now, and it’d be great to shoot something elaborate again. I’d love to capture some intense battle scenes.”

Yoshida felt his cheek twitch involuntarily at the suggestion. Writing a historical piece was well beyond his knowledge and skill set.

“It’d be pretty tough to jump into a period piece. There’s so much research involved. Yoshida’s good at capturing the nuances of characters, and it’s easier for me to connect with that too. So, I think a modern-day setting would work better for the script,” Tokame offered, throwing him a lifeline.

Wakibuchi shrugged and said, “Hey, as long as it’s interesting, I’m game,” casually raising the bar for the script. “When’s filming set to start?” he then asked, getting straight to the logistics.

“Probably next spring, sometime after the start of the year,” Tokame replied, tilting his glass.

“I’ll keep my schedule open around then, so count me in,” Wakibuchi said, assuming he’d be part of the project. Tokame nodded with a quick bow, “We’d appreciate it.”

Wakibuchi was a sought-after cameraman, usually booked solid, yet he’d always make time for projects with Tokame.

When Tokame mentioned filming, people naturally gathered around him. Sure, his talent and charm played a part, but those drawn to him were also fueled by a desire as filmmakers. To be involved with a director whose work was recognized globally meant a chance to show their work to a wider audience. Being part of a film that might become a lasting piece of cinematic history was a treasured accomplishment for any film crew member, a joy beyond comparison. Yoshida, too, felt the same. Ever since the early days in adult film, he’d sensed that with Tokame, they could create something truly special.

“Oh, and as for the script,” Yoshida began, “this is just one idea, but what would you think of using your life as a model for it, Tokame-san?”

Tokame choked, spluttering out his beer, while Wakibuchi crossed his arms and nodded. “An autobiographical film, huh?”

“Now that you mention it, didn’t you once tell me you nearly got killed by a yakuza in high school because he wanted to take out a life insurance policy on you? Sounds like a pretty intense youth. There are lots of films woven from directors’ life stories, and they’re usually quite varied and interesting.”

Tokame got up, went to the counter, grabbed a hand towel, and wiped the table.

“…My life isn’t that interesting,” he muttered.

“Well, you can’t really know that until it’s in the form of a script, can you? And it wouldn’t have to be a full-on autobiography. I was thinking more of using it as a motif,” Yoshida explained.

“Still…” Tokame hesitated. Yoshida knew Tokame wouldn’t agree so easily; he rarely talked about himself. Yoshida had never actively pressed him about his past, but he’d always been curious. By the time they met, Tokame’s character seemed fully formed: he was the type who wouldn’t chase after anyone yet effortlessly drew people to him. Yoshida had always wondered what sort of youth had shaped him into this captivating figure. Writing a screenplay could be a way to finally uncover the path that led to Tokame’s talent.

“Tokame-san, didn’t you tell me I had full control over the script?” Yoshida pressed, leaning on the promise Tokame had made.

“That was…” Tokame averted his eyes, looking uncomfortable.

Wakibuchi chimed in with surprising support, “Hey, Tokame-kun, what’s a guy like you doing going back on a promise? People like us in the film world make our lives our livelihoods.”

…Was Wakibuchi just messing with Tokame for fun?

“It’s not that I’m totally against it,” Tokame muttered, switching his order to shochu with a resigned sigh. Yoshida could tell he was about to dive into some frustration-drinking, a tendency he’d come to recognize. But the deeper parts of Tokame were still a mystery.

“So, Tokame-san,” Yoshida continued, “I’d like to interview you for the script if that’s okay.”

“Next time, next time,” Tokame deflected, like a kid dodging a chore. Yoshida took this as a small victory. Tokame hadn’t flatly refused the idea, so maybe it was best not to push too hard tonight; he didn’t want him to get too defensive.

“Oh, by the way, Yorozu-kun was on TV earlier,” Yoshida said, changing the subject.

Tokame, looking slightly away, replied, “I know.”

"Still as handsome as ever, huh?”

“Wait, isn’t Yorozu Tokame’s boyfriend? So if he was on TV, does that mean he’s switched to acting?”

It was an open secret in the film industry that Tokame was gay and had a long-term partner. There was even a story that a gay actor once tried to seduce Tokame to secure a role, to which Tokame supposedly responded, “My boyfriend is better-looking than you,” turning the incident into a bit of a legend.

“No, not at all,” Yoshida clarified. “He was introduced as a young, good-looking hotel owner.”

Wakibuchi nodded, looking impressed. “An entrepreneur, huh? That’s respectable work.”

“It must have been over ten years ago now, but I met Yorozu-kun once when he was doing extra work. He was so good-looking that he practically outshone the lead. When I later heard he was Tokame’s boyfriend, I thought, ‘Tokame has quite the eye for looks.’”

“…So what if I do?” Tokame muttered defensively.

“Oho, you’re admitting it now?” Wakibuchi chuckled. He had a habit of teasing Tokame whenever he could. Despite being in their forties and fifties respectively, Tokame and Wakibuchi bantered like school seniors and juniors. Many in the industry retained a childlike quality, with a carefree, almost otherworldly aura. While the reality was often harsh—scrambling for funds before production and worrying about box office returns after—the finished films could be so polished and free from that weight. There was something about the passion of the creators that showed through, making it fascinating. A great film felt almost alive, as though it breathed on its own.

As the night wore on, more familiar faces filled the bar—people from dramas and movies stopping by for a drink. Among the regulars from sound and lighting was a new actor, whom Yoshida recognized from TV. Sure enough, the young actor made his way over to Tokame, saying, “I’m a huge fan, Director! Ant Line was such a great film.” It would have been enough to leave it there, but the actor couldn’t resist pitching himself. Knowing Tokame’s dislike for such blatant self-promotion, Yoshida watched from the side, unsurprised when Tokame replied with a simple, “Well, keep up the good work,” and left for the counter, effectively ending the conversation.

Seeing the actor deflate, Yoshida decided to offer some advice. “Tokame-san is particular about the actors he casts. Whether they’re famous or unknown, he only chooses those who truly fit the role. So, if the right part comes along, I think he’ll remember you.”

The young actor’s face brightened a bit. He apologized to Yoshida and went back to join the crew member who’d brought him.

After Wakibuchi left, Yoshida joined Tokame at the counter.

“I’m serious about this movie with you as the model,” Yoshida said.

“I already told you, it’s not like I’m against it,” Tokame replied, scratching his head. “I just… never thought about putting myself out there in a film, so I can’t picture how it would look.”

Looking slightly uncomfortable, he took a long drink from his shochu.

“No… actually, that’s not quite right. I can see the images in my head, but that’s different from a film,” he added, reflecting as he spoke.

Nearby, a phone chimed. It was a message for Tokame. He glanced at the screen, then pulled out his wallet.

“Guess I’ll head out.”

He slid his phone into his jacket pocket.

“It’s still early. Why not stay a bit longer?” Yoshida tried to coax him.

But Tokame got up, saying, “It’s Yorozu.”

“He finished work early and wants to know where I am.”

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