Otaku Translation: Absolute Number One C56

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Chapter 56: The

What is the most fundamental element of making a TV drama?

It’s not the script, not the director, and certainly not the actors—it’s the . Without professional filming equipment, even the best scripts, most talented directors, and most popular actors are useless.

Thus, in any production crew, cameras are treated with special reverence, almost as if they possess a "sacred" quality. They are handled by designated operators and meticulously maintained. Even the cases holding lens filters have dedicated carriers. There are countless superstitions surrounding them.

For instance, there were virtually no female camera operators or assistants back then. It was believed that women carried too much "yin energy," which made them prone to attracting spirits. Cameras, supposedly capable of "absorbing souls," would allegedly capture unwanted phenomena if touched by women. , the director's assistant, once recounted a chilling story to : during the filming of a , everything seemed normal until the wife of an actor visiting the set sat on a case containing lenses. In the final footage, a faint figure of a woman in white occasionally appeared in the corner of the frame, smiling eerily at the camera. This terrified the entire crew, prompting them to return to the set for repentance and invite a monk to perform purification rituals.

Another example: if an actor portrayed a character who died tragically—or whose spirit tablet appeared on screen—they’d receive a small envelope along with their paycheck. Inside was a modest sum meant to be donated to a shrine, supposedly to appease the actor's guardian spirit and prevent it from harboring resentment toward the camera.

And then there was the belief that cameras, due to their "soul-absorbing + image-recording" nature, could attract wandering spirits. These entities might cause frequent malfunctions, such as tape scratches, potentially disrupting the shoot.

To Chihara Rinto, all these tales sounded like baseless superstitions— at best. He doubted everyone fully believed them, yet strangely, no one dared dismiss them either. Everyone approached the matter with solemnity, fearing the worst-case scenario. After all, what if mishandling the camera led to accidents in the next season? People would point fingers.

Even Murakami Iori, an educated elite from a prestigious university, didn’t dare take chances. She stood far away during the ceremony, her expression unusually grave. Reflecting on it, she had avoided proximity to the cameras throughout the entire shoot, likely because of her gender.

The wrap-up ritual was jointly conducted by , the director, and the camera team. Under the watchful eyes of the crew, they bowed deeply to the cameras alongside several assistants. Words of gratitude followed: “Thank you for your hard work over these three months. Now that we’re wrapping up, rest well. In another week or two, we’ll rely on you again to ensure smooth filming for the next season.”

There were four cameras in total, each treated with meticulous care—more tenderly than one might treat a spouse. Finally, the camera operators powered down the devices while Fujii symbolically tied around them, creating a sort of seal or barrier. This was meant to protect against wandering spirits entering the cameras during the crew’s vacation when fewer people would be present in the studio.

The process mirrored the opening ceremony, equally absurd in Chihara’s eyes. While Tsumura Haruki enthusiastically explained the significance of every step, Chihara struggled to maintain a suitably serious expression. You could disbelieve, but showing disrespect was unthinkable; otherwise, Fujii might protest later.

Still, Chihara couldn’t help feeling skeptical. Modern TVs couldn’t handle high-definition signals, and post-production deadlines left little room for refinement. As a result, programs aired in subpar resolution. These four cameras performed worse than future consumer-grade DSLRs, yet here they were, treated like sacred relics. Chihara wagered that if the studio caught fire, the first things rescued would be the cameras, leaving the actors to fend for themselves.

Regardless, with the wrap-up ceremony complete, officially concluded. Murakami thanked the entire crew for their efforts over the past three months and announced a much-deserved break. Most initial tasks for Season 2 fell to the creative team, so the crew could enjoy more than a week off—time to date, spend time with loved ones, or simply sleep in after months of relentless overtime.

Murakami also invited everyone to dinner the following evening—a combined celebration and thank-you party. That night marked the airing of Episode 11, expected to break records, so why hold two separate events?

The crew eagerly anticipated breaking the record, excited to see the fruits of their labor on screen. Their joy stemmed partly from financial gains; despite the grueling workload, bonuses and salaries ensured substantial rewards. With the move to primetime for Season 2, budgets—and incomes—would rise significantly.

At a TV station, good ratings inevitably brought happiness.

The crew dispersed cheerfully, looking forward to relaxing and celebrating. Only a few staff remained behind to guard and perform minor repairs.

That night, Episode 11 aired on schedule. Chihara watched it, marking his first "number one" achievement. He celebrated quietly, congratulating himself for establishing a foothold in this unfamiliar world and country. By morning, the ratings confirmed he hadn’t celebrated prematurely. As expected, reactions remained overwhelmingly positive. They shattered the late-night drama record of 17.1%, reaching 17.32%. And with one episode remaining, they had the chance to push even higher. What could be more satisfying than setting a record that left competitors frustrated and envious?

But success hadn’t come easily.

Chihara had meticulously curated scripts, employing unconventional tactics to lure viewers.

Fujii had worked tirelessly, devising ways to mask idols’ lack of acting skills, pushing both crew and cast to deliver quality work above baseline standards.

Murakami provided unwavering logistical support, shielding her creative team from trivial distractions, securing resources within the production bureau, and bearing immense pressure. Over three months, she aged visibly, swelling and shrinking repeatedly.

Yet, all this effort felt worthwhile now that they’d broken the record.

Holding the ratings report, Murakami stared at it intently—not with jubilation, but with red-rimmed eyes. Her fingers traced the number 17.32% repeatedly. Fujii laughed heartily three times, then paused pensively, sighing before brightening again. “Finally… it’s over. Tonight, I’m drinking my fill. These three months drained me like a year’s worth of energy.”

Murakami touched her face, nodding empathetically. “Yes, let’s drink tonight.”

Chihara continued analyzing the data, pondering whether they could reach 20% or surpass another rival. When the topic turned to expenses, he hesitated. Though Murakami nominally outranked them, she treated them as equals. Having her bear the costs alone seemed unfair. “Murakami-san,” he interjected cautiously, “should we split the cost of the celebration?”

He meant sharing the burden, even though money was tight. He didn’t want to appear stingy, given the respect accorded to the creative team. But Murakami chuckled knowingly, winking. “Don’t worry. People from talent agencies will join us.”

Ah, so it was about leveraging connections. Chihara understood immediately but grew wary. “Will this cause trouble?” The production’s promising future shouldn’t be jeopardized by saving on a meal. Under ’s , strict regulations prohibited bribery, ranging from banning TV staff from owning shares in talent agencies to capping gift values.

True fairness? A myth, perhaps. Yet rules existed to be scrutinized, requiring caution.

Murakami wasn’t new to the industry. Smiling openly since no outsiders were present, she reassured him. “No issues. They’ll privately cover the drinks. Officially, the restaurant will claim a discount. We remain oblivious, and no one can accuse us of anything. It’s standard practice. Everyone knows but pretends ignorance. Relax, Chihara.”

Chihara nodded, absorbing another lesson. This industry was rife with unorthodox practices. Covering just the food minimized costs, easing Murakami’s burden. He dropped the subject.

They returned to their duties. Around 5 PM, still wondering why his apprentice hadn’t shown up, Chihara found himself bundled into a car with Murakami, Fujii, Yoshizaki, and others, heading to a high-end restaurant for the celebratory feast.

Relax. Drink. Celebrate. A fitting end to the season!

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