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Chapter 42: Can They Find the Problem?
The next morning, Murakami Iori gathered the crew in the studio to announce the ratings for the second episode of Tales of the Unusual. The peak rating had reached an impressive 5.29%, surpassing expectations and drawing cheers and applause from the team. Confidence soared as everyone vowed to keep up the good work. But after the celebration, Murakami called an impromptu production meeting, corralling the writer and director into a cramped office space to reveal the average time-slot rating: 3.52%.
The three creative leads huddled together over the ratings report, poring over the numbers. It was clear that the rating was improving. Within the first five minutes, viewership had climbed to 2.7%, stabilizing soon after—a sign that people were tuning in regularly. As the episode progressed, more late-night wanderers joined, pushing the peak rating to 5.29% before dipping slightly to close at 4.99%.
Fujii Arima studied the curve with a sigh. "It’s about what we expected. The growth isn’t dramatic."
While the 3.52% average was significantly higher than the debut’s 2.27%, it wasn’t entirely surprising given how poorly the previous series, Terror Ward, had performed. Its abysmal opening—hovering around 0.7% to 0.9%—had dragged down the overall averages. In reality, far more viewers were tuning in now; the immediate jump to 2.7% proved that. Yet, once the ratings hit a certain level, they plateaued, with only marginal increases in audience size.
For instance, the peak rating rose from 5.01% to 5.29%, indicating that the first episode had already captured most of the wandering viewers. Significant growth would be hard to achieve in such a short timeframe.
Had this been a few months ago, a 3.52% average might have thrilled Murakami and Fujii. But with their season-end target set at 20% (and a minimum goal of 17.1%), maintaining this rate of growth wouldn’t cut it. A sense of unease settled in.
Once you’ve dreamed big, settling feels like failure.
“We still have ten weeks,” Chihara Rinto said casually, offering reassurance without looking surprised by the numbers. He knew better than anyone that overnight success was rare. Back in his original world, Strange Events took several seasons to gain traction before moving to primetime and rebranding as Tales of the Unusual. Word-of-mouth spread slowly, even for standout premieres. Explosive jumps in viewership were unlikely, and these results were normal.
The real challenge lay in accelerating that process. Staying stuck in the graveyard slot—the dead zone of television programming—wasn’t an option.
Fujii nodded. Growth, however modest, was still growth. His fleeting disappointment aside, he turned to Murakami. “How’s it going with the idols?”
He was ready to take a gamble on Chihara’s unorthodox plan. If executed well, it could lead to a breakthrough.
“I’m thinking of bringing them in tomorrow or the day after,” Murakami replied. “What timing works best for you, Fujii-kun?”
Fujii grimaced. “The sooner, the better. Ideally, today. I’ll call Yoshizaki back to give them some extra coaching. Otherwise, I fear…”
“All right, I’ll reach out shortly.” Murakami respected her colleagues’ roles, deferring to Fujii’s authority on set while positioning herself as a coordinator rather than a leader.
As she prepared to adjourn the meeting, allowing Fujii to return to filming, she glanced at Chihara. “Chihara, anything else? Hmm… Are you still reading something? Any issues?”
Chihara waved the ratings report absently. “No, just noticed something interesting.”
“What is it?” Murakami leaned closer, expecting another one of his unconventional insights. Instead, she found him scrutinizing the national rankings.
He pointed to Happiness in the Fields. “Do you know what happened here?”
Happiness in the Fields aired on the same schedule as their show. Last week, it ranked second nationally, poised to topple the top spot with a peak rating of 20.2% and an average of 18.77%. It showed all the hallmarks of becoming a national sensation, potentially reaching the coveted 30% benchmark by season’s end. Yet, its second episode plummeted, dropping to 18.71% peak and averaging just 15.8%. Strange.
Though still far above their own ratings, different timeslots came with different standards. For prime-time slots like Happiness in the Fields, 15% was the bare minimum. National sensations often hit 40% or more. Falling below 15% meant risking your station’s reputation—and possibly getting axed.
A drop of over 3% in the average rating—from promising hit to near-cancellation territory—was unusual. Concerned about potential pitfalls unique to this world, Chihara grew curious.
But Murakami and Fujii weren’t interested. After a quick glance, they muttered “no idea” and left. To them, Chihara’s musings felt indulgent when he’d piled so much work onto everyone else.
Fujii returned to directing, dispatching someone to fetch the assistant director. Meanwhile, Murakami contacted the idol group, planning to prep them with acting lessons beforehand.
Unsatisfied but undeterred, Chihara lingered awhile longer before heading back to headquarters. Summoning his ever-efficient assistant Shiraki Keima, he asked, “Shiraki-kun, can you get me the first two episodes of Happiness in the Fields? I want to watch them.”
Recordings of aired episodes were fair game unless sold commercially, and within the station, obtaining them was straightforward.
Shiraki complied without hesitation, returning promptly with a small TV, VCR, and tapes. Setting everything up efficiently, he played the recordings.
Chihara settled behind his desk, focusing intently. While he disliked Ishii Jiro, the producer of Happiness in the Fields, they shared no animosity. Chihara wasn’t reveling in the rival show’s struggles—he lacked the pettiness for that. Even if the eight o’clock slot opened up, it wouldn’t go to a newcomer. That primetime battlefield belonged to seasoned veterans.
His interest stemmed purely from caution. If Happiness in the Fields had fallen into a trap, he wanted to avoid it himself.
He watched intently, occasionally skipping through less important scenes. Beside him, Shiraki Keima set down a freshly brewed cup of coffee. After a brief pause, curiosity won out; he pulled up a chair and joined in.
By the time the two episodes ended, Chihara leaned back, brow furrowed in thought.
The plot itself was unremarkable—a historical drama thinly veiling a romance between a rising samurai and several women. The protagonist bore shades of Toyotomi Hideyoshi (Kinoshita Tokichiro) but lacked ambition, compensating with insatiable lust.
Audience targeting seemed fine too. Melodramatic love appealed to female viewers, while violent clashes and battle scenes drew in males. Broad appeal checked out.
Pacing appeared solid as well. Though seemingly calm, each scene planted seeds for future developments, building anticipation effectively. Plot twists felt natural, encouraging continued viewing.
So, not a script issue. Nor direction—the cinematography was sharp, storytelling clear, details meticulous. The cast consisted of seasoned actors delivering strong performances. Yet, despite all this, the show exuded an inexplicable dullness, making it exhausting to watch. Why?
Even Chihara, a transmigrator from 2019, found himself baffled. What made this show so unbearably tedious?
It defied logic. And yet, the answer was simple: boredom drove viewers away. Ninety-nine percent cared only whether a show entertained. Once bored, they switched channels mercilessly, seeking distractions elsewhere. Loyalty? Nonexistent. Abandoned shows rarely saw second chances.
Every episode demanded painstaking effort. The pressure on creators wasn’t unwarranted. One major misstep couldn’t be undone post-broadcast, and lost audiences never returned. Revivals were rare, almost mythical.
Thus, Happiness in the Fields was doomed. Chihara could practically declare it. Their sole lifeline rested with the third episode, likely already filmed. Somewhere, the creative team must be scrambling, debating reshoots and recuts.
Could they pinpoint the problem in time? Or would they falter, unable to salvage their sinking ship?
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