Shimokitazawa

“Cut.” Milos called it. His hands dropped to his sides then he made a small soundless clap. “That’s Season Two done, people. Good job A-Team.”

The cast relaxed and came off the set. Milos turned to the crowd who watched on from behind the cameras. “Thanks B-Team. You all coming back for Season Three?”

     His wife, Rada, had come down to the set. She strode over to him and pecked him on the mouth. Milos had met her when he lived in Tokyo. Her modelling career was over, but she’d integrated seamlessly from the runway into the Beverly Hills beautiful wives set.

Shimokitazawa had been an unexpected phenomenon. A TV series adaptation of the vaguely autobiographical book of the same name that Milos had written years earlier when he lived in Japan's capital. The book itself hadn’t been a success, but the first season of the TV show had galvanised audiences, even as it enraged conservative critics who fumed that it glamorised drugs and cheap sex. But that trope had been done to death, and what would surpass Euphoria for sheer cinematic brilliance, perfectly cast characters, scalpel-like scripting, and Labyrinth’s mesmeric music? The difference with SK, as it had been nicknamed by adoring fans, was the old man Sato, who is inserted into the main character Jay’s life, and introduces him to art as a means of helping him find himself. And to do that, the characters jet around the world. The luxury yacht in St Tropez was shot off Miami; the New York and Paris apartments in studio in Century City with two days shooting for establishing shots on the Lower East Side; and Barcelona was in studio too, with a single quick trip for shoots in the Bari Gotic and on Las Rambles for Spain, and on Faubourg St Honore and the Marais for Paris.

     So in amongst the drug-fuelled binges quiet interludes of artistic contemplation and gorgeous shots of the world’s great cities peppered the episodes. They were a palette cleanser and gave the otherwise debauched antics of the characters an intellectualisation that elevated them, furnishing SK’s audience with a highbrow justification for the voyeurism to which the show had been condemned. And this seemed to enrage and confuse the show’s opponents even more. They ungenerously called it ‘thinking man’s porn’, suggesting that the art sequences were cynical insertions, included to legitimise the otherwise explicit content and for no other reason.  

     Ryder hardly thought the content was explicit – an innocent trawl around the internet unearthed much more unhygienic imagery. And the idea that the art sequences were so calculated was absurd. One only need read Milos’s book to understand that its entire underlying premise was the art of the 20th century. But moral crusaders on both sides raged. Those on the left fumed that it objectified women; those on the right that it glamourised drug use and sex. All the frothing from pulpits and stewing on liberal arts college campuses simply drove interest in the show, and that drove views.

     Ryder let out a long breath. Season Three was six months away from shooting. Milos and the other writers had apparently been working furiously on the script, but it was unfinished. Season Two concluded where the original book ended, so the writers were now in uncharted territory.

     The consummation of the season meant little for the stars created by the show – they were all busy on other projects. Jette was pencilled in for a movie in Spain, and Saga had all her stuff going on. He didn’t know what Landon and Zara were going to do, but worst case for them they’d be drifting between Malibu, Los Angeles, and Santa Barbara.

     He took a deep breath and cast a glance at Laila, and she made a small melancholy smile. She’d be back to Studio City, sweating it out in the desert with him, her only trips back to West LA for hopeless castings. He’d be back fixing cars and hanging paintings in Brentwood and the Palisades. He was looking forward to it, and to spending time with Hawk and Willow.

     He went over to Tali, and she smiled affectionately and pecked him on the cheek. “You did so well.”

Ryder smiled. “You did too.” He glanced across at Zara. “She’s copied you more than Season One.”

Tali shrugged. “What am I going to do? Jette’s a bad facsimile of you.”

     “It’s their show babe.” He made a crooked smile and raised a shoulder, a half shrug of his own. “No regrets.” He pecked her back, and they watched from behind the lights as Jette and Zara stepped off the set and hugged each other and Milos, then shook hands with Rada.

     “You going to the wrap party?” she asked him.

     “Don’t think so. Don’t like them much honestly. And Hawk and Willow. Promised Hawk I’d shoot hoots with him and Nilo. You?”

     “I guess so.” Her words lacked enthusiasm, but what was she to do? Of course she’d go. It was just too alluring for them all. It was the drug they hated taking but kept taking anyway. She creased a brow. “Who’s Nilo? Have I met him?”

Ryder cast his head to the catering trailer. “He works here. From Venezuela. He’s a dude, super smart, and he and Hawk are tight. They talk tech stuff that’s beyond me. When he’s not making kale salads for Saga, he’s doing math or coding. Came across the border when he was four. Never got the chance to go to school. Such a pity. If he’d been born in Chicago rather than Caracas, he’d have gone Ivy. He studies furiously at night, but…” Ryder made a despairing shrug. Both of them knew that the cards were stacked impossibly against him. For so many Central Americans who’d braved the border crossing the American Dream was time-shifted, maybe one generation forward – and that was a very tenuous maybe. Their kids might have a chance, but for the intrepid parents, California meant picking oranges out the back of San Bernadino, or minimum-wage services jobs.

     Jette was hosting at his place in Malibu, and aside from the cast they all knew, half of young Hollywood would be there. The B-team would stand on the edges and watch Jette and Landon horse around in the pool, insouciant and feigning indifference. Saga would probably sashay in a sarong and try to hide the fact that she was five dips deep in gutter glitter. Her eyes would flash in the Californian night, and her girl crew would slither around her, the beautiful silent felines who nobody dared approach, and nobody had heard speak.

     “It’ll be fun,” Ryder suggested, and cast her a sympathetic but sad smile.

     “Come,” she beseeched him, but he shook his head.

     “That’s their world Tal.” He always dropped the last letter off her name, and he knew she liked it when he did. “I’ve got stuff to do. I always feel uncomfortable at those things, like an interloper. Come with. I’m going to walk up Temascal Canyon, watch the sun set then drive back on South Topanga with the hood down.”

     Her shoulders slumped. “I want to, but I kind of want to go to the party. Come.” This time she was more insistent. “You’re so far from an interloper. You are Shimokitazawa.”

     He chuckled. “Only to you.”

     “And Beckett, and Laila, and Malik and Milos.” She emphasized the last names. Their prodigious DOP and the series creator respectively. “And deep in their hearts, you’re SK to Jette and Zara and Landon too.”

     “Well then that’s enough,” he said. “Throw a frisbee out the back of Braemar tomorrow?”

      Tali was so conflicted. She wanted to go with him – but the party.

     The crew had already begun taking down the set, and Milos and Rada had disappeared into his trailer, Ryder guessed, or off in one of his cars to freshen up before the drive to Jette’s.

     Beckett came up behind him and clapped him on the shoulders. “You’re not coming, are you?”

     Tali answered for him. “Yes, he is.”

     Ryder turned and shook his head. “Things to do boss.”

     Beckett canted to one side with resigned derision. “Like what? Watch the sunset while you swelter in the Valley? Come. What’s fucking wrong with you?”

     Ryder shrugged again. “Got to put new bushes in the E36. I promised Hawk. And hanging pictures. I’m backed up. Clients are getting frustrated.”

     “One night,” Beckett objected. “You don’t have to get fucked up. Just come for a few hours.”

     The three of them were interrupted when Jette loped across to them. He was a baked-on celebrity by the end of Shimokitazawa’s first season. Jimmy Kimmel had interviewed him, and he’d been covered in Variety as one of Hollywood’s stars to watch.

     “Hey.” He draped an arm over Ryder and Beckett's shoulders. “You coming?” He was always inclusive of Team B, but there was a vague superiority that hung around his interactions. Ryder got it – Jette had been propelled into the stratosphere, the realm that all the other crew members sought. There was that tension in their interactions. At Milos’s command, Jette studied him when he prepped his lines, and Milos demanded Jette copy Ryder's intonations and mannerisms when the set went live for a hot take.

     “Tali and I are coming,” Beckett replied, then tipped his head to Ryder. “Ry’s got family stuff.”

     “Sure you can’t make it?” Jette turned to him, a mild disappointment in his words, but Ryder wasn’t sure he was quite as disappointed as he suggested. There was an unspoken knowledge that Jette and Landon copied him and Beck, and that Zara copied Tali. And it was only unspoken amongst the cast. Milos demanded it, vociferously, relentlessly – and embarrassingly.

     In the preparatory takes, the friction between Ryder and Tali on set was smouldering – in fact it was more real than any relationship Ryder had ever had off set. And that on set chemistry was starting to bleed into real life. He did find himself thinking about her way too often, but he always tried to restrain it once they came off set. Tali let it bleed across their two worlds, and it confused him. He couldn’t really determine if what was happening was art polluting life, or if their thing was a real thing. Hawk thought it was, and Willow loved Tali, but he just didn’t know, and couldn’t step over the line at risk of their friendship.

     No one openly mentioned what he and Tali created when the camera rolled, but when Milos’s assistant – Milos was never there for the preps – called cut, everyone was silent, bewitched, peering at them intently. And Jette and Zara always watched on, curious and concentrated. But when Ryder watched them try to replicate it, it always felt like an imperfect facsimile, like their burgeoning stardom somehow threw up a barrier that lacked authenticity. Seemingly, the audiences didn’t pick it. Shimokitazawa had been a shooting star on Netflix, and online the second season was awaited with vibrating anticipation.

     Ryder turned to Jette now. “I can’t. Thanks man, I appreciate it. Little bro has a test coming up and cars and guitars have been neglected.”

     “Drop in if you can,” Jette offered again. “Even if it’s just for an hour. You’re part of the glue that holds this whole thing together.”

Ryder smiled. Jette’s sentiment felt genuine, but he noticed Tali’s eyes narrow, and Beckett transferred his weight from one leg to the other, uncomfortably.

     “You killed it this season Jetter,” Ryder offered, and Jette had. His acting was a step-up from Season One. If the whole thing was cut together well, and with Malik as the DP, Season Two would obliterate the expectations of its impatient audience.

Jette made a broad smile, but it didn’t make it all the way to his eyes. “Please come,” he asked again, and this time Ryder was sure it was genuine, and almost a plea. A fleeting frown crossed his brow. 

     He nodded. “I’ll try. I’ll check in with the kids.” Jette’s moment of confession – vulnerability? Ryder wasn’t sure what it was – closed over and he clapped Ryder and Beckett on the shoulder.

     “It will be elite. We’ve gone all out.”

     Jette was distracted away when Saga hailed him from across the stage. She was always cagey around the B-Team, keeping her distance from them, never engaging in conversation, only speaking to them when it was unavoidable. She was weirdly jealous of Laila, her B-Team double, and catty towards Tali. Ryder couldn’t make sense of it.

     She and Jette made away together leaving the three of them alone.

     “So you’ll come?” Tali implored him. He shook his head.

     “I’ll go home first, freshen up, and see how I’m feeling.”

     Tali’s shoulders slumped. “You’re not coming.”

     He smiled and hugged Beckett affectionately. “Catch up soon brother. Move to the valley with me. West LA is so far away. You’ll learn to love the heat over the back.”

     Beckett chuckled, despondently. “Go look after that little rock star.”

     “Come with,” Ryder offered. Beckett loved Willow, and Willow loved him back. She was never happier than when he and Tali were at the house.

     “The twelve-year-old Hendrix,” Beckett mused. “God I love that kid. So conflicted. Can I swing by tomorrow?”

     Ryder nodded with a warm grin and kissed Tali on the check. “Thirteen in a month. Nearly out of middle school." He stood back. "The B-Team Jay, Connor, and Emma,” he said, referencing the characters they stood in for. “We’re the hottest cinematic trio never to make the screen.”

     Tali smiled and cast her eyes down. He felt a welling of desire for her. She was so hot. She didn’t seem able to say anything to him.