pjbooks Chapter 113 Silver Lion Award
Chapter 113 Silver Lion Award
Chapter 113 Silver Lion Award
In this world, there is no sound more terrifying than a telephone ringing at three in the morning.
In a luxury apartment in Tokyo's Minato Ward, all was quiet except for the faint hum of an air purifier.
"bell--!!!"
The piercing ringing of the bell rang out without warning, as if someone had slammed a gong right next to my ear.
Kitahara Shin practically sprang out of bed reflexively. He squinted his still-closed eyes, his heart pounding in his chest. A phone call at this hour usually meant one of two things: either something catastrophic had happened, or someone was drunk and acting out.
He fumbled for the receiver on the bedside table, his voice heavy with sleepiness and a hint of annoyance at being woken up: "Hello—who is this?"
"Xin! Are you awake? You must be awake! Hahahaha!"
The sound coming from the other end of the receiver was ridiculously loud, even with obvious static and background noise.
It must be director Itami?
Kitahara Shin moved the receiver a little further away, rubbed his throbbing temples, and glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table.
3:12 AM.
"Director, if you don't give me a reasonable explanation, this will be considered a work injury." Kitahara Shin sighed, leaned against the headboard, and reached for his cigarette pack.
"Work injury?"
A very soft, low laugh came through the receiver.
"hehe----"
The laughter sounded a little eerie, like the mastermind behind a perfect crime, basking in some kind of unspeakable pleasure.
Although there was a lot of cheering in the background, he seemed to deliberately cover the microphone, so that the sound would only flow through this transoceanic line.
"Shin, what time is it in Tokyo now?"
Juzo Itami's voice carried a hint of intoxication, but more than that, it was an uncontrollable, bone-deep smugness.
"3:12 AM." Kitahara Shin sighed. "Director, you'd better have something important to do."
"Three o'clock—that's perfect."
Itami took a drag on his cigarette, his tone becoming drawn out and sarcastic. "By now, the morning edition's layout should have just finished, right? Those headlines that were going to be printed with 'Itami XIII's disastrous defeat in Venice' are probably all going to have to be scrapped now."
"What do you mean?" Kitahara Shin tightened his grip on the receiver.
"It means—"
Itami paused, seemingly picturing the furious faces of the Tokyo editors-in-chief in his mind, before letting out a chilling, wicked laugh: "Those old Italians eating spaghetti in Naples have a much sharper eye than those trend-following idiots in Ginza."
"Grand Jury Prize. Silver Lion."
He uttered those words casually.
But the arrogance hidden beneath his calm tone was practically overflowing from the receiver.
"We won, kid."
Kitahara Shin's lighter clicked, but failed to light.
Although he had already used that skill and was mentally prepared, the shock still made him pause for a moment when the news truly and unequivocally reached his ears.
"The Golden Lion went to those Soviets, Mikhalkov's *The Spirit of Mongolia*. As for Best Actor—"
Itami seemed to take a sip of his drink, his tone casual as he commented, "They gave it to River Phoenix for *My Own Private Idaho*. That Hollywood kid's eyes are a lot like yours, both of you have that reckless, decadent air about you. Losing to him isn't unfair. And Zhang Yimou, he also got a Silver Lion, putting us on equal footing."
"That puts my mind at ease."
Kitahara Shin finally lit a cigarette, the flame illuminating his smiling face. "If I win Best Actor too, I'm afraid people will be so jealous when I go back to Tokyo."
"Ha, jealousy?"
Juzo Itami sneered, his ingrained arrogance instantly surfacing. "Starting tomorrow, they won't even have the right to be jealous."
"And you, Director?"
Kitahara Shin shifted into a more comfortable position. "Don't you always say you don't care about public opinion? You even said those film critics' comments were too harsh to wipe your ass with. How come it sounds like you're enjoying this worldly victory more than anyone else?"
"I don't care about that broken metal sign. I'll probably just put it on the bookshelf to collect dust if I take it back."
"But when I think about the newspaper editors who gave you a good dressing down tomorrow morning, and the look on their faces when they see the urgent telegram from the news agency—I feel like this trip to Venice was worthwhile."
"The so-called 'not caring' is something you only have the right to say after you've won."
"That's what you really think, isn't it?" Kitahara Shin couldn't help but laugh. "This kind of dark, vengeful mentality really does fit your aesthetic."
"Alright, Junya Sato is giving me a resentful look over there. His film didn't do well this time either. Kimura seems a bit discouraged, he's hiding in a corner questioning his existence."
Itami spoke casually, as if he hadn't just been the one to win a world-class award. "I need to show some respect as a senior," he said, "I'll buy them a drink, and incidentally—let them see what the trophy looks like, and share in their joy, hehe."
That old man is absolutely wicked.
"Hang up."
"Beep beep—beep—"
The phone hangs up.
The room returned to silence.
Kitahara Shin put the receiver back, lay down in the darkness, and stared at the ceiling for a while.
Outside the window, Tokyo's night was still deep, with the occasional sound of police sirens echoing through the streets. This vast city remained asleep, completely unaware of the earthquake that had struck across the ocean.
"The Silver Lion Award—"
He muttered something to himself, turned over, and pulled the blanket over his head.
go to bed.
As for how big the storm will be tomorrow morning, that's a matter for tomorrow.
Kitahara Shin could sleep, but for some, this night was destined to be a sleepless one.
Akasaka, editorial department of Weekly Gendai.
This is the place in all of Japan where people criticize Itami Juzo the most harshly and enthusiastically.
Just yesterday in the evening edition, they also published an article by a special commentator entitled "Itami XIII's Venice Trip: A Struggle Doomed to Fail".
This is not because they are blindly arrogant.
Even before the film festival opened, editor-in-chief Yamamoto spent a lot of money to obtain detailed background information on this year's jury.
The jury president is a master of Italian neorealism who is known for his dislike of violent aesthetics and commercial kitsch, and even more so for themes with gangster undertones.
According to this "insider intelligence" analysis, a film like "The Grand Hotel Lies," which is full of fraud, dark humor, and themes about marginalized people, has precisely hit the jury's sore spots.
This was originally a gamble that was sure to be won.
At this moment, the editorial department was filled with smoke, and dozens of computers and printers emitted a hot, dry smell.
Editor-in-Chief Yamamoto was sitting with his legs crossed, already brainstorming how to use the "jury's disgust" to support their previous points tomorrow.
"Editor-in-Chief! Editor-in-Chief!"
A young editor wearing glasses stumbled over from the fax machine, clutching a still-warm sheet of fax paper. His face was as white as a sheet. "Something's happened! Something terrible has happened in Venice!"
Yamamoto impatiently took off his reading glasses and flicked off his cigarette ash.
"What's the panic? Did Itami get booed on the red carpet? Or did that kid named Kitahara get cried because of his terrible acting? I told you, these guys—"
"No—no—"
The young editor swallowed hard, his hands trembling as if he were shaking. "An urgent telegram just arrived from the news agency—'The Lies of the Grand Hotel'—has won the Jury Prize. The Silver Lion."
"Clatter".
Yamamoto dropped the red pen from his hand onto the table.
He stood up abruptly, the movement so sudden that he knocked over the coffee cup beside him. The brown liquid spilled onto the table, soaking the stack of unpublished manuscripts, but he didn't even glance at them.
"What did you say?"
His voice sounded like someone had suddenly grabbed his throat, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Silver Lion Award? Have those Italians gone mad? Doesn't the chairman hate this kind of subject matter the most? Is our intelligence flawed?"
He snatched the fax paper from him.
The list of winners was clearly written in black and white on the paper.
Not only did it win an award, but the jury chairman also gave it extremely high praise, calling it "a tragic force that pierces the heart."
Yamamoto stared at the paper, the muscles at the corners of his eyes twitching violently.
The intelligence was correct, and the Chairman's tastes haven't changed.
The only explanation is that the quality of this film was so high that the stubborn old man had to grit his teeth and admit it, even breaking his own aesthetic prejudices to vote for it.
This terrified him more than any intelligence error.
This means that their frantic pessimism over the past two weeks was nothing more than a bunch of clowns barking at a giant in the face of absolute strength.
"Editor-in-chief, how should we layout the front page tomorrow morning?"
The young editor cautiously glanced at her livid boss. "Should we still publish that film we agreed on, 'Itami Juzo Returns Empty-Handed, Abandoned by the Mainstream European Film Industry'?"
"What a load of crap!"
Yamamoto crumpled the fax paper into a ball and slammed it on the ground, veins bulging on his forehead. "Are we going to be laughed at for being blind? Or do they want to slap us in the face enough? Take it down! Take it all down!"
He paced back and forth in the cramped office, as restless as a trapped beast.
Admitting a misjudgment? Impossible.
For magazines like theirs that survive by selling emotions and opinions, authority is their lifeblood.
If they admit they misjudged, who will believe their music and movie reviews in the future?
But not reporting it? Such big news can't be ignored.
"that----
'
Yamamoto stopped, gritted his teeth, and a ruthless yet pragmatic expression appeared on his face. "Shrink it. Don't put it on the front page. Tuck it into a corner of the fourth page—no, the fifth page! In that tiny, square space!"
"Huh?" The editor was stunned. "But this is the Silver Lion Award."
"Shut up! Listen to me!"
Yamamoto pointed at the door and roared, his eyes revealing the shrewdness of a gambler who had lost everything, "Change the front page to—"
"If it were Rie Miyazawa, we'd write about her recent street photos suggesting she's gained weight! Or we could dig up some embarrassing moments from Takuya Kimura's time in Venice! We can't let that old geezer Itami dominate the headlines! As long as we don't hype it up or give it any screen time, this whole thing will cool down in a couple of days!"
This is the survival wisdom of the weak.
Since I can't win, I'll just cover my ears and pretend I can't hear the thunder. As long as I'm not embarrassed, it's others who will be.
At the same time, in Jimbocho, at the editorial office of the film magazine "Kinema Junpo".
Unlike the tabloid's mournful tone, a spectacular "Sichuan opera face-changing" performance is unfolding here.
As a long-established film magazine, while they haven't attacked as viciously as tabloids, they have consistently maintained their stance—
A sarcastic "wait-and-see" attitude permeates the text, implying that "The Grand Hotel" is too dull and does not conform to international trends.
But at the moment.
"Quick, quick! Wake that one up! Nobody's sleeping!"
Editor-in-Chief Yamada, beaming with excitement, stood in the center of the hall, calmly directing operations as he held the fax he had just received.
"Scrap that article you wrote before, 'Reflection: Why Japanese Cinemas Can't Go Global'! Tear it up immediately!"
"But editor-in-chief, that article has already been formatted, and it's too late to change it now—"
"Even if there's no time, we have to change it! Do you want us to be cursed to death by our readers tomorrow morning?"
Yamada waved his hand, directly interrupting his subordinate's complaints, "Now, immediately, write me a new one! The title must be big! Red! Bold!"
He thought for a moment, a shrewd glint in his eyes: "Let's call it—'The Return of the King: Itami Juzo and Kitahara Shin's Conquest of Venice!'"
"Also, find Kitahara Shin's photo in the database. Don't use those gloomy stills, find that one—yes, the one where he's smiling so meaningfully at the press conference! Put it on the cover!"
A senior editor who was revising a manuscript couldn't help but push up his glasses and mutter under his breath, "Editor-in-chief, didn't we just say in our column last week that Kitahara Shin's performance was over-the-top and lacked relaxation? Isn't praising him like this now a bit too much—"
"What do you know!"
Yamada glared at him and said matter-of-factly, "Times have changed! Last week it was to encourage him to improve! Now that he's won an award, it proves our encouragement worked! That's called 'the deeper the love, the higher the expectations!' Do you understand?"
"Besides, it's the Silver Lion! This is something that really brings honor to Japanese cinema! If we don't celebrate now, when will we?"
He walked up behind the editor, patted him on the shoulder, and said earnestly, "Those in the media need to be flexible. We have to bend whichever way the wind blows. Now that the wind has changed, we're Director Itami's staunchest supporters! Hurry up and write! Portray Kitahara Shin as a lone hero who endures hardship and silently hones his acting skills! Readers love that!"
The entire editorial department immediately sprang into action.
The sound of the keyboard being typed was as dense as a torrential downpour.
Everyone forgot their previous sarcasm and began racking their brains to find the "highlights" of the film from various angles.
"Profound insights into human nature," "Eastern aesthetics of violence," "performing arts that transcend time"—those terms they previously discarded are now being piled into manuscripts like they're free.
This is not just news, it's business.
That night, no one in Tokyo's media circles slept.
Some people, in their panic, tried to cover up the truth, while others, in their euphoria, were busy changing their tune depending on the wind.
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