Otaku Translation: Absolute Number One C111

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Chapter 111: The Premiere

The "," initiated and hosted by , is a seasonal television evaluation event that began in 1992. Though relatively new, it has gained credibility and influence, second only to the annual "" in Japan's television honors. While the Star Awards focus exclusively on TV dramas, the Academy Awards also include films, animations, and radio programs, akin to Japan’s version of the Oscars.

Given its recent inception, the Star Awards remain straightforward, featuring categories like Best Actor and Actress, Best Supporting Actor and Actress, Best Director, Best Screenwriter, Best Work, Best TV Drama Song, and a Special Award. Categories such as Best Cinematography, Costume Design, Props, Editing, and Special Effects are not yet included.

Eligible for consideration are dramas airing at least five episodes in the season. Winners are determined through a voting process involving New Filmmakers Magazine readers, invited critics, and the magazine’s editorial board, with weighted calculations determining the final results. Notably, reader votes—submitted via verified stamps—carry significant weight, making large-scale manipulation difficult even for major networks due to Japan's strict laws against forgery.

With having aired its fifth episode, it qualified for nomination. was closely monitoring the situation, frequently encouraging everyone to rally friends and family to vote for the show.

This time was different from Tales of the Unusual. Back then, the first half of the season had performed miserably, and even after gradually turning things around, the ratings peaked at only 20%. Despite its excellent reputation, the show couldn’t compete in terms of voting numbers against the winter hits, leaving it empty-handed. But this time, with Hanzawa Naoki achieving both critical acclaim and soaring ratings, Murakami Iori was confident she’d secure her first Star Award—she’d already ordered a display case for the trophy.

She shouldn’t have been so confident, given that she and had left under contentious circumstances, practically guaranteeing TEB would try to sabotage them out of pride. However, the overwhelming social impact and popularity of Hanzawa Naoki made such interference unlikely to succeed, even through critics or the judging panel.

As for the Academy Awards, nominations wouldn’t open until late August, with results announced in November.

Chihara was also looking forward to the Star Awards. Having no accolades to his name, even a minor award would be welcome. For now, he was waiting until September 30th to claim his prize. While Murakami Iori remained uncertain about the final ratings once Hanzawa Naoki concluded, Chihara felt more confident. Of course, winning required the show to avoid collapsing midway, so he remained focused on the task at hand. After indulging in brief anticipation, he threw himself back into the demanding filming schedule.

Time flew by, and soon it was the broadcast day for Episode Six. That afternoon, Chihara received a reply from , along with a long, cylindrical package.

He set the letter aside to read later during his break and opened the package during a lull in filming. As expected, it contained a painting—one he’d requested in his last correspondence.

Currently pen pals, Chihara aimed to elevate their relationship to friendship. After some thought, he decided to brazenly ask Hakuba for a painting. If she agreed, he’d have an excuse to reciprocate with a gift. Two rounds of exchanges like this, and they’d naturally become friends, right?

Once friends, sharing meals would be normal.

If they ate together, going out to play would follow naturally.

If they went on outings, dating wouldn’t be far behind.

And if they dated, marriage could follow seamlessly.

It all seemed perfectly logical, without a hitch!

However, Hakuba had previously dismissed his requests as jokes, sending whimsical sketches like ink-wash grilled squid or meticulously painted buns and roast chickens. Though charming, these weren’t suitable for office decoration. After persistent insistence, she finally sent a proper hanging scroll.

Unrolling it, Chihara was struck by the sophistication of the work. This wasn’t casual doodling—it was a meticulously crafted piece. The composition was precise, the use of masterful, the colors vibrant yet refined, and the brushstrokes delicate and skilled. The koi carp depicted were lifelike, rendered in meticulous detail with influences from and . Clearly, Hakuba had undergone rigorous training under expert guidance.

Could someone really reach this level of skill just through high school or junior college club activities?

Then again, Japan’s school clubs were known for their rigor and dedication—perhaps it wasn’t impossible.

Chihara stared at the koi painting, momentarily lost in thought. He glanced at the seal stamped in the corner—it clearly read "Hakuba." Suddenly, Hakuba Neiko didn’t seem like the simple girl he’d imagined, the kind who had come to Tokyo to stay with relatives and work part-time. If this wasn’t a hobby cultivated through school clubs, then her family was likely far from ordinary. After all, what typical household would pour so much time and resources into honing a skill with so little practical value in making a living?

Was it a family tradition, perhaps?

Currently, his correspondence with Hakuba Neiko revolved around mundane topics like daily life and regional customs. They hadn’t yet delved into deeper subjects like family backgrounds or personal histories—they weren’t close enough for that. Yet now, this unexpected revelation had turned her into a mystery.

No, he had to figure this out. To truly understand someone, one needed to uncover their past—it was the only way to identify their weaknesses and strike decisively. He realized he hadn’t been thorough enough in his earlier efforts.

The plan had progressed too smoothly, leading to carelessness—a root cause of failure. He resolved to be more cautious moving forward. But how could he uncover her history? Directly asking was out of the question—it would be better to devise a way to coax her into revealing it herself…

There he went again, racking his brain for underhanded ideas to achieve his goal.

Just as he was lost in thought, Tsumura Haruki approached. Noticing the scroll, he exclaimed, “Marvelous! Truly remarkable, Chihara-sensei. Such refined taste—this must be a newly acquired masterpiece by a renowned artist, no?”

Tsumura was now the assistant director of Chihara’s film crew. The reason for this arrangement stemmed from Chihara's lack of experience, so he had leaned on Tsumura, who was more seasoned and familiar with the ropes, to help him out. His personality was somewhat similar to Yoshizaki Shingo, though unlike Yoshizaki—who liked to complain about eveyrthing—he preferred cracking jokes instead.

Chihara hastily rolled up the hanging scroll; after all, it was work time. Turning around with a smile, he asked, “Is everything adjusted?”

Tsumura had just given his usual flattery to his superior. Truth be told, he couldn’t tell the difference between good art and bad art—it all looked like the 1,888-yen decorative prints one could buy at any bookstore. But upon hearing the question, he quickly snapped back into work mode, holding up the script and asking, “There’s something off with the here and here. There’s a table between them. If we shoot it as planned, Kurosaki, who enters through the door, would have to circle around to face the other person. That’ll drag things out. Should we remove the table or adjust the blocking?”

“Let me see.” Chihara focused his energy on the task at hand, comparing the storyboard script with the scene they were adjusting. He realized there was indeed an issue. Creating storyboards often relied on pure imagination, but when it came time to shoot, small problems inevitably cropped up. This was where the director needed to step in and make adjustments on the spot.

The table couldn’t be removed—it was crucial for a dramatic moment later when someone would slam it to heighten tension. So, the character already in the room would need to move. But where to? And once they moved, the lighting would need to shift too…

He motioned over the lighting technician and the director’s assistant, and the group began discussing the scene and the script.

---

Filming continued according to schedule, leaving Chihara no time to dwell on Hakuba Neiko’s family background. Time flew by in the whirlwind of work, and before he knew it, it was past four in the afternoon when Michiko arrived.

Chihara assumed she was just visiting as usual and didn’t think much of it. He waved her off casually, signaling that she didn’t need to be so formal or come every few days to check in. She could simply go use the computer without reporting to him each time. But this time, Michiko lingered, circling around to stand far from the camera, looking hesitant, as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t bring herself to do it.

After finishing up a shot five minutes later, Chihara noticed her lingering presence and asked curiously, “Is something wrong?”

Michiko’s expression darkened as she said, “Mom sent me to deliver tickets to the premiere… for you, Master.”

She was frustrated. Her mother had tried sending tickets to Murakami Iori, but she’d declined due to her busy schedule—between filming and managing , she simply hadn’t been able to spare the time. Not wanting to push her luck again with Chihara, Michiko’s mother had forced her daughter to extend the invitation instead. Michiko had managed to decline twice on Chihara’s behalf, but her mother’s patience had run out. She’d issued an ultimatum: get Chihara to attend, or Michiko’s studies would double!

Michiko prided herself on her independence and hated asking favors, but disobeying her mother meant making life at home unbearable. Reluctantly, she’d come to ask.

“The premiere?” Chihara frowned, trying to recall what she was referring to. Then it clicked—it was for , the indie film Michiko had acted in. He hadn’t expected such a low-budget art house project to hold a premiere, but then again, the Japanese obsession with ceremony never ceased to amaze him.

Still, he had no interest in attending. Smiling lightly, he said, “I’m swamped lately. I’ll pass.”

“I know you’re busy, Master… but…” Michiko’s face fell, her frustration evident. After spending nearly half a year under Chihara’s mentorship, their relationship had grown close, and she couldn’t muster the courage to put on a stern face anymore. Sighing, she added, “I haven’t been able to take you out for dinner yet, and she’s furious about it. If I fail again, she’ll be even angrier. Could you… spare two hours… maybe?”

Her voice stumbled over the words, laced with shame.

Her mother had encouraged her to apprentice under Chihara in hopes of landing roles in his projects. But after nearly six months, Michiko hadn’t gotten anywhere near that goal, and her mother was growing increasingly disappointed. If things continued like this, she might forbid Michiko from visiting altogether—and those precious two hours of freedom each day were the only respite Michiko had from her suffocating routine. Without them, she wasn’t sure how she’d endure until adulthood, when she could finally say “no” to her mother.

She didn’t want to burden Chihara, but she couldn’t bear to lose those two hours either—they were practically the only breath of fresh air in her life.

Chihara, sharp as ever, immediately caught the subtext in Michiko’s words. , her mother, was clearly unhappy that he hadn’t been giving his protégé enough opportunities.

He wasn’t afraid of Nambu Ryoko—a small-time agent riding her daughter’s coattails wouldn’t dare breathe heavily in front of someone like him. But what she did behind closed doors, pressuring her daughter, was beyond his control. Besides, Michiko had been his apprentice for quite some time now, and they had developed a bond. Ignoring her plight felt… inappropriate.

Thinking for a moment, he asked, “When is the premiere?”

“Next Tuesday at 7:30 PM,” Michiko sighed, bowing her head. “Master, you’ve already helped me so much. I hate to trouble you further, but this time… I’m sorry.”

Chihara flipped through his schedule. Tuesday evening was reserved for a meeting with the creative team for Human Observation. Could he push the meeting back? It wasn’t impossible—he’d just have to stay up a little later that night.

Decision made, he tapped Michiko lightly on the head with the script and grinned. “Alright, stop looking so gloomy. I’ll be there on Tuesday. Now go play your game or whatever!”

Michiko bowed deeply in gratitude, apologizing profusely for taking up his time. She opened her mouth to say more but hesitated, overwhelmed with guilt. With a heavy heart, she quietly slipped away.

Chihara watched her retreating figure and shook his head. Setting aside two or three hours to help his beleaguered apprentice wasn’t a big deal, but Nambu Ryoko’s parenting style baffled him. Pushing her daughter around like this—what kind of future could they possibly have?

One day, he thought, these two will clash irreparably.

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