“There’s no other way?”
“Well, let’s see . . . shall we try something else?”
So how about music?
NO MUSIC, NO LIFE.
Can’t live without music!, as the sign outside my local Tower Records store said.
Would it be possible to live in a world without music?
I suppose we’d all manage somehow.
All those rainy days holed up in my room listening to Chopin . . . I guess I could do without it. It might still be the same. There’d be other things to find comfort in. But what would a sunny day be like without Bob Marley . . . ? Not quite the same, but I guess I’d manage.
The almost unbearable high I get from listening to the Beatles while speeding along on my bike. It’s my background music at work, while I’m delivering the mail. But I guess I’d get by.
And then listening to Bill Evans on the way walking home in the dark . . . giving that up would be painful, but I guess I’d manage without it.
Conclusion 1:
NO MUSIC, YES LIFE.
I’d go on living even without music, though it’d be sad.
NO COFFEE, NO LIFE! NO COMICS, NO LIFE!
OK, just thought I’d throw these in for comparison. Let’s say there’s no more coffee or comics. Life would go on. I’m sure I could live without Starbucks caffè lattes. And comics? It would be hard, but I could do without AKIRA, Doraemon, or Slam Dunk if it meant my life.
Look, I’ll level with you. I didn’t want to give up anything, definitely not my collection of anime figures or my limited-edition trainers, but it’s the same as, say, getting rid of hats, or Pepsi, or Häagen-Dazs ice-cream. I wouldn’t like it, but it’s not like I’d die without them. I’d give them all up in a second in exchange for my life.
So I’d tried giving up everything (only in my imagination, for practice).
Conclusion 2:
Basically, all human beings really need to survive is food, water, and shelter.
In other words, pretty much everything in this world, everything in the human world that humans made, is pretty unnecessary—OK to have around, but we could do without.
I’ve had a thing for movies my whole life. So the question is, if all movies disappeared, would it feel like part of me had gone too?
“There is a difference between knowing the path and walking the path.”
That’s a line from The Matrix.
It seems to me that the idea of something disappearing from the world and what that would really be like are two totally different things. It’s not only about something suddenly not being there—there’s something else that can’t be measured. It’s a real loss, something deeply human, that can’t be expressed by counting things. It’s so small you could miss it, but without anyone noticing, our lives are changed completely.
More than anything it made my heart ache. My girlfriend who loves movies so much, everyone around the world who loves movies . . . if I robbed all of these people of something that matters so much to them, I’d be committing a crime. And that kind of guilt would be a heavy thing to carry around.
But then again, what about my own existence? It was either me, or movies. Ultimately my life—which was now hanging by a thread—was non-negotiable. If I was dead, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy movies anymore, and I wouldn’t be able to appreciate my girlfriend’s love of movies, or how much they mean to so many people.
So I made a decision. Make movies disappear.
The main character in a movie I saw put it this way:
“There are lots of people in this world who want to sell their souls to the devil. The problem is, there isn’t a devil around who’s willing to buy.”
But actually they got it wrong. In my case, a devil who wanted to buy my soul really did appear before me. Obviously I never dreamed the Devil himself would ever actually appear.
“So, it looks like you’ve made your decision.”
He seemed pretty cheerful, at least Aloha—who I could only assume was the real Devil—was grinning as he spoke.
“Yes . . .”
“OK. You know the rules. You get to see one last film—just one now. Take your pick.”
Right. I got to choose one last film. But there’re so many! It was too much for me. I couldn’t choose.
“I’ll give you one last showing of your favorite film right here. I’ll even watch it with you.”
I remembered my girlfriend’s parting words from last night. It’s almost as if she knew what was coming.
Anyway, out of all the movies I loved, I had to pick which one would be the last I ever saw. That’s not an easy thing to do. Should I choose from all the films I’ve seen before, or something I haven’t seen yet?
I had read magazine articles and seen TV shows where someone is faced with a question like what would you have for your last meal, or what would you take with you to a desert island, but I never imagined that someday I’d be faced with the same kind of choice. It felt impossible. But in my case, turning Aloha down wasn’t really an option. I mean, it was do or die.
“Can’t decide, huh? I get it . . . and I’m not surprised. You really do like movies, don’t you?”
“I really do . . .”
“Well, if that’s the case, I’ll give you half a day to decide. The last movie of your life!”
I was at a complete loss, so I decided to visit Tsutaya. Yes, I know it’s the name of a store, but it’s also the name of a guy I know.
OK, I know that’s weird.
Let me explain.
I was at a complete loss, so I decided to visit the local video-rental store, which, by the way, is not a Tsutaya store. The guy who works there is an old friend of mine from junior high. He’s like a regular walking encyclopedia when it comes to movies, so we gave him the nickname Tsutaya. I decided to visit him, and get some help with making my decision.
Tsutaya had worked in the rental shop for over ten years. When you add it up, he’s probably spent half his life there—and he’s spent the other half watching movies. To put it bluntly, other than when he’s asleep, his entire life is devoted to movies. He’s made of movies. The biggest movie geek on earth.
Tsutaya and I met each other in spring, the year we both started junior high and were in the same class.
For the first two weeks of school Tsutaya just sat alone in the corner and spoke to no one, not during class or at recess. So I went over and talked to him, and we became close friends, just like that.
I don’t remember what made me finally break the silence. I guess I believe that this happens maybe three times, tops, in someone’s life—that you meet and are attracted to someone whose personality is so very different from your own. Either you become lovers (which would happen, in my case, if the person was a woman) or you become best friends.
There was something about Tsutaya that really drew me to him. So I just started talking to him and we became close friends.
But even when we’d grown really close, Tsutaya didn’t talk much, and he was too shy to look you in the eye. Our eyes can’t have met more than two or three times. But I liked him anyway. Normally he wouldn’t say much at all, but if we talked about movies, suddenly the words would start pouring out of his mouth, he’d get a glint in his eyes, and he’d just go on and on. I realized then that when a person talks about something they really love there’s a kind of thrill to it.
In junior high I learned a lot about movies from Tsutaya, and I watched everything he recommended. He knew about all kinds of films, from Japanese samurai movies to Hollywood science fiction and French New Wave, and even Asian indie films. His movie geek-dom knew no bounds.
“What’s good is good,” Tsutaya would always say.
He was unsurpassed in his knowledge of movie trivia. He could tell you what genre the film belonged to, when it was made and where, the cast and the director. It didn’t matter what era or nationality you were talking about. It was all the same to him. Ultimately, “what’s good is good” was all that ma
ttered.
As luck would have it, we were also in the same class in high school. So in effect, I got six years of private tutoring in film studies for free. I’d say that I was now an expert. But compared to Tsutaya, I realize that most people who claim to be experts in film are just fakes (I’d probably have to include myself in that bracket). In this day and age, when people lay claim to expert status without having done more than dipped a toe in the subject, Tsutaya was the real thing. He was an authentic, naturalborn geek. Hardcore. Although that didn’t necessarily mean I wanted to be just like him. I mean, all geeky and stuff (no offense, of course).
It was an eight-minute walk to the video-rental shop.
As usual, Tsutaya was there behind the counter. He had become so fixed in that one position over the years, he looked like a statue of a sitting Buddha on the altar of a temple. When viewed from the outside, it was more like the shop and the infinite number of DVDs had grown up around him, with Tsutaya fixed in the middle.
“Tsutaya!”
I called his name as I passed through the automatic doors of the shop.
“H-hey, l-long time no see. W-w-what’s wrong?”
Not quite Buddha . . . Tsutaya still couldn’t look you in the eye, even as an adult.
“Look, I know this is out of the blue, but I don’t have any time to chat.”
“W-w-what’s wrong?”
“I’ve got terminal cancer. I’m going to die soon.”
“Huh?”
“I could die tomorrow.”
“Wha-whaaat?”
“So I have to decide what the last film I see before I die is going to be, and I have to decide quickly.”
“H-how?”
“Tsutaya, I need your help. Can you help me decide what to watch?”
I could tell by Tsutaya’s expression that being given such a responsibility out of the blue had left him at a bit of a loss.
Sorry, Tsutaya. I realize this is all quite sudden.
“R-really?”
“Yes, really. It’s a shame, but that’s the way it goes.”
Tsutaya screwed his eyes shut. He looked like he might be grief-stricken, or maybe just trying to think. He let out a deep breath and opened his eyes. He got up from behind the counter and wandered through the maze of shelves.
Tsutaya had always been that way. If someone needed help, he got to work quickly and did whatever was needed without asking why.
We both scanned the shelves full of DVDs and Blu-rays. A never-ending succession of movies passed before my eyes. Realizing this would be the last time I ever watched a film, I found myself remembering scene after scene, line after line from my favorites.
“Everything that happens in life can happen in a show.”
So sings Jack Buchanan in The Bandwagon.
But really, could everything that had happened to me lately happen in a movie?
One day I’m diagnosed with terminal cancer—with no warning—and told I don’t have long left, then the Devil himself appears, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, promising to make things disappear from the world one by one in exchange for granting me one more day of life. It just doesn’t work. It’s too fantastical. Life is stranger than fiction!
Tsutaya was wandering around the section devoted to Westerns.
“With great power comes great responsibility.”
Peter Parker reminds himself in Spiderman, having developed super-powers.
Maybe it was the same for me. I had been making things disappear from the world in exchange for my life. Which was a pretty big responsibility, as well as a risk, and a stressful dilemma to have. Come to think of it, having signed on the dotted line with the Devil, I was beginning to understand just what Spiderman must have gone through.
What should I do? I was none the wiser, but maybe movies could offer some moral support.
“May the Force be with you!”
Thank you, Star Wars, and to you, the Jedi knights.
“I’ll be back.”
The Terminator, I know how you feel—I want to come back too!
“I’m the king of the world!”
Oh, DiCaprio. Come on, man, calm down.
“Life Is Beautiful!”
Now, that is a load of rubbish!
Suddenly a voice from behind me . . .
“Don’t think! Feel!”
I’d become completely absorbed by my own miserable thoughts when suddenly Tsutaya turned to me and spoke. In his hands he held a copy of Enter the Dragon.
“D-d-d-don’t think! Feel!”
Tsutaya cried out again.
“Thank you, Tsutaya. Bruce Lee’s great, but somehow it doesn’t seem like a good candidate for the last movie you want to watch just before you die.”
I laughed at his suggestion.
“When I buy a new book, I read the last page first. That way, in case I die before I finish, I know how it ends.”
So says Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally.
Standing there looking at the shelves just made it impossible to ignore the fact that I was going to die before I had the chance to see them all. I couldn’t help but think of all the movies I hadn’t seen, all the meals I hadn’t eaten, and all the music I hadn’t heard.
When you think about it, it’s the future you’ll never get to see that you regret missing the most when you die. I realize it’s strange to use the word “regret” about things that haven’t happened yet, but I couldn’t help thinking something along the lines of “if only I would be alive.” It’s a strange idea. Although really, when it comes down to it, none of these things matter, in the end—like all the movies I was about to make disappear completely.
Eventually we ended up at the shelf that held Chaplin’s entire back catalog.
I found I was whispering to myself:
“Life is a tragedy when seen in close-up, but a comedy in long-shot.”
The dream I’d had earlier that morning came back to me.
“Th-th-that’s from L-Limelight, right?” Tsutaya missed nothing.
In Limelight, the little tramp, played by Charlie Chaplin, tries to stop a ballet dancer, whose hopes have been dashed, from committing suicide. He tells the dancer:
“Life is a beautiful, magnificent thing, even to a jellyfish.”
He was right, even jellyfish are here for a reason—they have meaning. And if that’s the case, then movies and music, coffee and pretty much everything else must have some kind of meaning, too. Once you start down that path, then even all those “unnecessary things” turn out to be important for some reason or another. If you’re trying to separate out the countless “meaningless things” in the world from everything else, you’ll eventually have to make a judgment about human beings, about our existence. In my case, I suppose it’s all the movies I’ve seen, and the memories I have of them that give my life meaning. They’ve made me who I am.
To live means: to cry and shout, to love, to do silly things, to feel sadness and joy, to even experience horrible, frightening things . . . and to laugh. Beautiful songs, beautiful scenery, feeling nauseous, people singing, planes flying across the sky, the thundering hooves of horses, mouth-watering pancakes, the endless darkness of space, cowboys firing their pistols at dawn . . .
And next to all the movies that play on a loop inside me, sit the images of friends, lovers, the family, who were with me when I watched them. Then there are the countless films that I’ve recorded in my own imagination—the memories that run through my head, which are so beautiful, they bring tears to my eyes.
I’ve been stringing together the movies I’ve seen like rosary beads—all human hope and disappointment is held together by a thread. It doesn’t take much to see that all life’s coincidences eventually add up to one big inevitability.
“S-s-s-so, I guess that’s all, right?”
Tsutaya put Limelight in a bag and handed it to me.
“Thanks.”
“Um, I d-d-don’t know what’s going to happen now, but . . .”
Ts
utaya started to choke up and couldn’t get any more out.
“What’s wrong?”
Tsutaya hung his head and began to cry. He cried like a baby, tears flowing down his cheeks.
I was reminded of when Tsutaya would sit on the window ledge at school and look so lonely. But as I watched him sitting on his own there by the window, it actually felt like I was drawing strength from him. He would never do anything other than what felt most important to him—and he had no problem doing it alone, at his own speed, without needing validation from the people around him. Seeing him there, just doing his thing, just being himself, somehow made me feel like things would be OK. At that point in my life, nothing was really that important to me. Looking back, it wasn’t him who needed me. It was really me who needed him.
All the feelings I’d been bottling up suddenly came pouring out and I began to cry too.
“Thank you.”
I managed somehow to get the words out.
“I-I j-just want you to stay alive,” Tsutaya said between sobs.
“Don’t cry, Tsutaya. It’s not all that bad. I’ve got a good story and someone to tell it to. You remember what they said in The Legend of 1900. And right now, Tsutaya, that’s what you mean to me. It’s because you’re here that I’m not completely done for.”
“Th-thank you.”
Having said the words, Tsutaya just stood there and carried on crying.
“So how’d it go? Did you decide?”
I’d made it to the movie theater at last, where my girlfriend was waiting.
“Well, this is it.”
I handed her the package.
“Limelight, eh? Interesting . . . Good choice.”
She opened the DVD box and then looked a little stunned. There was no disc inside. The packet was empty.
The store always rented out DVDs in their boxes, so every once in a while there would be a screw-up like this. But how about that for timing!
Tsutaya, this is a pretty crucial error!
On the other hand, as Forrest Gump said, “Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.”
So true! You never know what you’re gonna get. It’s pretty much the story of my life! Life is a tragedy when seen in close-up, but a comedy in long-shot.
If Cats Disappeared From the World Page 6
