Genki Kawamura - If Cats Disappeared from the World

On my right sat my father, and on my left was my mother. Sandwiched between my parents in the dark theater, I couldn’t have escaped even if I’d wanted to. I just looked up at the huge screen and watched. But I remember almost nothing about the movie.

The only thing I remember is that scene where the boy, Elliott, rides through the sky with E.T. on his bike. It’s a powerful memory. It made me want to shout, or cry, or something… It seems to me that that’s what movies are all about. I can still remember the impression it made on me—it was overwhelming. I held on tight to my father’s hand and he held mine tightly in return.

A few years ago a digitally re-mastered version of E.T. was showing on late-night television. I hate watching movies on TV, with the constant interruptions from adverts, so was about to turn it off, but once I started watching I was gripped.

About twenty-five years had gone by since I first saw the film, but I still found myself as moved by the same scenes as I had been as a child. I couldn’t stop myself from crying. But that still doesn’t mean that the experience was exactly the same as it had been when I was three.

For one thing, twenty-five years later I knew I’d never fly through the air like they do in the movie. And it’s been years since I spoke to my father, who back then was sitting next to me holding my hand tightly. Meanwhile, my mother, who sat on my left in the theater, is no longer of this world. So I suppose I know two things I didn’t know then. I can’t fly, and what I had then has gone forever.

What did I gain by growing up, and what did I lose? I can never resurrect the thoughts and feelings I had in the past. When I think about that, I feel a wave of sadness so strong that the tears won’t stop.

Sitting alone in the movie theater staring at the blank screen I started to think.

If my life were a movie, what kind of a movie would it be? Would it be a comedy, a thriller, or maybe more of a drama? Whatever it would be, it definitely wouldn’t be a romantic comedy!

Toward the end of his life, Charlie Chaplin said something along the lines of:

“I may not have been able to produce a masterpiece, but I made people laugh. That can’t be all that bad, can it?”

And Fellini said:

“Talking about dreams is like talking about movies, since the cinema uses the language of dreams.”

They created masterpieces, made people laugh, gave them dreams and memories.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that my life just didn’t lend itself to being adapted for the big screen.

As I stared at the blank screen, I tried to imagine what it would be like.

I am the director.

Then there is the film crew and the cast, made up of my family, friends, and former lovers.

The opening scene is set thirty years ago, when I am born. There is my infant self and my parents smiling down at me. Relatives gather around and all take turns holding the new baby, squeezing its hands and pinching its cheeks. Soon the new baby learns to turn over, crawl, then stand up on its own, and before you know it begins to walk. Subject to all the same hopes and fears of all new parents, my mother and father take to their roles with gusto, feeding, clothing, and frantically playing with the baby.

Is it possible to imagine a healthier and more normal start in life? Our opening scene couldn’t be happier.

Then, as anger, tears, and laughter flit across the screen, I gradually grow up. I talk less and less to my father. Who knows why, after all the time we’d spent together? I’ve never figured it out.

Then one day a cat arrives in our home. Its name is Lettuce. There are lots of happy times, between Mom, Lettuce, and me. But Lettuce eventually grows old and dies. And then my mother dies. Cut to the most tragic scene in the film.

So Cabbage and I are left behind. We decide to go on living together. My father is out of the picture at this point. I start working as a postman, and normal everyday life goes on.

Could this be more boring! Scene after scene of mundane detail, line after line of trivial dialogue. What a low-budget movie! And on top of all that, the star of the show (me!) doesn’t show any sign of having a goal in life, or values of any kind. He’s an apathetic guy, completely without any spirit, who is of no interest at all to the audience.

Obviously the film would never work if it showed my life exactly as it is. The script would have to be written in a hyper-real, in-your-face kind of style, with more of a sense of theater. A dramatization. Sets can be simple, pared back, but they’d have to have a certain flavor to them. Props are picked out to add to the sense of atmosphere, and costumes would come in black and white.

And what about editing? The scenes are all pretty boring so they’ll need some fairly major editing. But if it goes too far we’ll only be left with like five minutes of film. That’s no good. It would be a good idea to start by taking a careful look back through the script. Completely unnecessary scenes run way too long. And the scenes we really want to see are cut right at the point where they’re getting good. But that’s pretty much what my life has been like.

And what about the soundtrack? Let’s see, maybe a nice melody played on piano, or on the other hand perhaps something grand and stately, with a full orchestra? No, let’s try something more relaxed, like an acoustic guitar. But whatever we go for, I have only one request—that during the sad scenes, up-beat music should play in the background.

Now work on the film is done. It’s a quiet, low-key production, and probably won’t be a box-office hit. Its release will be pretty subdued, and it’s likely to go mostly unnoticed. It will probably be the kind of film that goes to video quickly, and is left in a corner of the rental shop, the colors on its box fading.

The last scene ends and the screen goes dark. Then the credits roll.

If my life were a movie, I’d want it to be memorable, in a way, no matter how modest the production was. I’d hope it would mean something to someone, somehow, that it would give them a boost and spur them on.

After the credits, life goes on. My hope is that my life would go on in someone’s memory.

The two-hour screening ends.

I step outside the theater and the quiet and the darkness envelops me.

“Do you feel sad?” she said, as we left the theater.

“I don’t know.”

“I guess it must be rough on you.”

“I don’t know. Sorry, I really don’t know how I feel right now.”

And I really didn’t know. I wasn’t sure if I was sad because I was going to die or if I was sad because something really important and meaningful was about to disappear from the world.

“You can come back and see me any time, you know, if you ever feel bad, if you’re in so much pain you can’t stand it.”

Her words reached me just as I was about to turn away.

“Thanks,” I said, and headed back up the hill.

“Wait!”

She shouted from behind me.

“One more quiz!”

“Not again…”

“This is the last question. Just one more.”

As she shouted after me I could see she’d begun to cry.

Then seeing her cry made me feel like crying.

“OK. I’ll give it one last go.”

“Whenever I watch a movie with a sad ending I always watch it one more time. Do you know why?”

This time I knew the answer. It’s the one thing I remembered well.

It’s something I was hoping for during the whole plane ride back from Buenos Aires, and even for a while after we broke up.

“Yeah, I know.”

“OK, so what’s the answer?”

“Because you’re hoping that maybe it’ll have a happy ending the next time.”