From copies to innovations – the origin and rise of Japanese electric guitars (and the truth about ‘lawsuit' guitars)
It's the late '70s, and Paul Stanley of KISS tells an interviewer about the band's great successes – he guesses they've sold something like 20 million records, and they're just back from a Japanese tour.
It was there, he says, that he found out more about the abilities of Japanese guitar makers.
He discovered they have the skills, as he puts it, 'to make anything'. That's a lot more than can be said for America at the moment, he adds. 'Japan,' Stanley concludes, 'really is the country of the future.'
Japan's guitar industry was certainly healthy when he made those comments, and it surely had no reason to doubt that the future would be just as rosy. It had overcome a shaky start, when critics said it simply copied well-known designs, and it had weathered some crippling ups and downs.
Now, though, Japanese companies were showing themselves in many cases to be the equal of American makers – and in some cases perhaps to have overtaken them. Let's take a look at how that came about and who made it happen.
The origins of perhaps the most famous Japanese guitar brand, Ibanez, lie with its parent company, Hoshino. Matsujirou Hoshino started the family business around 1900 in Nagoya, about 175 miles west of Tokyo, when he opened a store to sell books and stationery.
He soon added a section for musical instruments run by his son, Yoshitarou, who set up Hoshino Gakki Ten – the Hoshino Musical Instrument Store company.
Following a tour by the great Spanish classical guitarist Andrés Segovia in 1929, which inspired many Japanese people to take up the instrument, Hoshino began importing Salvador Ibáñez guitars from Spain.
The Spanish factory closed by the late '30s, so Hoshino adopted the name for itself and made acoustic guitars in Japan, at first branded as Ibanez Salvador and soon simply as Ibanez.
The company began to offer electric guitars around 1957, and from then until the mid-'60s Hoshino made some instruments itself in its new Tama Seisaku Shone factory, set up in 1959, but also bought in guitars from other Japanese firms.
In Japan in the '60s, many budding young guitarists were just as keen to form groups and find stardom as anyone in America, Britain – or anywhere else that the pop bug had bitten
Some of the early Japanese guitars from this time had features loosely borrowed from American Fender and Gibson, say, or British Burns models. Not exactly copies – they didn't duplicate every detail of an existing model – but more like Japanese interpretations of Western designs with touches of Eastern taste.
In Japan in the '60s, many budding young guitarists were just as keen to form groups and find stardom as anyone in America, Britain – or anywhere else that the pop bug had bitten. In Japan, the scene was known as Eleki and then Group Sounds, and bands such as The Spacemen, The Blue Comets, and The Jacks enjoyed success.
Japanese companies, including the big names like Teisco and Hoshino/Ibanez, not only sold electrics to that growing home market but also began to actively export instruments, notably to wholesalers in Europe, the United States, Australia and elsewhere. And a complication arises here for anyone trying to grasp the ins and outs of Japanese guitar history.
It ought to be simple: companies manufactured guitars and either sold them at home or exported them. However, many of the foreign customers who bought instruments from Japan had their own brand names put on the guitars.
This is often called OEM – original equipment manufacturer – which means a company that makes a product to be sold by another company under its own name. It meant nearly identical instruments being sold in various locations bearing different brands and, conversely, guitars with one brand originating from a variety of sources.
Add to this an array of often interrelated factories and sales agents and distributors, and the picture can be a baffling one.
For example, the American and British firms that bought from Hoshino in the early days used brands such as Antoria and Star in the UK and Maxitone and Montclair in the USA, among several others, although some guitars did have Ibanez on them. Some Ibanez catalogues from the period feature guitars with blank headstocks, accentuating the 'your-name-here' policy.
There was similar OEM activity at Teisco – a firm born in Tokyo in the '40s, adding guitars in 1952 and electrics a couple of years later. Its exports to Europe and America had brand names such as Audition, Top Twenty, Gemtone, Jedson, Mellowtone, Kent, Kingston, and Norma.
Teisco also sold a line of models at home with its own Teisco brand and, from around 1965 in the USA, Teisco Del Rey.
Teisco had success through its American distributors – at first Westheimer, who later bought from Kawai, and then WMI, who came onboard around the time the Teisco Del Rey brand name appeared.
The Sears, Roebuck mail-order catalogue company was another US customer for Teisco, who provided some of the guitars Sears sold with its own Silvertone brand.
And here's another wrinkle: as with many of the firms for whom Teisco made guitars, the Silvertone models exported to America by Teisco were sometimes almost identical to a Teisco-brand instrument sold at home. An example of this is the mid-60s four-pickup Silvertone 1437, which in the homeland was the Teisco ET-440.
In 1965, Teisco sponsored a movie, Eleki No Wakadaisho ('The Young Electric Guitar Wizard'). It starred guitarist Yūzō Kayama as a member of the fictional Young Beats group, who entered a battle-of-the-bands competition – and, naturally, they all played Teisco guitars through Teisco amps.
Despite such cultural landmarks, as well as the opening of a new factory in Okegawa and the export of instruments to Britain, Finland, Germany, the Netherlands, Norway, Sweden, the US and elsewhere, Teisco battled with financial problems. It declared bankruptcy early in '67 and was bought by Kawai, which continued to use the Teisco brand for a few more years.
Rivalling Teisco and Hoshino/Ibanez as the big name in '60s Japanese guitars was Guyatone. It was founded by Mitsuo Matsuki in Tokyo in the 1930s, introduced its first solidbody electric in the mid-'50s, and its LG models in particular proved popular in Britain and elsewhere toward the end of that decade.
These early LGs were sold in America by Buegeleisen & Jacobson (as Winston), and in Britain by Arbiter (as Guyatone) and JT Coppock (as Antoria).
Guyatone's range and quality expanded during the '60s, with models such as the LG-160T, complete with a handy body-hole, as well as a couple of SG and MG hollowbodies, and the LG-200T, which had four pickups and multiple push-button selectors.
Probably the best-known Guyatone today is the Sharp 5 signature model, introduced in 1967. The Sharp 5 band, part of the Group Sounds trend that spread across Japan at this time, was led by Munetaka Inoue and guitarist Nobuhiro Mine, and their break came in '67 when they signed to Columbia Records.
Guyatone saw an opportunity for a liaison with the band, renaming its LG-350T guitar as the Sharp 5 model. Mine played the 350 Deluxe, with blue finish, three pickups and gold-plated metalwork.
Kawai dates back to the 1920s, when Koichi Kawai started a keyboard company in Hamamatsu. The firm began making guitars in the 50s, expanding its Kawai-brand lines during the next decade and exporting widely to OEM customers.
Among the brand names used in the US were Domino, Kent, Kimberly and TeleStar. By the late '60s Kawai had become another big player in Japanese guitar making.
These companies still competed for attention in the home market, and a notable new contender in the mid-'60s was Yamaha. It was, of course, an old name, founded in the 1880s as a keyboard manufacturer and diversifying as the decades went by into many other areas, not least motorcycles.
The first Yamaha budget electrics appeared in 1964, and then the better SG models two years later. Among these early SGs were the conventionally shaped and Fender-inspired SG-2 and 3, along with the reverse-body Mosrite-influenced SG-5 and 7, with an extended lower horn to the body and a long, slim headstock.
The flipped-body style of Mosrite's Ventures model was a popular shape among Japanese makers following the American band's successful tour of the country in 1964.
The Arai company, founded in Nagoya by the classical guitarist Shiro Arai in 1956, made classicals at first but added electric guitars in the early 60s, soon using the Aria and Aria Diamond brands. In the '70s and later the company would become better known for its Aria Pro II brand.
Aria was the Japanese distributor of Fender guitars in the late '50s, so it's not surprising that some of its own models were Fender-like in appearance.
Let's step aside for a moment and play 'Loser, Looker, Player'. We'll tell you ours, to get things going, and then you can have a go.
LOSER: Our choice is an Ibanez copy of a Gibson double-neck. Did you say 'so what'? Ibanez introduced the line in 1974, about six years after Gibson had dropped its SG-style originals, and offered a six-string plus 12-string (model 2402) and a six-string plus bass (2404).
So far, so Gibson. But here's our choice of Loser: Ibanez Model 2406 boasted two six-string necks. Correct, two six-strings on one (rather heavy) body. Gibson had never made such a thing, of course, but Ibanez had other ideas. This guitar, it enthused, would be good to have to hand in 'open-tuning slide guitar and standard tuning'. We rest our (rather large) case.
LOOKER: An impressive example of over-the-top Teisco Del Rey style was the solidbody Spectrum 5, introduced in 1966. It was a luscious creation, with a thin, curving, sculpted mahogany body, covered with what Teisco claimed as 'seven coats of lacquer', parachute-shape fingerboard inlays, a spring-less vibrato, two jacks for mono or stereo output, and three pickups, split so as to assist with the Spectrum 5's stereo feed when required.
The model name derived from what Teisco described as 'five different basic colour tones [that] can be produced with this unusual guitar', indicating the colourful pickup and phase switches on the upper part of the model's pickguard. Spectacular!
PLAYER: How about a Tokai Les Paul Reborn? The firm began soon after World War II in Hamamatsu and launched Tokai electrics in 1967. 10 years later, the copies began.
Yes, there were many copies about, but Tokai in particular and its Les Pauls-styles (and Strat-styles and more) made players think anew about what 'Japanese guitar' could mean – and sent shockwaves through parts of the instrument industry.
The Les Pauls came with a few different names during the key period from 1978 to '85 or so, and they looked the part, too, some bearing 'wow-could-it-be-a-'59' flamey tops, and many found them to be great players at decent prices. One of Tokai's cheeky British ads turned the tables with a headline that read: 'Beware of imitations.' This did not go unnoticed.
There was boom and bust in the Japanese guitar business in the period from 1966 to '68. One of the factors may have been the USA's doubling of customs duties on imported electrics, and domestically some makers were caught with excessive stocks when demand died, at home as well as abroad.
By 1976, Les Paul copies were the most numerous in the Ibanez catalogue, with more than 20 varieties on offer
Whatever the causes, the bust toppled Teisco, Guyatone and others, resulting in a reset of the industry. Some of the stronger businesses survived, including Aria, Fujigen and Yamaha.
But the upheaval at this time provides yet another complication for anyone expecting a straightforward situation where guitar A was made by B, has the brand C, and was sold by D. The rest of the alphabet will come in handy if you want to dig deeper.
To generalise, then, it was in the early '70s that a wider move to copies began in Japan. These could still be described as interpretations of the real American things, but now there was no doubt about the models that provided the inspiration.
Hoshino had been sourcing guitars from Teisco and Fujigen Gakki since it shifted its Tama factory to drums only in 1965, and by 1970 Fujigen was its main supplier, coinciding with this emphasis on copies. Hoshino continued as a trading company, one that buys and sells products without manufacturing anything itself.
Fuji Gen Gakki Seizou Kabushikigaisha – the Fuji Stringed-Instrument Manufacturing Corporation – was started by Yuuichirou Yokouchi and Yutaka Mimura and produced its first guitar, a basic nylon-string acoustic, during 1960, adding electrics three years later.
It had a new factory operational by 1965, based in Matsumoto, home to several furniture makers and guitar builders. As well as its OEM work, Fujigen had its Greco brand, in partnership with distributor Kanda Shokai.
Fujigen's Greco and Hoshino/Ibanez copies were among the most popular of the period, and some of the initiative to make and develop them came from American and British outlets.
The first British distributor to buy Ibanez-brand guitars from Hoshino was Maurice Summerfield, who started doing business with them in 1964. From the early '70s, he added the CSL brand for electrics alongside Ibanez, and then the Sumbro brand as a cheaper line below Ibanez and CSL.
In America, one of the outlets Hoshino worked with was Harry Rosenbloom's Medley Music store in Philadelphia, and his Elger Company became Hoshino's eastern US distributor for Tama and Elger guitars, Elger banjos and Star drums.
In 1972, Hoshino and Elger set up a joint venture to become the American distributor of Ibanez guitars as well as Hoshino's other brands and instruments, and a few years later Hoshino took sole ownership of the operation that had become its valuable American HQ.
Staff at the new offices, both Japanese and American, noticed that at first the quality wasn't great on some of the guitars shipped over to them, and they fed regular suggestions and ideas back to Japan, many of which were used to broaden and improve the lines.
Maurice Summerfield in Britain recommended that Hoshino add to the line a copy of a Gibson Flying V, recently given a low-key revival by Gibson.
As with the original Les Pauls, players at the time were rediscovering the excellence of old Vs. Ibanez launched a Flying V copy in 1973 based on a late-'60s original that Summerfield sent to them, and soon a Gibson double-neck copy appeared, again thanks to Summerfield's encouragement.
By 1976, Les Paul copies were the most numerous in the Ibanez catalogue, with more than 20 varieties on offer. In the USA, they were pitched from the cheapest, the best-selling bolt-neck $260 Les Custom 2350, through the $299.50 Les Deluxe 59'er 2340 in sunburst and the $340 Sunlight Special 2342IV, and up to the most expensive – a set-neck version of the 2350, the $495 2650CS Solid Body DX.
That same year, Gibson's regular line of five Les Paul solidbody models ranged from the $599 Les Paul Deluxe to the $739 Les Paul Custom, so it's not difficult to understand one of the prime attractions of the copies, beyond any considerations of accuracy or quality.
There were many other Japanese companies making copies, of varying quality and exported with any number of brands, including Penco, Mann, Jason, Kasuga, Heerby, Burny, Tokai, Fernandes, Honey, Conrad, Ventura, Fresher, Electra and HS Anderson.
Fujigen and Kanda Shokai's house brand, Greco, was in the upper bracket of quality, and by 1981 Greco's Stratocaster copy line ranged from the SE-380, which retailed at 38,000 yen, up to the SE-1200, at 120,000 yen.
A straightforward conversion into US dollars of the time provides an equivalent range of about $260 to $530. That same year, Fender's cheapest Stratocaster retailed for $720.
You won't get far in the world of Japanese electric guitar history without coming across the word 'lawsuit'. In the '70s, Ibanez in particular and Japanese brands in general were irritating the hell out of Gibson, Fender and the other US companies targeted by the copyists.
It wasn't until 1977 that Gibson made a legal complaint to Ibanez (through its US arm, Elger). Gibson and Ibanez/Elger settled out of court, with Elger agreeing to stop infringing Gibson's trademarked headstock design and to stop using Gibson-like model names in sales material. In February 1978, Gibson's complaint was closed.
In fact, Ibanez was already using a new headstock design, and had been offering some original-design guitars for a number of years. That term 'lawsuit' stems from this brief legal spat and is often used these days to describe any Japanese copy guitar of the period, whether or not the brand suffered legal action.
Oddly, it's gained a cachet, presumably because 'lawsuit-era guitar' sounds more dramatic than '70s Japanese guitar'.
One of the reasons Fender chose Fujigen to manufacture its first Squier guitars in the early '80s was because Fender's strategy to beat the Japanese copies was simply to make better copies itself, with the added prestige of its own brand. And Fujigen's existing Greco guitars proved that Fujigen was already good at what Fender required.
Gibson later reset its Epiphone brand in similar ways – and Epiphones had first been made in Japan way back in 1969. These developments, and guitars such as Yamaha's SG2000 in the '70s and the Ibanez Steve Vai-related JEMs of the '80s, would underline a new confidence among Japanese makers.
One of the original designs that Ibanez (and Greco) introduced well before the Gibson legal complaint was The Flash, introduced in 1975 and soon renamed the Iceman (Ibanez) and M series (Greco). There were influences at work, for sure, the body looking as if someone had given a Firebird a curved, pointed base and added a Ricky-like hooked lower horn.
But it added up to an attention-grabbing original. And in 1978, a signature version for Paul Stanley appeared. Ibanez also made him a custom PS10 with a cracked-mirror front, providing sparkling reflections at KISS's already dazzling shows. No wonder Stanley thought that in the guitar-making world, Japan was the country of the future.
This article first appeared in Guitarist magazine. Subscribe and save.
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The Ghost of Lady Murasaki
In mid-April, I flew to Japan because I'd become obsessed with an 11th-century Japanese novel called The Tale of Genji. I also had a frantic longing to escape my country. At its best, literature is a way to loft readers so far above the burning present that we can see a vast landscape of time below us. From the clouds, we watch the cyclical turn of seasons and history, and can take a sort of bitter comfort in the fact that humans have always been a species that simply can't help setting our world on fire. I was bewildered that The Tale of Genji had such a hold on me at this particular moment: It is a wild, confounding work that many consider to be the first novel ever written, by a mysterious woman whose true name we'll never know, but whom we call Murasaki Shikibu, or Lady Murasaki. The novel is more than 1,000 pages long, more than 1,000 years old, and larded with enigmatic poetry. It's about people whose lives differ so much—in custom, religion, education, wealth, privilege, politics, hierarchy, aesthetics—from the lives of 21st-century Americans that most of their concerns have become nearly illegible to us through the scrim of time and language. Even so, this novel, which I first encountered almost three decades ago, returned insistently. Once again, I was caught up in its radically unfamiliar world and literary form. Unlike most Western books, Lady Murasaki's tale isn't guided by an Aristotelian arc of action that steadily rises to a climax, followed by a denouement. Instead, the novel is episodic and patterned with recurring images and ideas: swiftly fading cherry blossoms, clouds moving through the sky, autumn leaves, the aching transience of life on this planet. The spirits of jealous lovers possess and sicken primary characters; scandals in one generation echo, transformed, in the next. Nine centuries before Gabriel García Márquez was born, Lady Murasaki infused her story with magical realism. Classics resonate through time for a reason, but what The Tale of Genji was saying to me so urgently was far too faint to hear. I wanted to track down the ghost of its author in her own city, now Kyoto, which was then the capital of imperial Japan. I wanted to get her to speak to me a little louder. Medieval women have long fascinated me, particularly artistic medieval women whose work seems to push against the limits of their era and, as a result, show the places they write about in a strange new light. In my 2021 novel, Matrix, I imagined a life of the 12th-century writer Marie de France, the first known female poet in the French language, whose Lais, a series of courtly poems, brims with weird vitality, and about whom only two facts are known: that her name was Marie, and that she came from France but lived in England. I have lived in both of those countries, but the Heian era (794–1185) in Japan is thrillingly distant to my imagination. What we know of the contours of Heian imperial-court culture makes The Tale of Genji 's very existence miraculous. The lives of high-born women within the court were both isolated and political: They were pawns in a clan system by which men acquired social status and power through marriage. Polygamy prevailed in the aristocracy, and a husband's various wives were ranked in importance. Once married, women in the ruling class lived almost entirely in seclusion, and were forced to hide their faces behind screens and fans. Almost no court women were taught to read or write Chinese, the language of the imperial bureaucracy. In response, women in the court developed a written form of Japanese, which was still relatively new when Lady Murasaki, likely born in 973, was growing up. Along with monogatari, fictional tales drawn from the oral tradition, the first fully Japanese prose texts were women's autobiographical writings. The other famous work from the era that remains famous today was a racy diary about the Heian court, The Pillow Book, by a contemporary of Lady Murasaki named Sei Shōnagon. Men in the imperial aristocracy also avidly read texts in Japanese, but nobody, male or female, bothered to retain for the historical record the actual name of The Tale of Genji 's author, even though she was recognized during her lifetime as a supremely skilled writer. She was given her pen name, which means 'purple,' in homage to one of the central female characters in her tale: the child-wife—and dearest beloved—of the eponymous Genji, who is a prince of both imperial and common blood. Shikibu, which means 'ministry of ceremonials,' has nothing to do with the writer, either: It refers to the position of her father at court. On the night I arrived in Kyoto with my husband, I was delighted to bump my suitcase down Teramachi Street, where Lady Murasaki is rumored to have lived with her father at some point in her youth. In the dark, Kyoto is at its most magical. It emanates a deep softness and hush, despite the hordes of tourists eager to touch the layers of history that the city so conscientiously maintains. The buildings are traditionally wood, and so most of Kyoto has been repeatedly subject to fires, razed and rebuilt many times over the past millennium. Still, the streets of the city's old sections, though immaculate and nearly odorless, seem to retain some of their medieval flavor, with small buildings pressed closely together, and tiny storefronts on the bottom floors gently illuminated by round lanterns. Teramachi Street, much of which is now a covered arcade, surely looks nothing like it did in Lady Murasaki's time, yet its refined-but-accessible vibe tracks with the known outlines of the writer's life. She was born into a family waning in power, a minor offshoot of the most prominent clan at the time, the Fujiwaras. Her pedigree was literary: Her father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and brother were all celebrated poets. Her diary offers intimate glimpses of her private thoughts. It tells how, as a young girl, she eavesdropped on her father as he taught her brother Chinese, and proved herself the far better student. 'What a pity she was not born a man!' she describes her father saying. To be a woman fluent in Chinese was so freakish that she 'pretended to be incapable of reading even the inscriptions on the screens' that divided rooms and shielded women's bodies from view. She 'worried what people would think if they heard such rumors' of her abilities. In the year 996, still unmarried at a time when marriage in very young womanhood was expected for the aristocracy, she accompanied her father north to Echizen; he'd been appointed a regional governor, which was considered something of a dishonor, as power diminished with distance from the capital. She returned to Kyoto in her mid-20s to marry a much older relative, Fujiwara no Nobutaka, who is vividly described in The Pillow Book as a flamboyant character with many other wives. He died two years later in an epidemic, leaving her with a young daughter who would eventually become a poet known as Daini no Sanmi. During her widowhood, in the early 1000s, out of grief or boredom, Lady Murasaki began writing The Tale of Genji in Japanese. Because The Tale of Genji described scandalous love affairs, reading it became a craze, something like watching a prestige television series today. Around the same time that its circulating chapters won admirers, Lady Murasaki was summoned to the aesthetically refined court of Emperor Ichijō. There she entered the service of Shōshi, the second empress and the daughter of the most powerful man of the day, Fujiwara no Michinaga, the controlling figure behind the emperor's throne. Shōshi surrounded herself with ladies talented in music, drawing, and poetry, and when she discovered that Lady Murasaki could read and write Chinese, she asked for secret lessons. Lady Murasaki's diary suggests a sort of singing-bird entrapment—a sense of being under immense pressure to add new chapters to her tale; Michinaga would even go into her private space to steal her work in progress. She was lonely at court and reserved among the competitive women. One moment in her diary has always stood out to me, when the careful screen of convention slips and a piece of the too-bright self flares through. She is talking about the ladies of the court and how they see her: 'No one liked her,' she writes, ventriloquizing their views of her. 'They all said she was pretentious, awkward, difficult to approach, prickly, too fond of her tales, haughty, prone to versifying, disdainful, cantankerous, and scornful.' Sometime after 1013, the year she may have turned 40 and the date of the last mention of her in court records, she died. I discovered an onsen, or a hot collective bath segregated by gender, in the basement of our ryokan, a small traditional inn, in an old part of Kyoto. My husband and I descended from our room in slippers and traditional cotton robes (yukatas), which we'd been instructed to fold left over right before fastening them with the embroidered obi, because right over left is how the Japanese dress their dead. Then we scrubbed ourselves pink with bucketfuls of water before climbing into the pool. It was very late, and the heat drew out the travel weariness from my bones. I floated and dreamed, and I had an inkling that, though my love of Lady Murasaki could be explained only through beautiful abstraction—by meeting her mind in her work—I might begin to understand something tangible about her through the wordless animal body. The Tale of Genji 's early chapters are rooted in fairy-tale monogatari, but the book soon metamorphoses into its own strange thing, a courtly romance that follows Prince Genji over his half century of life, and then, after Genji's death, takes up the lives of the next generation. Genji, called 'The Radiant Prince,' is the son of an emperor and his most beloved wife, who has no powerful family to protect her child. Like Lady Murasaki herself, Genji is both an insider and an outsider. As a young boy, he enters the court with the rank of a commoner, but he becomes by far the most beautiful and talented of men, easily outshining his half brother, the future emperor. He is also wildly, and audaciously, sexy: As a teenager, he seduces and has a son with one of the wives of his father, the current emperor. Though Genji goes on to marry several times, he continues to make a game of seducing as many of the most beautiful women at court as he can, a game as much of spiritual and poetic yearning as it is of bodily lust. When he's about 26 years old, his scandalous behavior leads him to years of exile in Suma, by the seaside. There he begins another relationship, one that produces a child who becomes an empress. When he returns to court, restored from disgrace, he never stops chasing women. My husband and I rise early; even in Japan, we were up with the birds. Nothing opened for hours, so we descended to the onsen again, then went out on a quest for coffee—not easy to find in Japan before 8 a.m., we learned, unless you like cold coffee in cans from the vending machines on every street. This is how we discovered the wonders of the Japanese 7/11, full of tasty fresh foods such as onigiri, seaweed-covered rice pyramids, and the internationally and justly famous egg-salad sandwiches, with their incredibly soft white bread and tangy, smooth egg filling, which became our favorite anytime snack. I had a surreal moment while we sat on the clean-swept Kyoto curb, drinking hot coffee and eating egg-salad sandwiches, when the barely dawn-touched streets were entirely empty of people. I suddenly felt myself living outside time for a brief spell, not within the 21st century or any of the other centuries visible in Kyoto's smooth palimpsest, but within the hovering dual-time that is the experience of reading a great novel. I do think The Tale of Genji is a great novel, and some of its greatness comes from its self-contradictions. Prince Genji is held up as a courtly ideal, yet he's also a renegade; he's an amorous adventurer, yet also deeply attached to one of his beloved wives, Murasaki. The narrative sporadically darts into his consciousness, reflecting a conflicted conscience and a degree of interiority that make the book revolutionary. I believe interiority is necessary to define a novel as a novel, and its absence disqualifies the other books that scholars have proposed as alternative 'first novels' in the history of literature, such as Apuleius's The Golden Ass. Interiority is especially fraught in the evocation of Genji and his young wife Murasaki's relationship. He discovers her as an enchanting child of about 10, kidnaps her, secludes her in a lonely house, molds her into the perfectly accomplished wife he wants, and marries her when she is a teenager, which the narrative presents as something of a romantic coup. But the prose simultaneously makes clear what is happening from Murasaki's point of view: This man, who first presented himself to her as her adoptive father, comes to her bed when she is still a child and violates her painfully, against her will and to her immense distress. None of the people who care for her lifts a finger to help her. Genji pursues many other affairs, then suddenly the narrative reveals that he has died at the age of 52. At this point, The Tale of Genji does a spin in the air: There are 13 more chapters, set primarily in Uji, a city south of Kyoto, which feature two men of the next generation vying for the love of the young princess Ukifune. She is driven to despair by their caddish treatment, and her suffering becomes the focus of the narration. This final section closes the book cryptically and counter-romantically—Ukifune renounces the world and becomes a nun —and delivered a jolt when I first read it, because it goes against any epiphanic or revelatory ending that I've been taught by Western narratives to expect. When I returned to the book with the idea of visiting Kyoto, I began to read the final chapters as the novel's firm renunciation of itself. The tale turns its back savagely on its previous concerns, saying that the things it had taught us all along to think of as so important—the heartache, the rise and fall of fortunes, the attention to aesthetics—in the end actually mean nothing; it is as if the author has lost patience with male callousness, upheld for so many pages as the signature of courtly elegance. The reader of any text provides half of its meaning. To me, an American woman in the early 21st century, prickly and free-spirited Lady Murasaki now appears to have been chafing under conformist pressures in the Heian court. I read her radical evocations of characters' internal states as though they are eruptions of the author's own rebellious soul. Perhaps this subversive interpretation is wish fulfillment on my part. But Kyoto itself seemed to agree with it. The city is a place for people who love history and appreciate ambiguity. Shinto shrines are everywhere, meticulously maintained and restored, robust memento mori of the many generations of humans who have lived and died adoring them. The April cherry trees, with their brief pink opulence, seem infused with the spirit of mono no aware —the Japanese idea of the transience of things, the gentle sadness yet also the beauty of impermanence. This is a place where Lady Murasaki's work has never disappeared, yet also has never ceased to take on new shapes and transform to fit the current moment. By dawn, we were driving along the Kamo River next to runners confettied by the last of the cherry blossoms. We were joined by Takako Kido, our spark plug of a photographer, and her friend (and fellow hip-hop dancer) from college, Masaaki Kaga, who had once been a historical tour guide for schoolchildren, and had been roped into being our driver that day. When I asked them about The Tale of Genji, Takako shrugged. 'Everyone knows Genji,' she said. 'It's in our bones.' But neither she nor Masa had read the book in decades. As a millennium-old, omnipresent reference in Japan, like Shakespeare's work in the Anglophone world, the book 'no longer has to be actually read in order to have been 'read,' ' Dennis Washburn, a professor at Dartmouth College, writes in an introduction to his 2015 translation (in my opinion the best one, with its clear and accessible prose). Soon after The Tale of Genji appeared, it inspired fan fiction and painted illustrations, and artists in every century since have used the tale as a prism to refract the aesthetic, political, and spiritual concerns of their times. Its legacy is everywhere you turn—in Noh drama, erotic parodies, Buddhist rituals, advertisements, manga books, games, anime films. At the Tale of Genji Museum, in Uji, we watched one film that featured a teenage girl who turns into a cat and ends up in the arms of Genji with a bizarre expression of ahegao, or 'sexual ecstasy,' on its face. The homage to the novel is eclectic and ever-evolving, both irreverent and faithful. One can find echoes of the work, too, in places frequented long ago by Lady Murasaki and her characters that can be visited today. It was still dawn when Masa brought us to one of the oldest Shinto shrines in Japan, the Shimogamo, the original version of which was built in 678 and would have already been antique by the time Lady Murasaki venerated its deities there. Shintoism is an Indigenous animist belief system that predates Buddhism's arrival in Japan, and Shinto sites of worship now exist comfortably alongside Buddhist temples. The forest that surrounds the shrine itself is a kami, or 'powerful spirit,' and when we watched people, out giving their Shiba Inus an early-morning walk, bowing to individual trees that wore rope belts from which dangled paper lightning bolts, we discovered that the trees were also kamis. Genji visits these woods before his exile to Suma and composes a poem wishing that the forest might one day see the injustice against him reversed. As the sun rose, the vermilion paint that decorates most Shinto shrines to ward off evil and misfortune began to shine dazzlingly. At the main shrine, Masa taught us how to pray: throw a small coin into a slatted wooden trough, bow twice, clap twice, pray, then bow again. We prayed, feeling a great spiritual potency in the place, and because it never hurts to send sparks of gratitude into the world. Kamis can have negative power, too, and shrines are not always portals to peace. In Genji, the Kamigamo shrine—loud and crowded and too bright in the hot mid-afternoon sun when we arrived there—appears often, sometimes as a place of conflict. In a memorable scene, one of Genji's lovers, the intensely jealous Lady Rokujō, and his first wife, Aoi, have both come in ox-drawn carts to Kamigamo to see Genji ride by during the Aoi Matsuri, or wild-ginger festival, and are soon jostling for the best viewing spot. Rokujō's jealous spirit eventually enters and sickens Aoi's body until she dies. Later, young Murasaki is also possessed by that bad spirit. We were too early for the wild-ginger festival, which takes place in mid-May, when celebrants in Heian-era costumes process to the shrine from Kyoto's Imperial Palace. I was happy to be spared the crowds jostling for views. The palace itself, which burned down many times over the centuries and in 1855 was rebuilt in the Heian style, is breathtaking in scale, with astonishing roofs curving up at the corners, constructed of layers of cypress bark lashed into place with bamboo strips. Its surrounding lawns of raked gravel and its park of pruned trees made it appear even bigger. Takako had never visited before— 'this is an entirely new Japan for me,' she murmured. A moment later, a loud alarm went off: She had leaped across the moat surrounding the wall to take a photo, and leaped nimbly back, laughing, after she was scolded by the guards. Inside the palace, the rooms were dark and very large; in the days of the Heian court, they would have been partitioned off by screens and curtains. I thought of Murasaki Shikibu trying to write in this place, separated from the noises and voices and smells of others by thin silk, trying to lose herself and her worries in the composition of her text. I saw that the book she was writing would have been another screen between herself and the world, even as the fame the book brought would have, paradoxically, served to bind her even tighter to that world. Although Lady Murasaki wrote in her diary of her loneliness and alienation at court, one of her childhood homes was only a couple of miles away. Rozan-ji is a dark-wood Tendai Buddhist temple on the grounds where her family house is said to have been. Fire destroyed the original residence centuries ago, but in rooms off the temple's quiet courtyard is a small exhibition of scrolls and gilded clamshells decorated with scenes from the novel. A sign at the front gate lays claim to Lady Murasaki, proudly calling her a Great Woman of The World. Masa brought us to another quiet courtyard just off a busy road, where we found the grave site of Lady Murasaki. Inside were two neatly maintained mounds, with two markers. Her ancient bones are thought to lie beneath the big mound; under the smaller one are those of Ono no Takamura, a poet who lived two centuries before she did, and who was considered to be a protector of souls sent to languish in hell. No one knows how they were paired up, but legend has it that Lady Murasaki's admirers, fearful that her scandalous book had consigned her to punishment in the afterlife, put them side by side so that he could help her travel out of the underworld. I said a quiet thank-you to her remains for the book I love so much. I was answered by birdsong and traffic on the street beyond the walls. The solemnity was broken by a garbage truck puttering by, singing out in a recorded loop a warning in the voice of a small Japanese child. Perhaps the most important location for the book is an eighth-century temple called Ishiyama-dera, east of Kyoto on a hillside overlooking Lake Biwa, the largest body of fresh water in Japan. The myth is that Lady Murasaki, during a visit there after her husband died, was struck with the inspiration to write her chef d'oeuvre while gazing up at an August moon. Although Ishiyama-dera is the most stunning of the shrines we saw, with hiking paths and high views of the lake, we encountered very few other tourists, perhaps because the trip from Kyoto requires two train transfers. The grounds were dotted with statues of Lady Murasaki, all of which depict a woman with a large forehead and loose hair, her writing brush in hand. As soon as we entered the gates, I felt a strange, holy energy. I believe that places, like people, hold memory, and when place memory announces itself, it does so through the body. A tiny museum on the grounds displayed ancient scrolls on which Heian hands had written, sculptures of ancient Buddhas to which Lady Murasaki might have prayed. The temple of Ishiyama-dera rising up from huge, jagged slabs of wollastonite; the pagodas perched like little hats atop the hill; the dangling purple wisteria; the lake glittering below; the way the cool wind and the April sunshine filtered through the leaves and pressed upon our skin—an ambiguous understanding that I'd been searching for arrived. There, my body recognized something of the long-gone body of Lady Murasaki, who had also once stood, an animal like me, seeing the stones, smelling the woods and the lake, feeling the breeze and the warmth on her flesh. I was gripped by the truth of something I'd known only intellectually: how much courage Lady Murasaki, as a woman in her era, had to summon, how much loneliness and insecurity she must have felt, when she dedicated her life to literature in Heian Japan. We climbed the steps to the great temple, where we found a statue of Kannon, the Buddhist deity of compassion and mercy. We tossed the money, rang the bells, clapped, and prayed to Kannon for the sake of our wounded world. By the end of our trip to Japan, I knew less than ever about the real Murasaki Shikibu. She did not visit me as a ghost in the night. Although I sensed in Kyoto a more rebellious artist than I'd imagined her to be from her work, I didn't hear a clear message from her to blow up the poisonous narratives that have created the tragedies of the current age. I didn't understand much more of the heartache of her life, the person beyond the words. Yet my body understood The Tale of Genji and its marvelous writer far better. First through the sense of taste: At a ryokan near Lake Biwa, famous for its geothermal onsen, we ate a kaiseki dinner, which is a seasonally inspired sequence of courses, their flavors and textures and aromas carefully choreographed. There was no Aristotelian arc in this meal, no central main dish. Every course was equally important, to be savored in its own way. Soup gave way to sashimi so fresh that I could swear it twitched, and this gave way to simmered salted fish, which gave way to a grilled course, and on and on, for three exquisite hours. The meal was episodic, patterned, refusing the very concept of climax in its devotion to the moment. The sense of sight taught me other things when, at the Zen Buddhist Tenryuji Temple, we walked through the most stunning garden I've ever encountered. Japanese gardens aren't subservient to symmetry in the way that many European gardens are. They aren't built around any central focus point. Instead, they are created with keen attention to texture and color and season. The one at Tenryuji is said to remain as it was when it was built in the 14th century, when the designer and head priest, Musō Soseki, integrated the surrounding hills into the garden's pattern, in a tradition called shakkei, or 'borrowed scenery.' As a result, any place in the garden has its own perfect view; every spot holds something new to contemplate. The neat lines of raked gravel around the buildings bring awareness to the present moment and to the impermanence of all things. As I walked its paths, I became hyperconscious of pattern, repetition, texture, transience, the shifting of viewpoint: koi, pond, stone, azalea, camellia, pine, weeping cherry, hill beyond in its gradients of green. I felt I had been given a three-dimensional map of The Tale of Genji. And then, at a tea-and-meditation ceremony at the Shunkō-in Temple, the Reverend Takafumi Zenryu Kawakami, in his splendid purple robes, gave voice to the things that my body had been telling me in its wise, oblique way. We sat on cushions in a room that opened out onto a cool garden, and were led through a long meditation, after which the reverend spoke, telling us that of course there is no single definition of enlightenment. The self is a shifting, inconstant phenomenon, brain and body ever transforming in time and space, with no clear delineation between what is self and what is other. Westerners want certainty but we should embrace ambiguity, he told us; ambiguity is part of nature. He said that to taste tea that has been steeped in cold water, first we should taste with the tip of the tongue, then with the back of the tongue. First you taste umami, then you taste the floral. First you taste the bitter, then you taste the sweet. Travel Notes Kurama Onsen The closest one gets to a genuine geothermally heated onsen in Kyoto is 30 minutes outside the city. Canny travelers go straight from checking into their hotels to the electric train up the mountain to watch the sunset while steaming away their jetlag in the outdoor baths. We were too tired to do this our first night and regretted it for the rest of our trip. Learn from our mistake! This onsen is said to be especially gorgeous in winter, when snow is falling. As is true at most onsen, Kurama's baths are separated by gender, and although tattoos are forbidden at many geothermal public baths in Japan, people we know had no problem with their body art here. 520 Kuramahonmachi, Sakyo Ward, Kyoto, 601-1111, Japan Tea and Zen Meditation Ceremony at the Shunkō-in Temple Shunkō-in means 'Temple of the Ray of Spring Light,' and Reverend Takafumi Zenryu Kawakami, in his purple robes, is also a brilliant ray of sunshine, funny and wry and so full of insight that you'll wish this experience were twice as long. He leads tourists—seated on cushions (though chairs are available for the stiff in hip)—through two short Zen meditations; shows them how to taste excellent green tea from Uji; gives a tour of the temple; and delivers a philosophical lecture with so much to chew on that you'll find yourself recalling his words months later. The gardens outside the meditation room are full of flowers and butterflies. The gilded screens inside are decorated with cypress trees and cranes and peonies, the work of the 19th-century painter Kanō Eigaku. This is a calm respite to help you gather your forces before visiting yet more shrines. 42 Hanazonomyoshinjicho, Ukyo Ward, Kyoto, 616-8035, Japan Kyoto Handicraft Center One of the lessons from Reverend Takafumi's talk was about how, traditionally in Japan, art and craft are the same; there's no hierarchy of makers. Hold a perfectly balanced, handcrafted knife in your hand, and you'll understand how an everyday object can be as much a work of art as a Picasso painting. Although plenty of stores in Kyoto specialize in specific crafts, the sheer range and diversity of the goods in this quiet, well-lit place—ceramic tea sets, graceful prints of birds and flowers, silk kimonos—will have you buying a bigger suitcase to get all your gifts home. 17 Shogoin Entomicho, Sakyo Ward, Kyoto, 606-8323, Japan Late-Blooming Cherry Blossoms at the Ninna-ji Temple The Japanese take the sakura (cherry blossom) so seriously that the Japan Weather Association puts out a nationwide sakura forecast every spring. If you miss the peak in Kyoto, the Ninna-ji Temple, in the northwest of the city, has late-blooming Omuro-zakura varietals beyond mid-April. I found the experience surreal: It was very hard not to be moved by the pink field of cherry blossoms swaying in the wind under Ninna-ji's picturesque five-story Edo-period pagoda, and at the same time, I felt as if I had somehow found myself a three-dimensional postcard picturing the most Japanese experience possible. 33 Omuroouchi, Ukyo Ward, Kyoto, 616-8092, Japan Ryō-shō Michelin-starred restaurants abound in Kyoto, but it's hard to find one as intimate (only eight counter seats and a private room) and inexpensive, with food as fresh, as the two-starred Ryō-shō, located down an atmospheric street, lit by red lanterns, in Gionmachi Minamigawa. Chef Makoto Fujiwara creates a beautiful, leisurely, many-course omakase meal right in front of diners; pairs each course with a carefully selected beverage; and personally escorts diners to the door at the end of the meal to thank them. The spirit of hospitality was part of the meal's flavor. I'm pescatarian—I don't believe that fish have souls—but I couldn't resist a bite of my husband's Himegyu beef, which was soft and buttery and so excellent that I didn't feel bad about eating a soulful creature: The chef's extreme care seemingly mitigated the sacrifice. Ryō-shō means 'to eclipse the sky,' and each luscious mouthful is enough to momentarily make you forget about anything other than what you're tasting. 570-166 Gionmachi Minamigawa, Higashiyama Ward, Kyoto, 605-0074, Japan Nijō Castle I focused on the Heian period during our trip to Kyoto and found the Imperial Palace overwhelming, but Nijō Castle, built in the Edo period (1603–1868), the time of the Shōgun rulers, is hard not to be cowed by. This is intentional. The Ninomaro Palace within it was the first shōgun's residence while he was in Kyoto, and it was designed with maximal awe in mind. Each room—I have no idea how many there were, because rooms led onto rooms, and I soon went into a fugue state—had a superabundance of gilded screens and wood carvings. The floors are called 'nightingale' floors, and they sing underfoot in little bird chirps; some say the sound effect is an anti-theft measure, but in reality, it's a result of nails squeaking against floorboard clamps. The twittering noise, the scent of tourists' bodies pressed together, the darkness of the wood, the minimal windows, the elaborateness of the decor—all can make a 21st-century visitor feel as if they're walking through a fold in time. 541 Nijojocho, Nakagyo Ward, Kyoto, 604-8301, Japan Ponto-chō Alley The wildest, most thrilling meals we had in Kyoto were the accidental ones. We loved the experience of wandering into a restaurant, hovering our Google translator over the menu, and pointing to whatever looked interesting, or like something we couldn't possibly get anywhere at home in Florida. I had the best smoky eel of my life in a place with large plastic bins where strange, spiky, unidentifiable (by me) sea creatures sat waiting to be plunked into baskets and fried. This alleyway, right next to Kyoto's main Kamo River, is packed with tiny, pristine bars and yakitori, an excellent place to sit outside and watch people—of all ages and nationalities and levels of tipsiness—flow by.


Black America Web
30 minutes ago
- Black America Web
Top 20 Movies Filmed In Philadelphia
Source: Gilbert Carrasquillo / Getty Philadelphia has been the backdrop for many iconic films. The city of brotherly love and sisterly affection is a popular filming location for several compelling reasons; its rich history and iconic landmarks, its diverse architecture, and its cultural significance. Philadelphia is steeped in American history, making it a perfect backdrop for films with historical or patriotic themes. As one of the oldest cities in the U.S., Philadelphia has a unique cultural identity that resonates with audiences. Its neighborhoods, like South Philly and Old City, have distinct personalities that add depth and character to films. Iconic landmarks like the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, and the 'Rocky Steps' at the Philadelphia Museum of Art are instantly recognizable and add authenticity to films. The city also boasts a mix of architectural styles, from colonial-era buildings to modern skyscrapers. This diversity allows filmmakers to shoot a variety of scenes, whether they need a historic setting, an urban vibe, or a more gritty, industrial look. These factors combine to make Philadelphia a versatile and attractive location for filmmakers, whether they're shooting a blockbuster, an indie film, or a historical drama. But what is the best movie ever filmed in Philly? Check out Top 20 Movies Filmed In Philadelphia below! MORE PHILLY LISTICLES: RELATED: Boxing Bullies: Top 20 Philadelphian Boxers of All-Time RELATED: Top 5 Best Bars to Watch an Eagles Game in Philly RELATED: Official List Of The Best Cheesesteaks In Philly RELATED: Your Favorite Celebrity's Favorite Place to get a Philly Cheesesteak RELATED: Best of Philadelphia Eagles 'Kelly Green' Jersey Moments Top 20 Movies Filmed In Philadelphia was originally published on The classic underdog story featuring the famous run up the Art Museum steps. A powerful drama starring Tom Hanks and Denzel Washington. This chilling thriller with its unforgettable twist was filmed in Philadelphia before the turn of the century. Starring Bradley Cooper, the film follows Pat Solitano Jr. as he returns to the Philadelphia suburb of Delaware County to move in with his parents. 'Trading Places,' the 1983 film starring Eddie Murphy and Dan Aykroyd, prominently features Philadelphia as a backdrop. The 1995 science fiction thriller '12 Monkeys' is set against the backdrop of a dystopian Philadelphia, and many key scenes were filmed in real-life locations throughout the city Unbreakable was released into theaters on November 22nd, 2000. Filming locations include Philadelphia, Pa. It was written and directed by M. Night Shyamalan. Shyamalan makes his trademark cameo as the drug dealer, waiting in line to get into the stadium. The movie, also titled 'Blow Out', is a thriller starring John Travolta and features various Philadelphia locations like the Wissahickon, Reading Terminal Market, and 30th Street Station It is based on the nonfictional story of Vince Papale (Mark Wahlberg), who played for the Philadelphia Eagles from 1976 to 1978 The original comic book was set in Fawcett City, but the film's setting is clearly Philadelphia


New York Post
30 minutes ago
- New York Post
Kevin Costner slams ‘Horizon' sexual harassment allegation in fiery legal response: ‘Absolute nightmare'
Kevin Costner is firing back at 'Horizon: An American Saga – Chapter 2' stuntwoman Devyn LaBella's sexual harassment lawsuit. The 'Yellowstone' actor, 70, filed a new motion in California Superior Court Tuesday to dismiss LaBella's May lawsuit against Costner that claims she was forced into an 'unscripted' rape scene on the set of his 2024 Western sequel. Costner called the allegations 'patently false' and 'deeply disappointing' in his court declaration, according to Variety. 12 Kevin Costner in 'Horizon: An American Saga — Chapter 1.' Warner Bros. 12 Devyn LaBella in a selfie. 'I can only assume that purpose was to use this sensationalistic language to embarrass and damage me and the 'Horizon' movies on an ongoing basis in order to gain a massive and unjustified payday,' Costner wrote. 'Equally as bad, having to read about and address allegations I know to be false involving the words 'rape' and 'assault' has been an absolute nightmare,' he added. 12 Kevin Costner steps out in London in 2014. GC Images Costner said that he believes LaBella's claims 'were designed, through the use of false statements and sensationalistic language, to damage my reputation.' 'The truth matters,' he stated. 'That's why, even at the high cost of this lawsuit (financial and personal), I will always speak up to defend myself and my crew against false allegations.' 12 Devyn LaBella on a film/TV set. devynlabella/Instagram 12 Devyn LaBella in an Instagram photo. Devyn LaBella/Instagram Per People, Costner also included dozens of photos of LaBella taken on the set of the film in his declaration. He claimed that the scene in question 'was a buildup and foretelling of two violent rape scenes that occur offscreen' and was not an actual 'rape scene.' The Oscar winner further claimed LaBella 'was laughing and smiling during the blocking of the shot in question.' 12 Kevin Costner in the first 'Horizon' film. ©Warner Bros/Courtesy Everett Collection Several crew members backed up Costner's claims in his motion, including Wade Allen, the stunt coordinator who hired and supervised LaBella, and Roger Ivens, the other performer in the scene. 'At no point that day did she evidence any distress or discomfort, or any concern about what she had been asked to do,' Allen stated, per Variety. 12 Devyn LaBella in a selfie. devynlabella/Instagram 12 Kevin Costner in 'Horizon: An American Saga – Chapter 1.' ©Warner Bros/Courtesy Everett Collection In May, LaBella filed a complaint against Costner and production companies behind the Western film alleging sexual discrimination, harassment, and the creation of a hostile work environment. In the documents obtained by The Post, LaBella claimed she was 'the victim of a violent unscripted, unscheduled rape scene,' which she noted was directed by Costner on May 2, 2023. LaBella, who doubled for Ella Hunt in the movie, alleged that she 'experienced shock, embarrassment and humiliation while attempting to process the situation' in the days that followed after filming. 12 Devyn LaBella at a red carpet event on June 25, 2025. APEX / MEGA In June, LaBella amended her lawsuit to include text messages she allegedly exchanged with the film's intimacy coordinator, Celeste Cheney, the day after the scene in question was shot. In the texts, LaBella described the alleged incident as an 'abomination' and also listed off over a dozen questions about how the scene was handled. 12 Kevin Costner in 'Horizon: An American Saga — Chapter 1.' ©Warner Bros/Courtesy Everett Collection At the end of her message, LaBella allegedly asked Cheney, 'Who is gonna take responsibility for the abuse of power, negligence and ignorance on set?' Costner previously denied LaBella's accusations in a statement via his lawyer, Marty Singer. 'Ms. LaBella was doing a rehearsal on an Insert Shot for a scripted scene. There was no intimacy or anything sexual in the shot,' Singer told The Post in June. 12 Kevin Costner at Fanatics Fest NYC on June 20, 2025. Getty Images for Fanatics 12 Devyn LaBella on the set of 'CSI: Vegas.' devynlabella/Instagra, 'Numerous witnesses have contradicted Ms. LaBella's meritless claims,' Singer added. 'We look forward to the swift end of this specious lawsuit.' After the first 'Horizon' film bombed at the box office in May 2024, the sequel was pulled from movie theaters and instead had its premiere at the Venice Film Festival in Sept. 2024. Two more movies in the Western franchise are currently in the works.