Otaku Translation: Absolute Number One C43

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Chapter 43: A Legendary Flop in Its Own Right

sat deep in thought, racking his brain for any similar anomalies in the history of from his original world. Beside him, grew increasingly puzzled by his prolonged silence and finally ventured a cautious question: "Chihara-sensei, what exactly are you…?"

Snapping out of his reverie, Chihara smiled and looked up. "Nothing serious. I’m just baffled by this sudden ratings plunge. Say, Shiraki-kun, what did you think of the show after watching it?"

Shiraki hesitated but decided to be honest. "To be frank, it was hard to sit through."

"And where do you think the problem lies?" Chihara asked.

Shiraki perked up, sensing an opportunity to prove himself. If he could impress Chihara with his insight, perhaps he’d earn a promotion to assistant writer—a chance to step closer to the creative process. His tone became more earnest as he carefully replied, "I think it’s the casting. This is our network’s big winter project with significant investment, so they’ve brought in many renowned actors and popular stars. But there’s one newcomer playing the protagonist’s childhood friend—her acting doesn’t match the rest of the cast at all. It feels off. I believe she’s mostly to blame."

Chihara pondered this explanation, meeting Shiraki’s hopeful gaze, but ultimately shook his head. The actress in question was none other than Kondo Airi, his “ex-girlfriend,” who had clearly landed the role due to connections. Still, even favoritism aside, it was evident that she’d received some professional training and possessed a modicum of talent. For a rookie, her performance wasn’t bad—good enough for a minor background character with only a few lines per episode.

The issue wasn’t her lack of skill; it was context. Placed among seasoned veterans, her shortcomings stood out like a sore thumb. Yet Chihara didn’t think she was the root cause. She barely appeared on screen, and if the show itself were compelling, viewers wouldn’t abandon it over a forgettable supporting role. Even though her presence might annoy audiences and prompt some harsh criticism, it wouldn’t lead to such a dramatic drop in ratings. No, she lacked the influence to single-handedly sink the series.

Determined to uncover the truth, Chihara rewatched the episodes, skipping every scene featuring Airi. Afterward, he turned to Shiraki again. "Well? How does it feel now?"

"The plot feels slightly disjointed without her scenes," Shiraki admitted, "but not enough to make a difference. It’s still dull and tiring to watch. Honestly, if I were a viewer, I’d probably change the channel anyway." He hesitated before adding, "So, what’s the real problem, Chihara-sensei? With such talented actors delivering solid performances, shouldn’t this show have been widely loved?"

Chihara didn’t respond immediately, his eyes fixed on the screen. Watching the parade of A-list actors—each boasting impressive skills—he couldn’t help but feel envious. Any one of these actors would be perfect material for a script tailored specifically to their strengths, capable of competing head-to-head in primetime slots across major networks.

But hiring them came at a steep price. For instance, Michiko, who starred in the opening short of , earned a mere ¥55,000 per episode—a bargain compared to the cast of . Many of its actors were past award winners or last year’s rising stars, likely commanding salaries starting at ¥1 million per episode—and potentially twice that. These figures amounted to weekly paychecks rivaling those of top-tier professionals.

Such an extravagant lineup could only result from a production backed by substantial funding. Clearly, Tokyo Eizo Broadcasting (TEB) had spared no expense in crafting this flagship drama, grooming it as their primary contender for the next one to three years. The stakes were high—they aimed not just for success but possibly even domination. Expectations ran sky-high.

A true blockbuster!

For a moment, Chihara indulged in envy, dreaming of the day when he too might helm such a grand production. Then, suddenly, a memory surfaced—a notorious cautionary tale from his original world: The Great X River Romance (1996).

Though largely forgotten by the early 21st century, the series had once generated immense hype. Promoted as featuring two Best Actor winners, two Rising Star awardees, and three Best Actress recipients, it was prematurely hailed as destined for greatness. Yet, upon airing, audiences rejected it outright. By mid-season, it flopped spectacularly, leaving investors empty-handed and failing to penetrate even the home video market. Decades later, only industry insiders retained vague memories of its existence. Had Chihara not studied film, he doubted he’d recall it either.

The failure sent shockwaves through the entertainment industry. Countless analyses attempted to diagnose the reasons behind its collapse, yet no consensus emerged. Some blamed the genre, arguing it coincided with audience fatigue. Others pointed fingers at the leads, suggesting the young Rising Stars’ inexperience paled beside veteran co-stars, inadvertently diverting attention away from the protagonists. Directors were criticized for mishandling the star-studded ensemble, while writers faced accusations of pacing issues—too much setup, too little payoff. One particularly eccentric theory posited that the collective energy of brilliant actors overwhelmed viewers, exhausting their brains and prompting them to switch channels. Though rooted in neuroscience, this hypothesis gained little traction within the filmmaking community, dismissed as pseudoscience.

Before fading into obscurity, The Great X River Romance sparked endless postmortems, illustrating how failures often invite retrospective nitpicking. Flaws—real or imagined—were magnified under scrutiny.

As Chihara watched Happiness in the Fields a third time, parallels between the two dramas became glaringly apparent. Both boasted generous budgets, stellar casts, meticulous craftsmanship, and robust marketing campaigns—but inexplicably failed to resonate with audiences.

In Chihara’s opinion, the eccentric neuroscientific theory held some merit. In a story steeped in individual heroism, each supporting actor delivered performances worthy of a protagonist, confusing viewers subconsciously. Unsure whom to empathize with, they oscillated between characters, growing mentally fatigued. When the brain tires, it signals disengagement—cue the remote control. Ratings plummeted accordingly.

Of course, viewing experiences remained inherently subjective. Chihara couldn’t claim absolute certainty about his hypothesis. Nevertheless, Happiness in the Fields teetered precariously on the brink of collapse. Salvaging it seemed daunting.

Much like , another critically acclaimed yet mysteriously unloved series, certain productions simply faltered despite technical excellence. Sometimes, there was no clear solution.

From a historical perspective, however, such spectacular flops were rare gems in Japanese television. , though undoubtedly suffering professionally, deserved recognition for orchestrating such a debacle. Under the producer-centric system, regardless of fault, he bore ultimate responsibility for mismanagement.

Having resolved his curiosity, Chihara gathered his notes and headed back to the studio, ready to get back to work. All that was left was to see how the Happiness in the Fields crew would handle the problem. Perhaps he’d learn something valuable. In truth, even if tasked with fixing the problem himself, he harbored no illusions about guaranteed success. Likely, he’d resort to forcibly toning down supporting roles—even rendering them intentionally less competent—to refocus attention on the protagonist.

Lost in thought, Chihara departed without bidding farewell to Shiraki, leaving the assistant adrift in contemplation. Did my answer fail the test? Was my suggestion inadequate? He left without clarifying anything… Does this mean I need to figure it out myself?

Recalling Chihara’s enigmatic smile, Shiraki concluded, Yes, that must be it. Someone as talented as Chihara-sensei would naturally demand extraordinary rigor from his disciples. Only the exceptionally strict can mentor someone of his caliber.

Resolved, Shiraki settled back down, rewinding the tape to rewatch Happiness in the Fields with renewed determination. I will find the answer, he vowed silently. I must seize this opportunity to learn under Chihara-sensei.

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