Otaku Translation: Absolute Number One C89

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Chapter 89: Preparations

’s astonishment was not without reason. Though he had been working with for quite some time and acknowledged him as an exceptionally talented , writing a script and were two entirely different beasts.

Writing a screenplay was no small feat. In the industry, there was an old saying—"scratching a pancake off the pavement." That was how they described the work of a screenwriter—conjuring up intricate, emotionally compelling stories and soulful characters from nothing. It was like trying to pull a fully-formed pancake out of thin air. Entirely illusory, yet somehow real in its demands.

But turning those words into a director's storyboard—the breakdown of shots—was another level of difficulty altogether. If the writer’s job was akin to providing raw ingredients, then the director was the chef who had to transform them into a feast. A director needed a vast array of skills: production management, scene blocking, artistic vision, audio-visual language, set design, choreography, , and post-production editing, to name just a few.

For instance, when a screenwriter wrote a single line of dialogue, the director had to consider dozens of factors when creating the corresponding shot:

- Should it be a wide shot, medium shot, close-up, or an extreme close-up?

- Should the camera push in, pull out, pan, track, or follow the subject?

- Should transitions between scenes fade in and out, cut sharply, or dissolve?

- What tone should the lighting take? Warm or cool? Should different hues be used to distinguish characters or settings?

- How should the composition make the audience feel comfortable?

- What sound effects could immerse viewers deeper into the scene?

- Should background music be added to heighten the mood? If so, what kind? When should it begin and fade?

- How long should the shot last? One second too long? Half a second too short?

- How should the actor perform to align with the overall tone?

Even something as simple as "the actor walks out of the grocery store" required thought. Should the grocery store be a retro Showa-era shop or a modern one? Which would keep the audience immersed and match the show’s overarching tone?

In essence, while the screenwriter imagined the story—the raw ingredients—the director transformed it into a finished dish. And if the director didn’t meticulously season that dish with careful attention to detail, even the best ingredients could go to waste. That’s why in the world of television production, young geniuses among screenwriters were rare, but young genius directors were virtually nonexistent. The sheer breadth of knowledge and experience required made it nearly impossible for someone fresh out of the gate to excel solely on flashes of inspiration.

Creating a storyboard wasn’t about sudden bursts of brilliance—that was the screenwriter’s domain. What mattered most was solid foundational skill and extensive hands-on experience.

When Chihara Rinto began drafting his storyboard, Yoshizaki Shingo hadn’t planned to step in and take over. He was prepared, however, to offer substantial revisions if necessary. But after flipping through several pages, he realized… there wasn’t much to change. Chihara Rinto had already considered nearly every detail imaginable. His approach to framing shots and nailing key action points and plot twists was remarkably polished. It was as though he’d directed countless films before, honing his craft to perfection.

This realization shifted Yoshizaki’s attitude. Instead of preparing to overhaul the storyboard, he now approached it with the same respect he’d give a seasoned director like . He focused on fine-tuning, double-checking complex multi-panel sequences for inconsistencies that might confuse viewers. He jotted down suggestions for later discussion—after all, even the gods themselves couldn’t create without making the occasional mistake.

Meanwhile, Shiraki Keima continued refining the literary script, occasionally being called over by Chihara Rinto to help verify details. As for Chihara Rinto, he became utterly absorbed in the intricate process of crafting the storyboard. His concentration was absolute, his mind consumed by concepts like “,” “character movement,” “multi-camera setups,” “sound synchronization,” and “set construction.” By the time his stomach growled again, signaling hunger, he glanced at the clock and was shocked to see it was already 7:25 PM.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. There was no time to grab dinner at the restaurant. Last night, he’d told himself he’d balance work and life, but here he was, still buried in tasks. Leaving now felt inappropriate; the work wasn’t done yet.

He hesitated, pen in hand, weighing whether to take a break and meet up with Hakuba Neiko or stay and power through the night. Everyone was in the zone, productivity high. Breaking away felt wasteful. Yoshizaki noticed his pause and looked over, his voice weary. “Chihara, stuck on something?”

Seizing the moment, Yoshizaki stretched wearily, pausing his work for a moment. He couldn’t help but admire Chihara’s stamina—he’d barely left his chair all day except for a quick bathroom break—which only made Yoshizaki feel more self-conscious about taking a break. Yoshizaki himself was feeling the strain, his back aching from hours of sitting. Ah, to be young again, he thought wistfully.

Chihara sighed inwardly. The first episode’s storyboard wasn’t just a blueprint—it set the tone for the entire season. Once finalized, it couldn’t be altered. Work came first. Life could wait. As for Hakuba Neiko, waiting a day won’t make much difference.

Refocusing, he smiled and said, “No, just hungry. Shiraki-sun, could you grab us some food? Yoshizaki-kun, let’s keep going. For this section, I think using multiple cameras for a single shot would save time and effort while producing better results. But I’m unsure about and camera movement. Here’s what I envision…” He sketched a quick diagram, arrows flying everywhere, resembling a military strategy map. “Yoshizaki-kun, what’s your take on how we should design this?”

Yoshizaki leaned in eagerly. With over a decade of on-set experience, he knew exactly how to translate ideas into practical execution. “Keep it simple,” he suggested. “Three cameras should suffice, four if you want to play it safe. Camera one moves parallel here to here, use a . Camera two…”

The trio worked tirelessly until 12:30 AM, finally hammering out a rough plan for filming the first episode. Shiraki, exhausted, didn’t bother washing up. He simply unrolled his sleeping bag and climbed in. Yoshizaki called his wife to inform her he wouldn’t be home, asking Chihara to vouch that he hadn’t gone drinking or gallivanting. Then he too grabbed a sleeping bag and turned in.

Chihara checked the time, sighed, and resolved to visit the restaurant tomorrow. Going home now would mean wasting half an hour each way—too inefficient. He decided to crash in the office instead.

---

The next morning, Murakami Iori woke them up and pulled Chihara aside to discuss separating the Human Observation team. The crew was bloated, and the original plan had always been to split off a significant portion of the staff for . Now was the time. Murakami had already drafted a preliminary list of personnel.

Chihara, who knew her well enough not to treat her any differently because she was a woman, rubbed sleep from his eyes and scanned the names. “You decide on the regular staff,” he said casually. “But I need a seasoned assistant director. Find someone reliable soon.”

His plan was to have three directors share the same storyboard and film simultaneously: himself, Yoshizaki, and one more. Unfortunately, Fujii Arima had declined to join, leaving a gap that needed filling.

Murakami nodded. She’d look into the bureau’s pool of directors. Then, with concern, she asked, “Should we start preparing the theme song?”

She’d already begun budgeting, confident that money wouldn’t be an issue. This wasn’t Tales of the Unusual anymore—they weren’t scraping by. She wanted to showcase her capabilities by securing a classic, unforgettable theme song, ensuring the series started with a bang.

But Chihara shook his head. After a brief pause, he said firmly, “No theme song this time.”

“What?” Murakami was stunned. “Chihara, we’re not strapped for cash anymore. We shouldn’t skimp on the show’s face value. A hit TV drama’s theme song becomes iconic—it boosts ratings. Even if we have to scrape together funds, it’s worth it.”

Chihara chuckled. “Different circumstances. This series is aiming for a ‘’ vibe, targeting adult professionals. They don’t need a theme song to manipulate emotions or tug at heartstrings. Let the story speak for itself. Trust me, letting the audience connect organically with the characters will have a stronger impact.”

If Murakami hadn’t mentioned it, he would’ve forgotten that Hanzawa Naoki’s original version didn’t have a theme song either. Instead, it opened with solemn instrumental music, adding depth and accelerating the pacing. Chihara believed they could replicate that success. Many modern American dramas had abandoned theme songs altogether, and he was confident in the strength of their script and direction. No gimmicks needed. Just pure storytelling and character development.

A clean, straightforward punch to the gut—that’s what he aimed to deliver.

Though Murakami wasn’t entirely convinced, Chihara was the project’s lead. His decision was final. Accepting defeat, she handed him a stack of documents. “Here’s a preliminary list of actors based on your criteria. Take a look and see if anyone stands out.”

Chihara nodded and began flipping through the pages. Finding actors of ’s caliber wouldn’t be easy. And for the show to truly shine, the antagonist needed to match the protagonist in presence and skill—a balancing act that was far easier said than done.

This, perhaps, was the biggest hurdle of all—not the absence of a theme song, but casting the right people. Chihara studied the list intently, knowing the fate of the series rested heavily on these decisions.

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