Otaku Translation: Absolute Number One C73

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Chapter 73: One Week Until the Spring Season

To lay a solid foundation for , held nothing back, sharing every idea and detail he could think of. He filled six large whiteboards with notes, sketched out dozens of diagrams, and listed over a hundred specific requirements. The auxiliary creative team was thoroughly impressed—any lingering doubts or ulterior motives vanished as they realized just how meticulous his planning was. It was clear why the higher-ups had gone to such lengths to bring him in. Resistance was futile.

In the interest of saving time, Chihara didn’t mince words, presenting a series of creative concepts:

"What should you do if your girlfriend’s father turns out to be a yakuza boss during your first meeting?"

"How should a father react when his daughter brings home an elderly boyfriend?"

"What happens when a man starts seeing a little girl who only he can see?"

"If a husband accidentally takes on a massive debt as a guarantor, will his wife get angry?"

"Which dish tastes better—mom’s or wife’s version of the same recipe?"

And so on.

Including the ideas he’d previously shared with Murakami Iori, Chihara now had enough material to shoot at least twenty episodes. He handed these concepts over to the auxiliary team, who were tasked with refining details, assessing feasibility, selecting the best ideas, and drafting scripts. Drawing from lessons learned in his past life, Chihara also provided guidelines for visual layout, illustrations, voiceovers, and color schemes. He paid particular attention to what was known in the industry as "."

“Wipe performances” referred to pre-recorded reactions from guests, often exaggerated expressions of laughter or surprise triggered by prompts rather than genuine engagement. These clips would later be inserted into small windows overlaid on the main screen during broadcasts, adding an interactive element intended to heighten entertainment value. When done well, this technique could enhance the viewing experience; when overused, it became one of ’ most despised features.

Audiences frequently complained about excessive use of wipe performances. “Are we here to watch the actual show or just laugh at four tiny talking heads?” Too many floating windows obscured essential content, making viewers feel like they were watching something entirely different from what had been advertised. Yet, producers often felt compelled to include them due to contractual obligations—guests typically demanded guaranteed airtime to boost their visibility, forcing programs to shoehorn appearances even when unnecessary.

Chihara was acutely aware of this issue, having seen surveys where over 80% of modern audiences expressed strong dislike for overly intrusive wipe performances. To preempt disaster, he emphasized restraint to the auxiliary team, particularly urging Murakami Iori to negotiate guest contracts carefully. If necessary, they should pay more upfront to avoid cramming too many distracting overlays onto the screen. “No more than two windows at a time,” he instructed firmly, “and only one should remain visible consistently.”

“The audience’s experience comes first,” he reminded everyone. “This is a reality-based variety show. Hosts and guests are there to facilitate storytelling, not steal the spotlight. Let them earn their keep without overshadowing the real stars—the ordinary people featured in the program.”

As for another notorious feature of Japanese variety shows—the infamous “”—Chihara chose to leave that alone.

In studio recordings, hosts and guests followed scripted cues, rarely engaging authentically with the material. Their exaggerated reactions often came across as forced, lacking subtlety or sincerity. Instead of heartfelt chuckles, audiences heard endless streams of “Eh, eh, eh!” sometimes stretching for ten seconds or more—a tactic meant to signal surprise but which often bordered on absurdity. Audio editors jokingly dubbed these performers “Eh Warriors.”

While international viewers found this trope grating—wondering aloud whether these celebrities had ever encountered anything surprising in their lives—Japanese audiences generally accepted it as part of the cultural fabric. They viewed it as a formality, a way of “reading the room” through exaggerated politeness. As long as the effect wasn’t too over-the-top, local viewers tolerated it well enough.

With Chihara serving as the anchor of the creative team, progress was swift. Tasks that might have taken three days for a typical group were completed in thirty minutes under his guidance, showcasing his ruthless efficiency as someone armed with future knowledge. Meanwhile, thanks to ample funding, Murakami Iori moved just as quickly in casting and assembling the production crew.

, true to his word, proved himself a reliable ally despite his busy schedule. Though unable to personally oversee every detail, he demonstrated his commitment through generous budget allocations. After confirming the scale of Human Observation, Murakami boldly submitted a request for 9 million yen per episode—an astronomical sum for a reality-based variety show with no plans to hire A-list celebrities. Typically, variety show hosts and guests were relatively inexpensive entertainers, far cheaper than professional actors. She fully expected the programming committee to slash her proposal by several million yen.

Chihara approved of her strategy. Such negotiation tactics were standard practice, and even if the final budget settled around 5-6 million yen per episode, they’d still have plenty to work with. By comparison:

- Budget-friendly semi-reality shows like Followed Home required only a host, a small camera/audio team, and shared post-production resources, costing roughly 1 million yen per episode in the 1990s—and often less.

- Studio talk shows like The World Unknown to Matsuko or The Snark Squad occasionally featured high-profile guests, pushing costs up, but rarely exceeded 3 million yen per episode after accounting for set expenses.

- Outdoor variety shows with significant prop expenditures, similar to Human Observation, operated comfortably within 5-6 million yen per episode while maintaining quality standards.

- At the top end, globe-trotting adventure shows like Q’s Great Adventures averaged about 10 million yen per episode—on par with single-episode budgets for regular TV dramas.

By this measure, Murakami’s requested budget essentially allowed them to film overseas if needed—a bold move akin to a snake swallowing an elephant. While such figures wouldn’t raise eyebrows post-2010 (when production costs skyrocketed), in this era, they stood out dramatically. For context, a modern equivalent of Q’s Great Adventures might demand 20-30 million yen per episode simply to cover travel expenses.

Yet, astonishingly, the programming committee approved Murakami’s budget within an hour and a half—not a single yen cut. Overwhelmed by gratitude, she showed the approval slip to Chihara, exclaiming, “Chihara, this isn’t just training ground anymore. We absolutely must deliver a stellar program.”

She felt a surge of loyalty—a warrior ready to die for her patron. Never before had she experienced such trust and support. Her heart raced with determination.

Chihara hadn’t anticipated this either. The programming committee’s usual role involved scrutinizing budgets, demanding maximum viewership for minimal investment—a key source of their power. Their swift approval clearly indicated Shiga Ayumu’s behind-the-scenes intervention, smoothing the way through private negotiations. This went beyond mere perks like nice offices or personal benefits—it represented a tangible endorsement.

’s internal dynamics likely weren’t monolithic, and Shiga Ayumu’s backing carried implicit risks. Should the show fail spectacularly, his reputation and influence within the bureau could suffer significantly. This act constituted a hidden favor—one Chihara recognized and appreciated.

Understanding the principle of reciprocity, Chihara nodded earnestly. “Of course, our goals remain unchanged. We’ll ensure the program meets the highest standards.”

Even setting aside the obligation to repay kindness, Chihara believed strongly in delivering quality work. Training a new team required success; failure wouldn’t yield growth. Moreover, recent research had reinforced his confidence. Variety shows in this era were still primitive compared to their golden age decades later. Current formats lacked innovation, leaving ample room for improvement. Case in point: ’s wildly popular reigned supreme among variety programs.

Though seemingly simple, quizzes captivated audiences by showcasing both intellect and folly among celebrities, politicians, and public figures. Viewers relished moments of brilliance and blunders alike, blending admiration with schadenfreude. Ratings soared accordingly.

Still, variety shows paled in comparison to blockbuster dramas. Average viewership thresholds reflected this disparity: 15% for prime-time dramas versus a mere 10% for variety shows. The latter occupied a lower rung in the hierarchy, unable to generate widespread societal impact or elevate network prestige. Purely entertainment-driven, they hadn’t yet reached the stage warranting lavish investments.

Thus, despite the tight preparation schedule, Chihara remained optimistic about Human Observation. Even as a purely amateur-driven variety show, it stood a fair chance of decent ratings.

The duo exchanged a few appreciative remarks about their newfound financial freedom before diving back into work. With abundant resources at her disposal and strong institutional support, Murakami swiftly assembled an oversized production team. Her plan was straightforward: identify top performers for the summer blockbuster’s core crew while retaining moderately skilled individuals for ongoing work on Human Observation.

As days passed, the program planning room transformed into a chaotic mess of discarded papers and miscellaneous junk. Whiteboards covered every available surface, their entries revised almost beyond recognition. Models and props scattered across tables, walls plastered with charts and key points. Cleaning staff dared not enter, leaving trash piles to accumulate in corners.

Meanwhile, Murakami finalized casting decisions. A popular entertainment duo was tapped to co-host, joined by five fixed guests adhering to classic archetypes: one comedian, one handsome idol, one elder statesman, one glamorous beauty, and one intentionally unattractive woman. These roles were then handed off to Chihara, who crafted distinct personas, tailored catchphrases, and signature comedic bits for each participant.

On the technical side, the studio underwent rapid renovations, nearing completion just in time for filming. Specialized equipment arrived, ensuring everything was ready for action. On the day Episode 12 aired, Murakami gave the green light: Human Observation officially commenced production!

With just over a week remaining until the spring season premiere, they barely made the cutoff. Chihara took the initial shoot seriously, clutching his shorthand notebook as he accompanied the crew to the set.

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