sinovels Chapter 245 "How are you? I'm fine"
Chapter 245 "How are you? I'm fine"
Chapter 245 "How are you? I'm fine"
After a week of blizzards, the mountains of Otaru, Hokkaido, finally revealed their breathtaking beauty to the world this morning.
The sky was a flawless blue, and the rising sun poured its golden light onto the rolling, pure white snow-capped peaks.
This magnificent yet deathly tranquil beauty makes one instinctively want to hold their breath when standing at the foot of the mountain.
However, for the "Love Letter" crew, capturing this exquisite beauty on film required an extremely heavy physical effort.
The knee-deep snow made every step up extremely difficult.
The crew's production assistants and lighting technicians carried heavy tracks and equipment, moving step by step towards the designated shooting location halfway up the mountain, led by the director.
The sub-zero air, like blades, seeped into my collar, and with each breath, it felt like I was swallowing ice shards.
Kitahara Shin walked in the middle of the group, his steps still steady. The hem of his coat was covered with snowflakes, and his purple cashmere scarf covered the lower half of his face, revealing only a pair of deep and calm eyes.
Not far in front of him, Miho Nakayama was trudging along, her steps uneven.
She didn't ask anyone for help, even though her knuckles turned white from gripping the trekking poles so tightly, and her cheeks were red from the cold wind, she kept gritting her teeth and persevering.
Because she knew that the physical exhaustion and loneliness she felt in the vast snow-covered mountains were exactly the state that the character "Hiroko Watanabe" needed most at this moment.
Half an hour later, the crew finally arrived at an open area halfway up the mountain.
Ahead lay endless, snow-capped mountain peaks; beneath their feet lay thick, pristine snow, untouched by human feet. This was the "heaven" from the script where Fujii Itsuki was buried.
The equipment was quickly set up, and Shunji Iwai rubbed his frozen hands, his eyes fixed on the monitor with a feverish gaze.
"Everyone quiet down, get ready to start filming!"
With a crisp "snap" of the clapperboard, the air in the entire snow-capped mountain seemed to freeze in that instant.
Kitahara Shin immediately switched into Akiba Shigeru's mode. He looked at the vast expanse of white snow before him, then turned to look at Watanabe Hiroko beside him.
His eyes were incredibly complex. They held the restraint of a mature man, and the cruelty of a deeply affectionate one.
He loved the woman before him to the core, so he knew all too well that if he didn't personally push her to the grave of that dead man, and didn't let her completely release the obsession that had been building up in her heart for so many years, she would never truly belong to him in this life.
"Hiroko."
Kitahara Shin spoke, his voice, tinged with a Kansai accent, sounding particularly deep against the vast, snowy mountain. He reached out and gripped Nakayama Miho's shoulder with tremendous force, turning her to face him.
"He's there." Kitahara Shin pointed to the highest and most silent snow-capped peak in the distance, a barely perceptible bitterness flashing in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by an extremely firm acceptance. "Go, go say goodbye to him."
He hugged her with extreme restraint, feeling the trembling of the woman's frail body in his arms, and then decisively let go, pushing her into the knee-deep, deserted snow.
Staggered by the force, Miho Nakayama stumbled forward.
The snow was very deep, and each step required a great deal of effort.
She staggered along, even tripping and falling face-first into the cold snow.
But she didn't stop. She scrambled to her feet and continued walking towards the mountains.
During this extremely arduous journey, Miho Nakayama's eyes gradually reddened.
At that moment, her thoughts underwent an extremely strange, even somewhat cruel, fusion.
Hiroko Watanabe was thinking about Fujii Itsuki, who died on the snowy mountain, the introverted boy who didn't even dare to hand her the engagement ring himself and could only watch her silently from the shadows; the cruel first love she had loved for so many years, only to discover that she might just be a substitute for another girl.
Meanwhile, Miho Nakayama found herself uncontrollably recalling the moments she had spent working with Shin Kitahara during this period.
She remembered the man in the glass factory, his sharp edges softened, looking at her with incredibly deep and humble eyes, saying, "Look at me, okay?"; she remembered the figure in the hotel corridor of Otaru last night, bathed in the cool moonlight, whispering to the person on the other end of the phone in an extremely gentle tone; she remembered the film godfather in the snowy night in the bicycle shed, who could turn the mundane into the magical with a smile, and who commanded the respect of everyone.
She knew all too well that, whether it was Fujii Itsuki in the play or Kitahara Shin in real life, they had become some kind of unattainable, lofty "phantom" to her.
One is a ghost forever frozen in the past by death; the other is a tycoon living at the top of the pyramid of reality, surrounded by countless top beauties, and destined not to belong to her.
The resentment of being a woman, the keenness of being an actress, and the extreme regret and bitterness of "destined to miss out" that belong to artistic youth fermented and swelled wildly in Miho Nakayama's chest, almost bursting her heart.
She stopped in her tracks.
All around was an endless expanse of white snow, and the only sound was the whistling wind.
She stood alone in the knee-deep snow, like a child abandoned by the whole world.
She looked up at the desolate snow-capped peak and took a deep breath of the cold air that seemed to freeze her soul.
"Fujii Itsuki—"
The first cry was squeezed out of her throat, her voice trembling and suppressed with extreme intensity, echoing across the vast snow-covered mountain, sounding so weak and so helpless.
"Are you OK--!"
Tears welled up instantly, the scalding tears streaming down her frozen cheeks, leaving stinging marks.
She didn't wipe away her tears, nor did she care whether she looked beautiful in front of the camera.
All she knew was that if she didn't vent her anger today, she would be completely devoured by the monster called "regret".
"I am fine-!"
With this third cry, she used almost all her strength to scream it out, a cry that was heart-wrenching and desperate.
The voice cracked, carrying a mournful tone that seemed to pierce the sky, and a complete catharsis.
Kitahara Shin stood quietly a dozen meters behind her, watching her thin, frail figure in the snow, which looked as if it could be blown away by the wind at any moment.
He didn't speak, he just stood there silently.
However, the aura of the epic purple scarf bestowed by the system was already operating beyond its capacity at this moment.
The magnetic field that could amplify sadness infinitely and enhance tolerance and protection, like tangible ripples, enveloped the entire filming set.
Under this terrifying magnetic field resonance, Miho Nakayama's emotions finally broke down.
"How are you, Fujii Itsuki?!"
"I am fine-!"
She shouted at the snow-capped mountain again and again. With each shout, she took a step forward.
Tears and snot uncontrollably smeared her face, and her hair was extremely messy from the wind. Her originally aloof and noble "idol goddess" image was completely destroyed at this moment.
But no one thought she looked bad at that moment.
On the contrary, the infectious power of the love that had been suppressed for ten years, the resentment of discovering that he might be a substitute, and the relief of finally letting go of himself and the past, all bursting out in that instant, was simply earth-shattering.
Every time she shouted, it was as if she were striking the mountain with her soul.
"How are you? I'm fine!"
The voice grew increasingly hoarse and broken until finally it turned into a sob mixed with violent gasps.
Completely exhausted, Miho Nakayama's knees buckled, and she collapsed to her knees in the thick snow with a thud.
She covered her face with her hands, her shoulders heaving violently, and cried out in the snow like a child who had lost all defenses.
She was crying for Hiroko Watanabe's youth that could never be relived, and also for Miho Nakayama's own secret feelings that ended before they even began.
The entire snow-capped mountain was deathly silent.
Only the sound of the wind and the woman's heart-wrenching cries remained.
Sitting behind the monitor, Shunji Iwai was already in tears.
He stared blankly at the woman kneeling in the snow on the screen, her hands gripping the hem of her clothes tightly, tears streaming down her face, completely forgetting to say "cut".
Not only him, but also the usually burly stagehands, lighting technicians, and sound engineers around him all had tears in their eyes at this moment.
Some people secretly turned away to wipe their tears, while others bit their lips tightly to keep themselves from crying out loud.
Faced with such a nuclear-level emotional impact, any defense is futile.
It took more than a minute for Kitahara Shin to emerge from that immersive halo state.
He glanced at Iwai Shunji, who was still in a daze, sighed almost imperceptibly, and then strode towards the woman who was still sobbing in the middle of the snow.
Hearing the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow, Miho Nakayama looked up, her eyes blurry with tears.
Kitahara Shin had already walked up to her.
He deftly took off his large, extremely warm, military green long down jacket, bent down, and wrapped it tightly around Miho Nakayama's shivering body.
The down jacket still retained the man's body heat and a calming aura that gave people a great sense of security.
Kitahara Shin didn't say anything comforting or out of character. He simply patted her back, which was wrapped in a down jacket, to shield her from the biting wind blowing in from the mountain pass.
Only at this moment did Shunji Iwai suddenly stand up from behind the monitor as if waking from a dream.
He hastily wiped away his tears, picked up the walkie-talkie, and with all his might, even with a slightly cracking, frantic shout, "Cut! Absolutely perfect! The Hokkaido winter scenes—officially wrapped!!"
"boom"
The once silent mountainside suddenly erupted in cheers and applause that ripped through the snow.
Everyone applauded this moment that was of great significance in film history.
The most crucial, challenging, and touching Hokkaido scene in "Love Letter" came to a perfect close, thanks to the encouragement of Kitahara Shin and the explosive performance of Nakayama Miho.
This powerful tearjerker, destined to detonate across Asia in a few months and make countless people cry until they faint in movie theaters, has officially entered its countdown to detonation!
With the filming in Hokkaido finished, it also means that Kitahara Shin's work on this set has come to a complete end.
All that remained were some indoor flashback scenes filmed a few months later in the warmer Kansai region, scenes that no longer required Akiba Shigeru's appearance.
To celebrate his successful wrap-up of filming and to allow the crew, who had been under immense pressure for days, to finally relax, Kitahara Shin generously booked the largest luxury ski resort near Otaru the day after he came down from the mountain, treating the entire crew to skiing.
On the endless snow track, the young members of the film crew were excitedly shouting and laughing in the snow, even falling flat on their faces, but they were having a great time.
The panoramic café at the top of the ski resort was nicely heated.
Kitahara Shin, dressed in a light and stylish casual sweater, sat in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, holding a hot latte in his hand.
Sitting across from him was director Shunji Iwai, who had also just changed out of his heavy winter clothes and looked much more relaxed.
-
"President Kitahara, thank you so much." Shunji Iwai held the coffee cup with both hands, his tone extremely respectful, even showing a hint of flattery and restraint.
Originally, on set, everyone could communicate as the director and actors.
But now that filming has wrapped, facing this financial giant who just shattered the ceiling of Japanese cinema with 5 billion yen in box office revenue, Shunji Iwai's sense of class oppression immediately surged up again.
It's worth noting that in the Japanese film industry in 1995, Shunji Iwai was just a "marginal newcomer" who started out making music videos and late-night TV short films.
Well, although he is very talented, he is not even considered a top figure in the traditional film industry, which values seniority.
For traditional distributors, a typical art-house film like "Love Letter" would have a very small audience. Without the involvement of Kitahara Shin, the original "Love Letter" would have only been screened in a few art-house cinemas (single-cinema system) and would have only become popular little by little through extremely slow word-of-mouth.
But it's different now.
"Director Iwai, once the film is finished, you don't need to worry about distribution." Kitahara Shin put down his coffee cup, his tone calm yet exuding an undeniable air of authority. "I'll have the distribution department of Kitahara's agency take over entirely. As for Toho Cinemas, I'll utilize the 'highest priority screening' clause."
Shunji Iwai's eyes widened suddenly, nearly spilling his coffee: "Toho's highest priority?! An art film?!"
This is insane! That's the kind of treatment usually reserved for Hollywood blockbusters or national commercial productions!
"Not just in Japan." Kitahara Shin looked out the window at the snow-capped mountains, his eyes gleaming with immense ambition. "I will also secure distribution channels in South Korea, Taiwan, and Hong Kong, ensuring a simultaneous release across Asia. I want this film to be more than just a self-indulgent spectacle within the art-house film circle; I want it to become a symbol of popular culture throughout Asia."
He has the resources and the confidence to do so.
Listening to Kitahara Shin's grand vision, Iwai Shunji trembled with excitement. He knew this was no empty promise. The man before him had just proven with "Bayside Shakedown" that he possessed the terrifying power to overturn the rules of the entire industry.
With the backing of Kitahara Shin's capital, Love Letter stood on the shoulders of giants from the very beginning!
"President Kitahara—I—I really don't know what to say." Iwai Shunji stood up, bowed deeply to Kitahara Shin, his voice choked with emotion, "I, Iwai Shunji, will never forget your kindness in recognizing my talent!"
Kitahara Shin smiled and waved his hand, gesturing for him to sit down: "A good work deserves a stage to match it. Focus on finishing the post-production editing, and keep a close eye on the music; don't let anything go wrong."
After finishing their business, Kitahara Shin got up and left the coffee shop, changed into his ski suit, picked up his skis, and went outside.
The sun was shining brightly outside, and the snow-covered landscape was dazzling and chilly.
Kitahara Shin had just skied to a gentle slope halfway down the mountain when he saw Nakayama Miho, dressed in a pure white ski suit. She wasn't skiing; instead, she had taken off her goggles and was standing quietly by the edge of the slope, seemingly waiting for him.
Kitahara Shin made an extremely clean side stop, his skis drawing a beautiful arc on the ground and kicking up a fine mist of snow.
"Why don't you go down and ski? The scenery here isn't as lively as down below." Kitahara Shin took off his goggles and asked with a smile.
Miho Nakayama looked at him, her usually cool and aloof eyes now swirling with incredibly complex emotions. There was the relief of filming ending, the reluctance to leave this journey behind, and a deep-seated regret that could never be spoken.
She knew that after today, Kitahara Shin would return to Tokyo, the place of fame and fortune and the pinnacle of power that belonged to him, to continue being that tycoon who could manipulate events at will; and she, too, would continue to strive forward on her own path.
Their connection, perhaps like the heavy snow in Otaru, was breathtakingly beautiful, but would eventually melt away with the rising sun.
Miho Nakayama stared at Shin Kitahara with an extremely meaningful look. After a long while, she suddenly revealed an extremely relieved and bright smile.
"Kitahara-kun," she spoke softly, a hint of expectation in her voice, "Will we be able to work together again in the future? Will we have the chance to be in the same production team again?"
Looking into her clear eyes, Kitahara Shin instantly understood all the subtext hidden behind her question.
He didn't evade or give a perfunctory answer; instead, he smiled with utmost sincerity.
"This industry is only so big. As long as you want, there will definitely be opportunities in the future." Kitahara Shin looked at her, his tone gentle yet firm. "Your acting is really superb. To be honest, I've learned a lot from you during this time working together."
Upon hearing this extremely high praise, Miho Nakayama's heart trembled, and her eyes instantly welled up with tears.
She knew that Kitahara Shin was trying to comfort her, and also showing her the utmost respect as an actress. In this adult world, not all hidden feelings need a dramatic ending. Some things, left unsaid, expressed with propriety, can become the most beautiful pure land in one's heart.
it is more than words.
"Then—it's a deal." Miho Nakayama sniffed, forcing back the tears in her eyes, and smiled at him with an extremely bright smile, a smile even purer than the first snow of Hokkaido.
"It's a deal." Kitahara Shin nodded.
A cool breeze blew by, swirling up a few snowflakes that flew towards the distant mountains.
The Hokkaido trip of the "Love Letter" crew came to a perfect end with this extremely beautiful and lingering smile.