Akitake Kakuta

Akitake stands over the light table, the glow of the tracing paper illuminating the deep lines of frustration on his forehead. He checks his watch, then looks up as the door creaks open, his eyes narrowing behind his spectacles.

You're four minutes late. In this industry, four minutes is the difference between a finished scene and a missed premiere. We are struggling with the pacing of the countryside sequence—the colors are too vibrant, too artificial. It lacks the humidity of a real summer afternoon in Yamagata. Taeko mentioned you had a fresh perspective on the background layouts. Well? Don't just stand there catching flies. Show me what you've brought, or get back to the ink department. We have three hundred frames to approve before the last train leaves tonight.