Japanese Portraits: Pictures of Different People (28 page)

Hiroyasu went at once to his foreign acquaintance who, perhaps relieved that his young friend was no longer involved in the business of evicting penniless widows, lent him some money. This helped tide over the new construction-company president, who was soon able to repay the debt.

In the meantime, the foreigner's book on Japan had finally appeared. It did not sell well, but some libraries bought it and this seemed to make the author happy. Hiroyasu, however, simply shook his head at this waste of time and talent. His foreign friend ought to have written a best-seller like
Miyamoto Musashi.
The foreign friend said that
Miyamoto Musashi
was not serious. Perhaps not, said Hiroyasu, but money was.

The years passed, and within a decade Hiroyasu was a success. He owned substantial land in Osaka, where he had set up his company. He also now had money to spend on himself—steak every supper, a nightclub hostess every night.

When the foreigner appeared in Kyoto, Hiroyasu would take him out: always the most expensive beef, and after that the most exclusive nightclub, and after that the costliest of hostesses. The American was appreciative but seemed embarrassed. Hiroyasu said he shouldn't be, that he had helped him when he himself was an impoverished student and again when he was a struggling contractor. Now that he was really rather wealthy, it was only right that he should treat his older friend from time to time.

By 1980 Hiroyasu was really rich. One knew this because he always paid his taxes in the most conscientious fashion, and he was listed in the press as one of the top Kansai taxpayers. In certain sections he owned all the land in sight, as far as the eye could see, he said.

The foreigner, having frittered his time away on history and other scholarly pursuits, had—by way of contrast—very little money. He moved from an apartment into a room, and he came to look forward to his younger friend's Tokyo visits because he could then have a proper meal.

This state of affairs worried Hiroyasu. He saw the poverty and he wanted to relieve it, now that he was in a position to do so. Charity was, of course, out of the question. This one could neither give nor receive. Indeed, though he had been poor, actually much poorer than his foreign friend now was, he had never asked for anything and what little he had borrowed he had paid back, every yen of it.

No, instead he would devise a respectable and scholarly job-opportunity for the impoverished American. So Hiroyasu thought long and hard, sorting through various possibilities, casting about to find a way. And finally he came up with what he thought—and said—was the perfect solution.

The construction-company president had acquired a large tract of land in Uji, near Kyoto, which happened to be adjacent to the Byodo-in, an old building—eleventh-century, in fact—a building, moreover, of which the foreigner had often spoken with enthusiasm.

It looked truly ancient with its pond and its outlying buildings. Hiroyasu had seen it once on a school excursion and had failed to be impressed. Even then old buildings were fit for but a single purpose. But, as he knew full well, it was not important for his project that
he
be impressed; it was enough that his foreign friend was.

His project was simple, direct, impressive. It was, in a word, Byodo-in Land, a recreational park which would tower in authentic Disneyland fashion behind the old buildings that everyone came to see.

There would be a jet coaster and a giant wheel which would be decorated with Heian-period motifs. The pond would be extended so that motorboats, got up to look like Heian pleasure barges, could race by in front of the Byodo-in itself. And there would be the lucrative fast-food concessions to think about—Genjiburgers, perhaps.

Here Hiroyasu, explaining to his friend, paused to smile. The American was to fill the important position of creative manager. He was to have a fine office within view of the beloved building and would think up further ways to make proper use of the existing facilities, turning a profit while exercising his historical bent.

But the American friend was not smiling. He was pale. And it gradually occurred to Hiroyasu that this foreigner did not like the idea, that it seemed to distress him.

This was puzzling, because here, if anywhere, was the opportunity to join their two cultures, the Japanese and the American. This was something that the foreigner apparently had given himself the task—until now fruitlessly—of accomplishing. And here, offered this unheard-of opportunity ... he did not like it.

It was nearly 1984, the year that would mark the thirtieth anniversary of their meeting, and Hiroyasu had just discovered that he knew nothing about his foreign friend, that he had apparently never understood him and, by the same token, that he himself had perhaps never been understood.

He looked at the American. When they had first met it had been the latter who was rich, with his thick overcoat, and it had been the poor student who had worn only a thin raincoat. And now it was he who was wearing the overcoat.

Hiroyasu was plainly a success. And he had wanted to help his old friend. And this help had been refused. Never would he understand foreigners. They were truly a race apart. And, equally, never would they understand him, or his culture, no matter how hard they tried.

So he sold the land adjacent to the Byodo-in, sold it at a good profit. And he consequently saw less of his friend, saw less because he himself now rarely went to Tokyo, pressure of success keeping him in the home office, and the foreigner perhaps could not afford the fare to Kyoto. Their thirtieth anniversary came and went.

Hiroyasu remembered it. That poor old foreigner had been good to him, had helped him. He, Hiroyasu, really ought somehow to have done something for him. He wished he had. He'd really tried. At the same time, however, he could see now why he hadn't been able to. Hiroyasu saw Japan as it really was and the foreigner, naturally, didn't. That was the reason.

We had arrived early to discuss what we were going to say. There had been, however, no discussion. Oshima and Nobuhiko Obayashi had both got into the whiskey. Now their tongues were thickening, syllables slurring.

They were supposed to talk about modern cinema from the director's point of view. I was there as a critic, and to lend foreign prestige to the event. It was a panel at a large arts conference and there were now well over five hundred people seated waiting in the auditorium.

I suggested that we ought to be going to the stage. Obayashi rolled his head in agreement but Oshima puckered his lips, eyes closing. He wanted another drink.

- Perhaps, I said, we could put it in the teapot. There's a pot on every conference table, and cups. Then if you feel thirsty everyone will think you're drinking tea.

Oshima smiled broadly, eyes still tight shut, and pounded on the table in approval. Unsteadily a teapot was filled. I offered to carry it onto the stage and place it in front of them. Obayashi gave a courtly bow, his hand a flourish. Oshima curtsied.

I had seen the famous film director drunk many times before. He drank well. Whiskey was a natural element to him, as water is to fish. Though sober enough when working, Oshima found whiskey a relaxation. Yet, no matter how much he drank, no matter how furry the tongue and slurred the delivery, the intelligence remained acute, and critical.

Particularly critical. He is the only person I know who has been consistently so. Usually even the most adamant will eventually compromise, conformity being a dominant urge; and in Japan there is only Oshima who won't.

Himself a radical—one of the University of Kyoto intellectuals—he then turned against the radicals; he also turned against the communists, becoming one of their most severe critics. Working for a large film company, he turned against the company. Writing for a liberal film magazine, he turned against the liberals.

In all this one recognizes a single principle, a noble one, rare anywhere and here all but unheard of: an unwillingness to belong to anything, the strongest disinclination to being a member.

And with this an equally strong conception of what it means to be human. A human being is solitary, and this ought to be respected; he has failings, which call for tolerance; he is distinct, comes in many colors, shapes, and sizes, and all have a reason for being.

Oshima is a humanist, a relativist, a pluralist. All these qualities are rare. Often I have wondered how someone like him even came about. Again, as I followed him down the corridor, holding the teapot, watching him just managing the corner, I wondered at him being Japanese.

That too is relative. However, generalizations are also possible. Oshima's refusal to play the game Japanese-style has resulted in his being able to make less than one film a year, and nowadays more than one only through spending non-Japanese funds. He will not use the old-boy network, though he is plugged in, being ex-University of Kyoto. He will not play the back-scratching game. He will not indulge in quid pro quo, another favorite recreation. And he will say what he thinks regardless of whose toes are stepped upon.

In his work, on television, in the press, he has attacked the rightist, the leftist, the government itself. He has come out strongly in favor of rights for those of Korean ancestry born in Japan but regarded still as aliens. He has criticized the military, the politicians, even the social structure of Japan. He is very brave.

And, just then, very drunk. A slight stumble and we were on the stage, behind the curtain, the sound of a restive audience beyond. Then the curtain rose, the lights came up, and the crowd quieted.

Since we had not decided what to say or how to start, there was silence for a while before Oshima, smiling, began. Perhaps, he said, they came expecting to hear about film, but there are things more important than that. And he went on to talk at some length about learning somehow to say what you mean, to express what you believe.

Then Obayashi started telling a story about catching a fish last week. This interested Oshima, who responded with the story of a lost cuff link that was found in the most unlikely of places. Obayashi then talked about the difference between the sexes, using as example a recent film of his own.

- Oh, the difference between the sexes, cried Oshima, standing, looking straight up, hands at his sides: I made a film about that, but you didn't get to see it here in Japan because of the dirty-minded censors who made my pure film filthy.

Obayashi nodded, filling their teacups to the brim, and Oshima suddenly turned to me: You know a lot about the difference between the sexes. Say something!

I smiled and addressed the audience: You surely don't believe that's tea in the teapot, I hope.

Everyone laughed. The people in the hall laughed from obvious relief. My neighbors' laughter was that of two small boys caught with their hands in the cookie jar. The result was that I did not have to make a statement on the subject.

Oshima, however, did: There are differences, he said, grave differences; in another sense, though, there's no difference at all. Thus it's fine for a man to love a woman, a woman, a man; or a woman a woman or a man a man. I'm now making a picture about a man loving a man, and I'm tired of all the hypocrisy surrounding these topics.

- I'm also weary of the hypocrisy in other things in the world. Look at Japan, he cried: Look at the government. Self-serving, encouraging people to turn into buying machines, keeping them carefully mindless by daily doses of the tube. And all for profit. Look at their city planning, look at the buildings they make. Machines for living, they call them. Hah—hives is what I call them. Hives in a desert. That's what they're making now.

The audience had been growing increasingly restive. Both speakers were plainly drunk, and Oshima was shouting, red-faced, and rolling in his chair. Then a small, dapper man stood up.

- Excuse me,
sensei—

- Sensei
, roared Oshima: That's a laugh.

- Well, yes, but some of us have come a considerable distance to attend these conferences, and we have a right, I hope, to expect a bit more seriousness and a bit less levity on the part of some of the participants. We ought, I think, to apply ourselves to a more serious discussion.

- Oh, you do, do you? roared Oshima, standing up, large and flushed: Just who do you think you are, coming in here and interrupting this perfectly human conversation we were having?

The dapper man smiled, looked around, gesturing at the maniac on the podium.

- What do
you
do? asked Oshima, quite rudely.

The man smiled apologetically, yet a little triumphantly as well.

- Actually, I'm a member of that profession you were so recently denigrating. I'm an architect. The name—here his voice dropped modestly—is Kurokawa.

Sensation. It was Kisho Kurokawa, the famous architect, designer of many an award-winning building, a particular media favorite. Then, after the excitement, hushed silence. The duel was about to commence. A battle of the titans, sides drawn.

But there was no duel, no sly parrying, no telling thrusts. Oshima simply stumbled to the edge of the stage, bent precariously over it, pointed with one sharp finger and shouted: You ought to be shot!

Another tremor of excitement. Then: It's your kind of people who are destroying this country, your kind with your little boxes who are denying this country its humanity.