Behind Michiko, one of the "villagers" stood up, adjusting her headscarf with a puzzled expression. "Eh? Are you talking about me?"
"Yes, you," Fujii Arima snapped. "Why did you move forward? Didn't anyone tell you not to make random movements?"
The villager stammered nervously, trying to explain. "I thought… well, in the scene, Miho is avoiding her parents' argument and sitting here alone because she's upset. If I were a passerby and saw such an adorable girl looking sad, wouldn't I naturally comfort her? It just felt more realistic that way—and it highlights how lovable Miho is."
Chihara Rinto raised an eyebrow. So, you're not only trying to add lines for yourself but also improvising dialogue? Don't extras usually clear such things with the screenwriter first?
Does this woman think she's channeling Stanislavski's An Actor Prepares? Then again, she looked vaguely familiar—had he seen her somewhere before?
Fujii Arima pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated. He couldn't waste time arguing with her directly; that wasn't his job. Instead, he waved over Tsumura Haruki, his assistant director who managed the extras. In full-on set-director mode, Fujii had shed his usual gentlemanly demeanor, now radiating irritation. "What's going on here?" he barked.
Tsumura, a veteran under Fujii's wing, remained unfazed despite the verbal lashing. "She's probably new," he said calmly. "We've had high turnover among extras lately. Maybe her training didn't stick."
"Move her to the corner." Extras were essentially props assigned by specific demographics, and each age group was accounted for. They'd need her later in different costumes for other shots. Since Fujii couldn't outright kick her off the set, repositioning her was the next best option. "And after lunch, teach her properly."
"Understood," Tsumura replied. He climbed halfway onto the bus and shuffled some people around, tucking the offending extra into the farthest corner, flanked tightly by two others. Her new position ensured that if accidentally caught on camera, she wouldn't leave awkward gaps in the frame.
The would-be actress looked crestfallen. From background player to glorified placeholder, she pleaded softly with Tsumura, hoping for leniency. But when her excuses wore thin, he smacked her lightly on the head with a script binder. That shut her up.
Chihara Rinto shook his head, unperturbed. Such incidents weren't uncommon during shoots. There were always a few extras harboring dreams of stardom, eager to grab the spotlight. Rumor had it that even Stephen Chow, back in his early days as an extra, had pulled similar stunts.
And even without ambition driving them, extras sometimes acted unpredictably. Mistakes happened—it was part of the process.
With the minor disruption resolved, filming resumed smoothly. Michiko continued to shine. She possessed undeniable acting talent, clearly honed through professional training. Even sitting quietly by the window, her expressions shifted effortlessly between melancholy and yearning, imbuing the mundane shot with an almost ethereal brilliance.
Her presence commanded attention, as though rendering everyone else invisible. To Chihara Rinto, her performance eclipsed that of the child star from the original version.
Why, then, did she resist joining the drama world? If she avoided scandal, stayed disciplined, and steered clear of self-destruction, her future as an actress seemed promising. Was it mere rebellion? Or perhaps she craved a simpler life, unwilling to endure the industry's hardships?
Soon, Michiko wrapped her scenes aboard the bus—all executed flawlessly in single takes. Clearly, she'd studied the script meticulously beforehand. Fujii Arima appreciated actors who combined raw talent with diligence. After warmly praising her efforts, he shifted focus to the hospital set, where Hashimoto couple, doctor, and plump nurse awaited their cues.
Had resources allowed, simultaneous shooting could have saved time. But small productions like theirs operated within tight constraints. As the extras disembarked, crew members dismantled part of the bus wall to prepare for upcoming arguments between the Hashimotos.
Per schedule, Michiko retreated to review her lines while waiting for the hospital set to free up. Her pivotal scene with "Grandma" loomed ahead—a near-solo performance since Grandma's lines would be dubbed later. A true test of her skills.
Passing by Chihara Rinto en route, Michiko instinctively prepared a sweet smile. But catching herself mid-grin, she remembered their earlier clash. Glancing at her mother watching from afar, she opted instead for a silent bow. Politeness mattered—just as much as giving her all during performances.
Chihara nodded, brushing aside their prior disagreement. "Good work earlier," he murmured gently.
Michiko paused briefly, as though debating whether to respond. Ultimately, she said nothing, continuing toward her mother. Minors often brought parents or agents to sets—it was permitted, though they weren't considered essential personnel.
Nambu Ryoko beamed with pride, showering her daughter with praise. Her flushed cheeks suggested she'd personally starred in several flawless takes rather than merely spectating.
Chihara glanced back once, shook his head, and refocused on the bustling set. His pen scratched hurriedly across the script pages.
---
The rest of the shoot proceeded without incident. Chihara Rinto marveled at his streak of good fortune. Struck by lightning (literally), his luck had rebounded spectacularly. Self-promotion proved smooth, the producer competent, and the director reliable.
Fujii Arima particularly impressed him. Commanding a team of forty to fifty with precision, he maintained order and efficiency. Coordinating so many moving parts wasn't easy—even willing participants needed careful management—but Fujii handled it seamlessly.
Chihara learned plenty observing him. The atmosphere remained light, buoyed by hopes of finishing early—a rare luxury in filmmaking. Progress dictated everything; unfinished tasks meant mandatory overtime, which no one enjoyed.
By noon, Fujii directed a complex long take in the hospital corridor. Three cameras rolled simultaneously, capturing bustling activity as extras milled about, lending authenticity to the setting.
Fujii felt invigorated. Directing television offered creative satisfaction far beyond mindless commercials. Moreover, Chihara's script flowed beautifully—actions, routes, and dialogue designed with meticulous care. Flawless, almost as if refined through trial runs.
A talented writer indeed. Collaborating with Chihara felt like a stroke of luck. No wonder Chihara resisted bringing in additional writers. Confidence stemmed from competence—and Fujii regretted doubting Chihara initially.
As the long take neared completion, Fujii scrutinized the monitor approvingly. Then suddenly, his eyes widened. "CUT! Stop, stop, stop!"
He glared at the set. "What's with the tray carrier? Why did you stop and bend over?"
The offending extra, dressed as a nurse, froze midway, blocking half the protagonist's body while exposing her own face. Viewers' attention would inevitably stray—ruining what could've been a seamless take.
For a moment, the nurse stood dumbfounded. Finally, she spoke timidly. "It's not my fault, Director. During rehearsals, the wheelchair-bound patient didn't look distressed. But just now, he grimaced painfully—perhaps hunger? Still, as a dedicated nurse, shouldn't I inquire about his discomfort? Otherwise, the role loses its soul…"
Fujii recognized her immediately—the same overzealous extra from earlier. Fuming, he turned to Tsumura. "Tsumura!"
The assistant director rushed over, bowing deeply. "My apologies!"
Though he'd instructed her, responsibility ultimately fell to him. Fujii didn't hold back, rapping Tsumura's head three times with a rolled-up script. "Control your people better! One more slip-up, and I'll replace you with Nishijima!"
"I'm sorry! I'll ensure it doesn't happen again!" Tsumura endured the punishment stoically. As Fujii's apprentice, he understood discipline came with the territory. Leaving to establish himself as an independent director required proving his worth first.
After absorbing the blows, Tsumura stormed into the scene, berating the troublesome extra. "How many times did I warn you?! If you can't follow instructions, say so upfront! Do you realize how much effort you've wasted?"
The extra cowered, clutching her head defensively. "I only wanted the scene to be better…"
"That's not your concern! Know your place!"
"I'm sorry! Truly, I didn't mean to disrupt anything!"
Fujii sighed. "Enough, Tsumura. Deal with this privately. Everyone, let's break for lunch. We'll resume afterward." Noon had arrived, and hunger gnawed at the crew. Continuing now risked subpar results. Better to distribute boxed meals and recharge.
Turning to Chihara Rinto, Fujii smiled amiably. "Chihara, join me for lunch. I brought something special to share."
Initially skeptical of Chihara, Fujii had considered adding more writers. Their relationship started rocky but smoothed out over time. When Chihara insisted on staying in the studio, Fujii worried about interference. Yet, Chihara spent the morning quietly observing—a clear sign of respect and eagerness to learn. Impressed, Fujii warmed to him.
A good script paired with professionalism earned admiration. Plus, among equals, sharing a meal fostered camaraderie.
Chihara accepted graciously. Networking was inevitable. Setting aside his partially written script, he followed Fujii to the director's makeshift office—one of the small cubicles adjacent to the studio floor.