Chapter 6: A Question Worth Pondering
"This script is very..." Murakami Iori had read it twice. Setting aside its originality and creativity, the script was undeniably professional in terms of writing standards—a clear sign of meticulous effort. She couldn't find any flaws, so she spoke honestly: "Very interesting, very well done. Unfortunately, it's too short."
Japanese dramas were typically divided into four seasons—spring, summer, fall, and winter—with each season lasting about three months and comprising roughly twelve episodes. Episodes aired weekly, filmed and broadcast simultaneously. No matter how much Chihara Rinto's short script was expanded, it wouldn't fill the required 700 minutes for a full season. At best, it could only serve as a student project.
Still, the quality of the work spoke volumes. It was evident that Chihara Rinto had potential. Though Murakami Iori didn't plan to use his script, she felt inclined to help nurture his talent. Recommending him for an assistant screenwriter position wouldn't cost her much effort, and who knew? In ten or twenty years, this favor might blossom into a valuable connection. It seemed like a worthwhile investment.
Before she could figure out how to phrase her advice, Chihara Rinto pulled several more stacks of paper from his briefcase. "This is part of a series. Each episode would consist of two or three short stories like this one—a multi-element anthology. I'm calling it Tales of the Unusual. Here's the overall planning document, along with two other similar stories…"
He had essentially copied the concept of Tales of the Unusual from his original world, even keeping the same title—a final nod to intellectual property rights. He'd selected some of the most iconic episodes from past seasons, reasoning that the first attempt should make as big a splash as possible.
"Oh?" Murakami Iori raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised by the thoroughness of his planning. Only now did she begin to take him seriously, studying Chihara Rinto for the first time.
His black hair was slightly disheveled, his complexion pale, and his features delicate yet tinged with a sense of weariness. Yet, despite his outward appearance, he sat upright with unwavering posture, as if prepared to remain seated like that until the end of time. His resilience was palpable; ask any aimless youth to sit so rigidly, and they'd likely slump within five minutes.
Standing like a pine, sitting like a bell—it wasn't just an empty saying. Without strong self-awareness and discipline, people tended to succumb to their desires, slouching or leaning whenever possible.
But what truly caught Murakami Iori's attention were his eyes. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, and through Chihara Rinto's gaze, one could see the word "focus" etched clearly. When he looked at someone, all his attention seemed directed solely at them, creating a subtle pressure. Yet, his expression remained calm, devoid of any overt intent.
All in all, this young man possessed a unique aura. To put it dramatically, he exuded the air of an ancient gentleman—gentle yet harboring hidden strength.
After glancing at him twice, Murakami Iori found herself developing a faint admiration. Taking the papers, she began reading more intently. Was this intended for late-night programming? Was it feasible?
Meanwhile, Chihara Rinto launched into his pitch: "Murakami-san, becoming a producer without sufficient seniority will pose significant challenges, won't it?"
"Yes," she replied. If there was a good opportunity, others would surely vie for it too. It didn't take much thought to realize the competition would be fierce.
"So securing a prime-time slot will be difficult, right?"
Murakami Iori nodded silently as she continued reading. This was undeniable truth. Television programming was indeed segmented by time slots. Morning dramas targeting housewives aired between 7 and 9 a.m., when women had free time after sending off their husbands and children. Children's cartoons and anime were usually scheduled from 4 to 6 p.m., coinciding with school dismissals. Prime-time shows and popular variety programs aired from 8 to 10 p.m., catering to adults winding down after work.
These prime slots generally boasted higher ratings, and the quality of programming directly impacted a station's reputation. As such, handing these coveted slots to newcomers was unlikely.
Seeing Murakami Iori's nod of agreement, Chihara Rinto pressed on earnestly. "That's why I believe this proposal suits you, Murakami-san, and can aid your career. Late-night slots aren't highly valued currently. If you apply for such a time slot, the programming committee won't care much—they'll likely let you try. Wouldn't you agree?"
Murakami Iori had skimmed through the proposal and found it intriguing. The additional stories provided by Chihara Rinto were equally captivating. If executed well, they could attract viewers. His reasoning also made perfect sense.
She paused, closing the scripts but not returning them. Instead, she rested her hand on them hesitantly. "But the audience for late-night slots…"
Late-night programming varied by network, typically spanning from 11 p.m. to 5 a.m.—a time when most people slept. Staying up late wasn't common in the 1990s. Networks largely ignored these hours, often filling them with low-budget horror films or infomercials. During the worst times, ratings plummeted to as low as 0.04%, negligible compared to the 15% benchmark for prime-time dramas and the 40% achieved by national hits.
Securing a late-night slot might be easy, but what good was it without an audience? It was a trap—easy to enter, hard to escape. For producers, ratings were the currency that granted influence and shielded them from failure. If her debut as a producer flopped, upper management might lose faith in her entirely, relegating her to permanent assistant status.
Chihara Rinto understood her concerns and spoke earnestly. "I understand, Murakami-san. But times are changing. Have you heard of the lipstick effect?"
Murakami Iori shook her head slowly. Before the internet age, obscure knowledge was harder to come by.
"The lipstick effect refers to an interesting economic phenomenon where lipstick sales surge during recessions. Also known as the 'affordable luxury' trend, it occurs because people view lipstick as a cheap indulgence. When disposable income shrinks, consumers still crave luxury but settle for affordable substitutes. In tough times, lipstick becomes a form of escapism and self-comfort."
Murakami Iori listened intently. Before the information explosion era, acquiring specialized knowledge required seeking out teachers, libraries, or bookstores—a challenging endeavor. Opportunities to learn weren't easily dismissed.
Chihara Rinto continued: "Japan is entering a major recession. People's incomes and future expectations have plummeted. Non-essential spending is being cut first, with entertainment taking the biggest hit. But the desire for entertainment remains. Unable to afford overseas trips or frequent bar visits, what's the cheapest form of entertainment for people?"
Murakami Iori pondered briefly. "Watching TV at home?"
"Exactly. Economic downturns boost television viewership. The longer the recession lasts, the stronger the lipstick effect grows—the more people stay glued to their screens. Working at the station, you must have noticed this trend. I suspect overall average ratings across all time slots have been rising year by year. Am I wrong?"
Murakami Iori was impressed. This was indeed true, though no one had explained it as vividly as Chihara Rinto. She nodded slightly. "Yes, but only the key prime-time slots show noticeable growth. Late-night dramas are still…"
"That's because current late-night content isn't worth watching—it fails to retain audiences. If we create something compelling, we can achieve miracles!" Chihara Rinto's words rang with conviction and allure. "This is a golden opportunity, Murakami-san. I have faith in this proposal and these scripts!"
And he did. Tales of the Unusual, originally titled World's Mysterious Night, had been conceived as a filler for late-night slots, expected to run for just one season. However, it unexpectedly garnered rave reviews, achieving over 20% ratings in its late-night slot. This success prompted networks to take late-night programming seriously, moving the show to prime time. Eventually, it became a biannual or triannual production, peaking at 37.4% effective ratings. That was precisely why Chihara Rinto had chosen this project.
Of course, he couldn't share this insider knowledge with Murakami Iori. Whether or not she believed in the script's potential depended entirely on her judgment. No amount of persuasion could replace her trust.
Relying on others was risky, yet Chihara Rinto had no choice but to seek out a producer like Murakami Iori. Production teams came in various forms. Director-led teams were common in film and anime production, where directors held ultimate authority and accountability. Writer-centric systems, favored in South Korea and used for China's Chiung Yao dramas, placed writers in charge.
In Japan's broadcasting system, however, producers called the shots. Responsible for submitting proposals, assembling teams, and overseeing nearly every aspect except creative writing, producers bore ultimate responsibility for a project's success. Without aligning with a producer like Murakami Iori, Chihara Rinto's script would remain nothing more than wasted paper.
He could only wait for her decision. Murakami Iori still hadn't returned the scripts, tapping them lightly as her mind wrestled with conflicting thoughts.
The logic was sound, the theory plausible, and the vision enticing. Moreover, the proposal seemed tailor-made for a novice producer like herself—low investment, minimal competition, easy approval, straightforward production, and solid script quality. But should she take the risk or stick to her original plan for stability?
Her career hung in the balance. It was a question worth pondering deeply…