The Changeling by Kenzaburo Oe
The man then flung his arm around Kogito’s shoulder as if they were the most intimate of friends and began to hustle him toward the staircase. Kogito was concerned about leaving Iga behind but, unable to resist the natural force that was bearing him away, he allowed himself to be led to the entrance of the festival’s main hall, on the second floor. From that floor on up, everything seemed already to have been taken over by the organizers of the pending film festival.
Kogito’s escort, the friendly older man, wore an official registration badge hanging on a lanyard around his neck, and the person in charge of the entrance pretended not to notice that Kogito lacked a badge of his own. He practiced the same selective myopia on Iga, who had noticed Kogito’s departure and came galloping up the stairs behind them. As the two visitors were following their rescuer along a passageway that led to the main meeting hall, they came to a place where a number of men were standing around in front of a large, half-open door, and their little procession ground to a momentary halt. Their guide simply threaded his way through this roadblock without greeting or explanation, then ushered Kogito and Iga inside.
They found themselves in a vast, airy room with a ceiling that was twice as high as normal. People were bustling around on the stage at the front of the room, making preparations for filming. Just inside the entrance, there was a chair piled high with four or five overcoats, and a corresponding number of stagehands was busy installing lighting apparatus and punctuating the hall with small viewing screens. The rest of the filming equipment appeared to be already in place. Even at a flashy event like the film festival there was an air of German practicality, so it seemed natural when a sturdily built young woman wearing khaki-colored jeans came up and handed Kogito (who was still standing near the door) a cup of coffee, a small plastic container of milk, and a packet of sugar. But she didn’t say a word, even though Kogito had noticed that most bright young German workers were usually quite fluent in English.
Meanwhile, Iga had been led into the shadow of the main screen by the older man, and they were deep in conversation. As far as Kogito could tell, they were trying to clear up some late-arising point of confusion. Nevertheless, when the older man (who, it emerged, was to be the interviewer-director of the day’s filming) returned from his impromptu conference with Iga, he shepherded Kogito with complete naturalness and ease to a pair of chairs that had been placed in front of the screen and sat him down on the right-hand side. On the left side, Iga, still looking somewhat bewildered, was being fitted with a microphone by the sound engineer. When Kogito had been similarly equipped, the director took a seat beside the camera that faced them and gave instructions to the crew member standing next to him.
A monitor had been pushed forward to a place where Kogito and Iga could see it, and it suddenly flickered into life. The scene that began to unfold on the screen was so uncannily convincing that Kogito thought for a moment that he was having some sort of Kurosawa-era samurai-film hallucination, complete with Japanese actors.
The terrain is a rather wide, low basin or hollow, with a thick, flourishing forest of Japanese cedar trees closing in on it from either side. On the near flank, a military camp has been set up, and in the midst of a welter of spears and colorful pole-mounted banners stands a group of samurai warriors, encased in ornate medieval-style armor from head to toe. On either side of the foot soldiers are rows of mounted horsemen. Everyone is obviously on high alert, and the tension is palpable.
The camera pulls back, and on this side, some distance from the samurai encampment, a huge throng of half-naked farmers comes into view, seen from behind. There are too many of them to count, and because of the camera’s angle they seem to swarm into the scene, entirely filling the frame. The farmers continue to advance, like a tidal wave. On the other side, the samurai forces surge forward to meet their adversaries. Just as the two hard-charging factions are about to collide, the scene changes to something completely different.
Now we’re looking at a contemporary sports broadcast of a rowdy, exciting rugby match between an English and a German team. In this scene, too, the forces on the near flank are on the offensive, gradually gathering strength as the focus of the battle moves into the opposing territory. The game rages fiercely as the opponents stage a bold counterattack. Then, climactically, one player on the near wing fields a spectacular pass and starts charging down the right side of the opposing team’s territory. It’s virtually a one-man race, and it looks as if no one can stop him.
The scene changes again, and we’re back on the Japanese battleground. The army of farmers has already taken occupation of the terrain surrounding the cedar grove where the samurai forces have dug in. At the head of the mass of farmers is a rough-hewn box with wooden wheels, and atop this makeshift chariot, like a threadbare Roman centurion, stands a man whose disproportionately large, egg-shaped head is wrapped in layers of dirty, patched cloth. The wooden cart, with its odd-looking passenger, is pushed forward and then swallowed up as the multitude of rebellious farmers surges into battle. Thousands of bamboo spears are hoisted into the air, and the farmers raise a mighty battle cry in unison. And ... fade out.
After the monitor had gone dark, the cameraman began filming. The director of the interview turned toward Kogito and asked a question in German, with a smile that was almost shy, and Iga began to translate the query into Japanese. Then he paused and, without trying to hide his perplexity, asked Kogito a question of his own.
“Of course, it’s up to you to answer the question as you see fit,” Iga said, “but I’m getting the feeling that the subject matter now on the table is very different from what the director originally proposed. How shall we handle this? Rather than answering the question right away, would you like to have them turn off the cameras for a while and then start over after we’ve agreed on some ground rules?”
Kogito had no idea what was going on, but he could see that the camera was still rolling, the sound-recording technicians were looking intently in his direction, and the young woman in khaki-colored jeans was opening a notebook, apparently to chronicle the proceedings. In that highly charged atmosphere, it would have been extremely awkward to ask the director (who was not only kindly-looking but clearly highly intelligent, as well) to call the operation to a temporary halt. Quicker than thought, Kogito rejected that idea. “Just translate the questions,” he told Iga. “I’ll answer them as we go along.”
So the interview recommenced, and the first question was about the film-in-progress that was being made from one of Kogito’s long novels, which had been published in German translation as Der stumme Schrei. They had just watched all the completed scenes.
“We would like to hear your reaction to the film so far, as the original author,” the director said in German, as Iga translated. “Also, we would appreciate hearing your comments about the acclaimed Japanese film director Goro Hanawa, who was so generous with his advice and encouragement at the beginning, during the screenplay-conversion stage of the project, while the young filmmakers were persevering in the face of enormous financial difficulties. We know that you had a long-standing friendship with Mr. Hanawa, who so tragically committed suicide, and on top of that, you were his brother-in-law, as well.”
Kogito replied: “The Japanese title of my book, Rugby Match 1860, is a metaphor that ties together two events. One is the peasant uprising that occurred in the important year of 1860—a year that also saw the second opening of Japan to the West—and the other is the civilian movement to oppose the signing of the Japan-U.S. Security Treaty, a hundred years later in 1960. I see that the filmmakers have made the bold choice to render the metaphors with literal imagery, and I think it would be interesting to continue in the same vein. If it was Goro who proposed to the young German filmmakers that it be done this way, then I can definitely see traces of his trademark humorous yet coruscating satire, and I marvel at the young film-makers’ skill in making that a reality on the screen.
“In case you don’t know the background, th
“Anyway, the leader, restored to a semblance of life, is once again riding in the box with wooden wheels, being propelled along the road by his followers. This is a reference to something that really did happen just after Japan lost the war; it’s an incident that is important to me as both a member of my family and, personally, as an individual. I wrote about it in a novel called His Majesty Himself Will Wipe Away My Tears, and elsewhere, as well.
“The last thing I would like to point out is that the scenes of the mountain valley depicted in these video excerpts have succeeded brilliantly in capturing the essential atmospherics of the terrain around the area where I grew up. There’s an essay by an architect friend of mine, in which he analyzes the topological characteristics of my novels. What I saw just now on the screen gave me the feeling that the architect’s superb structural logic had somehow been transformed into visual images. I remember hearing about an extensive field-research trip that Goro went on, accompanied by my wife—as you mentioned earlier, she is Goro’s younger sister—that included a visit to the house where I was born and raised. (This happened about twenty years ago, while I was living and teaching in Mexico City.) This film has made excellent use of that research and brought it vividly to life. In all likelihood, the filmmakers based their production design on the particulars that Goro gave them in his informal lectures, but to transform those details into film in such a vivid way and with such a high degree of integrity—well, I have to say, these young German filmmakers have really earned my respect.”
When Kogito had finished speaking, the interview director, making no attempt to disguise the tension he felt about having a hidden agenda, broached the crucial question.
“May I assume that you, as the author, have a strong desire to see this film project completed?” he ventured. “The team that’s working on it noticed a problem in the contract with the original author—that is, with you. Your agent pointed out the same thing, and then the funding for the project dried up, so production unavoidably ground to a halt for an extended period of time. Is there any chance that you might have the inclination to offer these young artists the assistance that would make it possible to overcome these obstacles?”
After translating the second question up to this point, Iga asked the director a question of his own, this time in English rather than German, so that Kogito would be able to understand as well: “When you say ‘inclination’ and ‘assistance,’ what exactly are you hoping to obtain?”
“Well, it’s like this,” the director replied. “First, contractually, there’s the option itself; these young artists haven’t officially acquired the film rights to the original novel, and we were wondering whether you might consider letting them have those rights without paying a fee? Second, it has been reported that the estate of Goro Hanawa, the director, may be worth as much as five million deutsche marks—that’s nearly nine million U.S. dollars. If that’s true, could we possibly ask you to try to persuade the bereaved family to invest in this film?”
After first translating that question for Kogito, Iga quickly added a postscript of his own in Japanese. “Speaking as a third-party observer,” he said in a low voice, “I really don’t think this is the sort of thing that you should have to deal with during the filming of an interview. It’s extremely self-serving on their part, in my opinion. What’s more, I can’t help suspecting that the ulterior motive for setting up this so-called interview was so they could push the conversation in this direction, and then if you agreed to their terms they would have proof of it on film. So what do you think—shall we call a halt to this charade right now? On the other hand, to look at the situation in a more positive way, if you want to help them finish a production that’s run aground, and if you’d like to actively offer them support for that purpose—look, I agree that it’s a worthy project, and the part that’s already finished is, as you pointed out, really very fine work. So if that’s what you want, I’ll be happy to translate your response, whatever it may be.”
Kogito chose to proceed with the interview. First, though, he gave his word, in reply to the director’s leading question, that he would let the young German filmmakers have the rights to his novel for free, provided the rest of the production was consistent with the samples that were already in the can. After having seen the video playback of the scenes, he felt certain that both the screenplay and the staging had Goro’s distinctive fingerprints all over them. Why? Because they corresponded exactly with the ideas and interpretations that Goro had talked about on some of the tapes he made for Tagame, before he went to the Other Side.
Kogito found himself seriously regretting not having brought Tagame with him to Berlin, because he would have liked to compare Goro’s recorded remarks with the film he had just seen. Of course, he had no right whatsoever to speak about the use of Goro’s estate, nor did he have any intention of meddling in the bereaved family’s financial affairs, and he made that perfectly clear to everyone on hand.
After the interview was over, the white-haired director quickly reverted to his original kindly, genteel mien. As he was escorting Kogito and Iga out of the hotel, he said that Kogito’s filmed remarks would provide encouragement and inspiration for the young artists who were trying to rebuild the German film industry—a goal that the country’s chancellor himself had endorsed in a video message he’d sent for the opening of the film festival. The director added that it was especially good that they had filmed Kogito’s gratifyingly specific comments right there in what would be the central venue for the upcoming festival.
On the way home in the taxi, Iga said, as if to confirm the director’s remarks, “The reason Germany’s New Cinema is getting off the ground now is because they have that director leading them. It’s only natural that you would want to come to their rescue when they’re struggling financially. But do you suppose Goro realized that he would end up becoming so deeply involved with the young German filmmakers? It just seems odd that they went ahead and started work on the film version of your novel without making sure they had the rights sewn up. Or is it possible that they didn’t make their plan clear to Goro, and he unwittingly got dragged into their plan to go ahead and make part of the film and then present it as a fait accompli?”
“Mrs. Azuma-Böme seems to have been helping them out quite a bit, as well, but I wonder whether she was unaware of what was really going on,” Kogito mused. “Or, on the contrary, maybe she knew exactly what was going on, and was trying to make them finish it so it would be, as you say, a fait accompli?”
“Hmm, that’s hard to say. One thing I do know for certain is that she really loves film. I’ve often seen her at showings of the young artists’ experimental work at the Berlin Film Festival and elsewhere. But would she really go so far as to participate in a legally dubious scheme during the production stage? She started out as an actress, you know, and they say that when Goro was being promoted as a ‘new face’ at the beginning of his acting career, she costarred with him as a senior actress. I’ve heard her bragging about that, more than once.”
“She told me that she met Goro again when he came here for the Berlin Film Festival, and they probably realized that they had some sort of history,” Kogito said. “But what about Mrs. Azuma-Böme’s daughter? What’s the connection there?”
“Oh, did you hear the way the mother bad-mouths her own daughter?” Iga laughed. “I think that rather than being opposed to the girl’s involvement with Goro, the mother was just generally critical of her daughter. I know the girl helped Goro out on
“But why do you think the relationship between the mother and daughter degenerated so radically?”
“Apparently the mother said, ‘Don’t try to be too helpful, because then you’ll be no better than a Mädchen für alles, and if you do that he’ll get bored with you right away,’ and I gather that her daughter asked a German friend of hers, who explained about that term’s derogatory meaning. And the girl’s feelings were so deeply hurt that she wasn’t able to forgive her mother for saying such a thing. Anyway, that’s what I heard. The daughter was brought up in Tokyo by her father, Mrs. Azuma-Böme’s ex-husband, but after the mother got married again, to a German, the girl came to live with them in Berlin. That’s why she can barely speak a word of German.”
“You certainly know a lot about this,” Kogito said.
“That’s because I happen to know the German woman who told the girl what that phrase meant; in fact, she actually came to me afterward to make sure she had explained it correctly in English. After she told the girl, she started to worry that she might have gotten it wrong.”