On another enchanted day, Mieko and I were driving by a mountain lake in Kyoto that was filled with colorful barges and rowboats, all part of an amazing celebration to mark the annual turning of the leaves. Exotic Kabuki and No dramas were performed on the various barges. Mieko and I joined the other observers, skimming across the lake in a rowboat to watch the different displays. Happily, there was also a barge passing out free glasses of sake. We were all getting a bit looped as we rowed through the barge dramas, and there were a number of jovial boating mishaps. Only the Japanese, an inherently poetic people, could invent such an extravagantly bizarre and beautiful way to celebrate the simple change of seasons.
MIFUNE-SAN
Shogun gave me the opportunity to collaborate with wonderful Japanese actors. Yoko Shimada won the part of Lady Mariko after an intensive talent search throughout Japan. She was an important star there and crowds gathered just to catch a glimpse of her. In spite of her warrior husband and other dangers, Lady Mariko risks becoming Blackthorne’s lover. Yoko played her perfectly, even though she had to act in a foreign language. The story of Blackthorne and Lady Mariko’s affair, doomed as it was, was powerful to me. Although surrounded by brutality, Blackthorne is able to keep an open heart, to give and receive love. It was a message that I may not have been so attuned to then but that would later flower in my personal life.
On Shogun, I also had the honor of working with Toshiro Mifune, Japan’s biggest movie star and arguably one of the greatest actors of all time. As an ardent fan of foreign films of the 1950s, I had seen director Akira Kurosawa’s The Seven Samurai and Rashomon, starring that man-leopard, Mifune. I had been frightened and dazzled by his physical and spiritual power. At our first meeting prior to filming Shogun, I approached Mifune-san with awe and caution, but found him unexpectedly reserved and a bit shy. In a blue blazer and gray slacks, Mifune-san pretended to speak little English, but I suspect he understood a great deal.
Mifune, who played Lord Toranaga, was a gentle man off camera. But in costume, particularly as a samurai, he became a force of nature, like a tsunami that rises up out of the sea and imposes its will on everything in its path. Before a scene, a savage, low growl would often emanate from Mifune, rumbling from him like distant thunder. Neither I nor anyone else dared to go near him on set, except in the line of duty.
But this great man was full of surprises. One day during our lunch break, he saw me hiding a Japanese coin in the rafters of the set ceiling. Mifune was overcome with laughter, saying I was “pure Japanese,” preferring to keep my money under the mattress rather than in a bank. I laughed, too. It was a small but intimate moment in which, however briefly, we both left the veneer of courtesy and discretion behind.
Another time, on an outdoor set, Mifune noticed that my straw sandals were not tied correctly and so he got down on his knees and retied them himself. It was like having your shoes shined by God because status is extremely important to the Japanese—they secure and maintain their position with great care and pride—and at the time of Shogun Mifune-san was at the very pinnacle of his career. I was touched by that gesture.
One day, we were shooting a climactic scene in which Toranaga calls together all his various warlords and their armies in preparation for a great battle. The outdoor set was a huge arena, enclosed by a wall of gorgeous cloth banners that surrounded a dais, where Toranaga was to address the warriors. Blackthorne, having become Toranaga’s most trusted samurai, was seated on the edge of the dais watching the majestic arrival of each army and awaiting the final entrance of Toranaga himself. The long scene was to be shot from a high tower at the far corner of the set. Jerry London, our director, yelled “Action!” and the lords and their armies marched in with tremendous dignity. After the hundreds of soldiers were in place, Toranaga was to ride in on horseback, dismount, and approach the dais.
Well, there we were, all in place. And no Toranaga. After what seemed like history’s longest pause, I heard the sound of hoofbeats charging unimaginably hard and fast. Then Mifune, who had said earlier that he was rather frightened of horses, shot into the vast arena like lightning, heading straight for the dais and straight for me. He was galloping faster than any stunt man I’ve ever seen in my life. I thought to myself, “Mifune has lost control of his mighty steed and in about half a second, I’ll be trampled to death by the rampaging pair.” Then, like pure magic, Mifune and his stampeding horse stopped right on their mark. Almost too quickly to see, Mifune dismounted and was striding toward me, as if he’d just appeared out of thin air. Thank God we didn’t have any dialogue until the next shot, because I was literally struck dumb. I felt like madly applauding or just bowing in reverence.
Jerry London’s voice boomed from the tower, “Very nice, Toshiro. We’re going to shoot it again.” I couldn’t believe that Jerry would think that this miracle of horsemanship could be repeated, especially since the horses we used in Japan were not specially trained for films. They were practically wild. I had done quite a bit of horseback riding for films, and I knew that a horse galloping flat out like that cannot be stopped so suddenly without pain. I knew the horse would likely balk if made to do it again.
But I guess Jerry hadn’t done much riding, because he asked Mifune to repeat this phenomenal equestrian feat not just once but seven times. On the seventh take, the horse inevitably shied, charged around behind the enclosure and threw Mifune-san to the ground. Instead of raging against the director and threatening to sue the production for reckless endangerment, Mifune-san, who had to be hospitalized for observation, was found on the ground, weeping with shame. He felt he had let everyone down. This great and incomparable man sent flowers and notes of apology to the director and the producers and returned to work two days later.
After the disastrous earthquake scene and now Mifune being thrown from his horse, the Japanese began to fear that evil spirits were jinxing the location. The shoot continued to be plagued by so many upsets and near disasters that we brought in a Buddhist priest who blessed the land with sacred sake. He said the special effects team had killed a snake and so had angered the area’s Kami, or nature spirits. As I watched the priest in his saffron robe lighting incense and chanting prayers, I thought about how courtesy, which is really respect, is due not only to humans, but to the earth and its creatures as well.
My turn at reckless endangerment came near the end of the production. A huge night shoot had been planned to film a crucial scene that involved an armada of small boats filled with Toranaga’s men. Led by Blackthorne, they were to attack and destroy the Jesuits’ infamous black ship in the harbor. With so many boats, so many samurai, and so many single-shot guns, the logistics of the scene were extremely complicated and precise. Partly because of the tensions between the Japanese and American crews, preparations for this battle scene took most of the night, and the delays were driving Jerry London crazy. We had to shoot the scene before dawn, and dawn was getting ever closer. We were already way over budget, and an extra night’s filming, with all these people, would be disastrous.
Jerry and the camera barge were to move freely between all our boats, and I had just one line, one word actually. At precisely the right moment, I was to yell, “Fire!” That would signal my men to shoot their muskets at the dreaded black ship, where all hell would break loose.
Finally, as the sky was beginning to lighten, everything was set and with tremendous anxiety Jerry yelled, “Action!” We started to row like mad toward the towering black ship. Suddenly, I realized I didn’t know how the director would signal me to shout my line. I could barely make out the camera barge in the distance and without thinking, I yelled, “Jerry, when do you want me to say, ‘Fire’?” Well, all the Japanese soldiers understood was that last unfortunate word and they shot their muskets like maniacs while poor Jerry yelled fruitlessly, “No! No! Stop!”
The shot was ruined, and the inevitable dawn approached. Jerry was pissed off beyond words, but somehow the prop guys got all the guns reloaded, no small task in i
tself. The boats were reset, and we shot the scene again with special nighttime filters on the cameras. Just seconds before the sun came up, we finally got it right, and my ass was saved from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.
Throughout the wonders, rigors, splendors, and daunting challenges of making Shogun, a line from a poem I’d always thought was rather silly kept popping into my head: “If you can keep your head while all about you are losing theirs…” Or more appropriately, “If you can keep your wa [the Japanese word for inner harmony] while all about you are approaching meltdown…”
Just about all my eggs, personal and professional, were riding in the Shogun basket, and no matter how tough things got, I knew I had to keep an unwavering grip on my wa and get that precious basket across the finish line unscathed. Thanks to Jerry London, Eric Bercovici, Andy Lazlo, our mostly terrific crew, and wonderful actors, we did just that.
During the shooting of Shogun (six and a half months on location), I was often just too busy to pay much attention to my personal development. And yet I do vividly remember two simple but powerful experiences.
One weekend afternoon I was idly wandering the streets of Kyoto when I passed a small temple in a tree-filled park. Autumn leaves danced down in a soft breeze. The park was empty except for a lone Japanese woman sweeping the falling leaves from otherwise immaculate grounds. She was slight, slender, straight-backed, about fifty, and she performed her almost ritual movements with a profound, utterly simple dignity. Casually viewed, her humble task could seem barely relevant, and yet I had the feeling that she carried the presence of a guardian spirit committed in the most holy way to the care of the ancient temple and the sacredness it contained. I realized as I watched for just a few moments that this tiny woman was no less a personage than the emperor.
On another day several friends and I visited a magnificent Shinto temple complex in the wooded hills outside of Kyoto. Many magnificent shrines and temples were set among gardens and koi ponds filled with water lilies and flowering lotus. As we strolled along, mesmerized by the beauty of the place, I noticed an intense, middle-aged Japanese woman bowing reverently at several different shrines.
As we approached the main temple, a huge wooden structure gorgeous in its simplicity, we were disappointed to see that its inner sanctum was shrouded from sight by carefully hung curtains protecting its inner holiness from casual view. Again the frail Japanese woman was kneeling before the temple with almost heartbreaking reverence.
Then, as we observed her in total, motionless silence, the most extraordinary thing happened. As if moved by the praying woman’s devotion, a sudden breeze gently blew open the curtains revealing the sacred altar within. It was as if somehow her prayers were answered. In that exquisite moment, before our very eyes, she had been touched by grace.
On September 15, 1980, the first installment of Shogun aired, and half of all televisions in America were tuned to it. Even our gutsy gamble to have long passages of Japanese dialogue spoken without subtitles had paid off. Rather than be confused by it, as NBC had feared, the audience seemed to understand that the Japanese was designed to create the same state of mystification that Blackthorne and his crew found themselves in upon landing in Japan.
Shogun was a stupendous success all over the world. The five-night, twelve-hour “maxiseries” became a phenomenon. It did wonders for sushi bars, popularizing the delicacy in America. On the nightly news after each broadcast, reports showed packed Benihana steak houses where people had gathered to watch the show. Newspapers published long plot summaries and “glossaries” of Japanese phrases and words. T-shirts with the Japanese flag on them and decorative samurai swords were flying off the shelves. Even the National Educational Association endorsed Shogun, recommending it to American students as “a culturally broadening adventure story.” Ultimately, about 130 million people saw at least part of the series.
Shogun was a godsend to me. I was again in love with my career and my celebrity life. In the end, all the conflicts and difficulties of the shoot were forgotten.
The success of the show also moved me to the head of the class of actors being considered for the role of Father Ralph in another upcoming miniseries that NBC was planning—The Thorn Birds. Except for one little problem: The studio wanted Robert Redford.
NANA
Three years before Shogun, Martin and I were visiting his family in Hawaii. He had grown up there, we had always dreamed of living by the sea, and we were looking for a beach house we could afford. We lucked out and found a great little house on Oahu, out in the country where the locals live. It sits on a point facing west toward the sunset and the lofty Waianae Mountains, and the view is unsurpassable.
While I was filming Shogun in Japan in 1979, Martin was traveling through China with a spiritual group led by Brugh Joy and Carolyn Conger. The group returned to the U.S. mainland via Hawaii. I’d just arrived at our island home, and we spent a few days together on Oahu where we were joined on several occasions by Brugh’s friend and fellow teacher Nana Veary, otherwise known as Nana.
Nana was a descendant of the old Hawaiian aristocracy. She was born on the island of Oahu in 1908 and raised by her Hawaiian elders in a now vanishing world, where fishing, healing, building, and all aspects of their lives were done in total communion with nature. It was an island world where children planted by the moon and strangers were greeted with reverence. Birds, clouds, rainbows, and stones spoke as clearly as people—a “silent language” of the earth. Their entire world, if listened to, was full of wisdom.
Nana grew up surrounded by spiritually aware people. Her mother, Mary, was a gifted healer, letting the forest plants and herbs tell her what was needed to treat various illnesses. When fishing, Mary would chant and pat the seawater, inviting the fish to come to her and nourish her family. They did. She took only what she needed.
Nana’s spiritual journey started early and with total dedication. Ancient Hawaiian influences intertwined with her mother’s Christianity—a fertile combination. On her continuing quest, Nana was baptized into the Pentecostal Church where she learned an unshakable faith and love for the Spirit of God within herself. She was a spiritual medium for a while. Then she studied metaphysics with Ernest Holmes, the founder of the Church of Religious Science in Los Angeles, and later enjoyed a deep association with the late Zen master Tanouye Tenshin.
Nana’s magnificent spirit distilled these various and complex teachings into a potent elixir of pure simplicity. She opened herself unreservedly to the presence of God within her and wholeheartedly dedicated herself to sharing this divine loving intelligence with everyone she met. In Nana’s book Change We Must she said, “The consciousness of God in the human soul is the essence, the sum and substance of all religion. It is the essence of the teachings of all the seers and mystics in the world’s history. To become centered in God Consciousness is the first essential of every satisfactory life. The second is to go out thinking, speaking, working, loving, and living from this center to serve God in others. Service is the greatest principle of practical ethics.”
Nana became our dear friend here in the islands. She was great fun socially and was wonderfully informative about island lore. She loved to tell stories of how the jungle birds told her father, a master canoe builder, which termite-free trees he should use for his canoes. Her mother, she said, swam with and even rode on a particular shark that was her aumakua, her personal guardian spirit. And she held numerous silent retreats for various groups at our beach house on Oahu, as well as in the high mountains of Koke’e, Kauai, which she loved for its beauty and vibrant quiet.
In Change We Must, Nana writes about the practice of meditation that is fundamental to her silent retreats:
In meditation, after a period of contemplation, we rise in consciousness into an atmosphere of receptivity, into a consciousness where miracles take place. We come to a place of transition where Truth leaves the mind and enters the heart. Truth is no longer an intellectual knowledge about “Truth,�
� but rather a living thing within our own being. With a change of consciousness, we are Truth.
Here Nana is referring to the difference between verbal thinking (our thinking is always verbal and consequently abstract) and “awareness,” which is our ability to see and understand something immediately, directly, and wholly beyond the conceptualization of thought, beyond words.
It’s important to understand the difference between thinking and awareness. Thinking is always conceptual, rather than concrete. The idea of a horse is not a horse, the idea of love is not love. Thinking, however useful, is always abstract and at a distance from the thing thought about.
Awareness, on the other hand, needs no words or concepts. Awareness is direct knowing. When we are aware of the horse or of love, we actually share our being with the horse or with love. Awareness is not “about” love, awareness is an intimate rapport with love. Through the communion of awareness, Nana and truth became one.
In the early seventies a friend who had recently introduced a group of friends to Japanese food, raw fish, and sushi (which were fairly exotic back then) also encouraged us to try Transcendental Meditation. If he was right about sashimi, he might be right about meditation, so we dutifully enrolled. This form of meditation was made famous when the Beatles adopted its teacher, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, as their spiritual guru.
Shattered Love Page 13