Something Like an Autobiography - Akira Kurosawa [65]
From this point on, my approach to literature changed. I made a deliberate effort to change it. I began to read carefully, asking myself what the author was trying to say and how he was trying to express it. I thought while I read, and at the same time I kept notes on the passages that struck some emotional chord in me or that I considered for some reason important. When I reread in this new way things I had read in the past, I realized how superficial my initial reading had been.
Not just literature but all the arts, as one matures, become gradually more comprehensible in their depth and subtlety. This is of course a very commonplace notion, but for me at that time it was a revelation, and it was Yama-san who led me toward it. Before my very eyes he had taken his pen to my script in the midst of reading it and revised it as he went along. I was not only surprised at his ability, and inspired to re-educate myself, but at the same time came to understand something of the secrets of creation.
Yama-san said: “If you want to become a film director, first write scripts.” I felt he was right, so I applied myself wholeheartedly to scriptwriting. Those who say an assistant director’s job doesn’t allow him any free time for writing are just cowards. Perhaps you can write only one page a day, but if you do it every day, at the end of the year you’ll have 365 pages of script. I began in this spirit, with a target of one page a day. There was nothing I could do about the nights I had to work till dawn, but when I had time to sleep, even after crawling into bed I would turn out two or three pages. Oddly enough, when I put my mind to writing, it came more easily than I had thought it would, and I wrote quite a few scripts.
One of the scenarios I completed during this period was Daruma-dera no doitsujin (A German at Daruma Temple), a story based on the life of the architect Bruno Taut. On Yama-san’s recommendation, it was later accepted for publication in the film magazine Eiga hyōron. This, incidentally, led to a troublesome occurrence. Yama-san entrusted the sole copy of this script to a critic from the magazine, on the understanding that it would be printed in the next issue. This critic proceeded to go out drinking and leave the manuscript on a train. In righteous indignation Yama-san protested such behavior and demanded that the man advertise in the newspapers for its return. But no advertisement ever appeared. I naturally did not want to let this opportunity for making a reputation go by, so I set about rewriting the script. I stayed up three nights in a row racking my brain to remember what the original had been like, and when I finished, I took it myself to the plant where they printed Eiga hyoron. There I met the very man who had lost my original, but, far from attempting to apologize, he wore an expression that said, “You should be grateful that we are going to put you in print.” To explain it in as kind a way as possible, there was probably no other attitude that fellow knew how to take. At least, this is what I tried to tell myself, but, to tell you the truth, my blood was boiling. To this day, when I think of that critic, I feel nauseated with rage.
When I reached a certain level of achievement in scriptwriting, Yama-san told me to start editing. I already knew that you can’t be a film director if you can’t edit. Film editing involves putting on the finishing touches. More than this, it is a process of breathing life into the work. I had already grasped this, so before Yama-san gave me the command, I had already been spending time in the editing room.
Or, rather, I had been wreaking havoc in the editing room. I had been taking Yama-san’s unedited footage