dkrc Chapter 188 Conditions You Can't Refuse
Chapter 188 Conditions You Can't Refuse
Chapter 188 Unrefusable Conditions (Fuji TV Profit Sharing Negotiations)
The former headquarters building of Fuji Television in Kawata-cho, Shinjuku.
The high-level conference room, imbued with the atmosphere of the Showa era, was filled with smoke. A huge number was written on the whiteboard in red marker: 30.4%.
This is the viewership rating for the finale of "Flower of Evil".
The station director sat in the main seat, holding a thick analysis report in his hand.
"From Tokyo Love Story to Under One Roof, and now to The Flower of Evil."
The station director put down his report and looked around at the board members and bureau chiefs present: "These three blockbuster films are completely different in subject matter and target different audiences. Some feature big-name actresses, while others are all newcomers. But they have only one thing in common."
He tapped his fingers heavily on the table: "Kitahara Shin."
The conference room was deathly silent.
No one can deny this fact. Before, they could say it was due to a good script or the fame of the co-stars. But the fact that a dark drama like "Flower of Evil" could break 30% viewership completely shattered all those excuses. This man himself is synonymous with ratings.
"I heard that TBS and NTV have already started contacting Kitahara's office."
One director spoke with concern: "NTV even issued blank checks, letting him fill them in as he pleased."
"We can't let him get away."
The station manager issued a firm order: "He is the key to Fuji TV's continued triple crown of viewership ratings over the past few years. No matter the cost, the next drama must still be produced by Fuji TV."
He looked at the production director, the middle-aged man who had once advocated for cutting scenes due to complaints from the parents' association.
"Go and negotiate. If you can't reach an agreement, you might as well quit your job as bureau chief."
"7
The production director wiped the cold sweat from his brow and hurriedly nodded and bowed, "Yes! Yes! I will definitely do my best!"
3 PM, Fujidai VIP Reception Room.
On the coffee table were the finest Shizuoka Gyokuro and expensive wagashi (Japanese sweets) that were only served to important foreign guests.
The production director sat on the edge of the sofa, only daring to sit on about a third of it. He looked at Kitahara Shin, who had a calm expression across from him, with a fawning smile plastered on his face, as if he wanted to press his face to the ground.
"Kitahara-san, the previous misunderstandings were all due to my shortsightedness."
The bureau chief personally poured tea for Kitahara Shin, his hands trembling slightly: "Your decision to insist on not cutting anything was absolutely brilliant! If you had listened to my terrible advice, we would have ruined a masterpiece. Um—about the contract for the next drama—"
He pulled a pre-prepared contract from his briefcase and handed it over with both hands: "The station director has spoken. You can name your fee; we won't haggle. Furthermore, to show our sincerity, we're willing to provide a fast track for your agency's newcomers. Whether it's a prime-time variety show or one of our top music programs, just ask, and we'll arrange the placement."
In Japanese variety shows of that era, there were many "Hinata entertainers" who sat in the back row and were responsible for making reactions. Although they didn't have many lines, being able to appear on a popular show was a resource that newcomers could only dream of.
Kitahara Shin took the contract but didn't look at it; instead, he placed it directly on the table.
"Director, you're too kind."
Kitahara Shin picked up his teacup and took a small sip: "As for the fee, I don't plan to ask for an exorbitant amount."
The production director was stunned for a moment, then overjoyed. No exorbitant price? Had this young man changed his ways?
"So you mean—"
"I want to change the cooperation model."
Kitahara Shin held up two fingers: "First, I only want the industry standard fee. However, I want 15% of the show's grossing revenue and 20% of the revenue from the VHS distribution rights."
The production director gaped in astonishment.
In Hollywood, this is called "backend deal," but in Japan in 1993, it was unheard of. Japanese actors received fixed salaries, with only the more famous ones earning a little more.
The bureau chief quickly did some mental calculations.
In the past, he would definitely have refused. But now—GG Media has driven up the price to an astronomical level to get Kitahara Nobu's drama aired. Although giving away 15% is painful, compared to paying hundreds of millions of yen in exorbitant fees upfront, this method actually reduces the initial cash flow pressure on the TV station.
Moreover, even if the show flops (although the possibility is very small), the cost to the TV station is low.
"Well—although there's no precedent for this, I can apply to the station director. It shouldn't be a problem."
The bureau chief gritted his teeth and agreed.
"second."
Kitahara Shin put down his teacup and leaned forward slightly: "I need a specific time slot."
"Time period?"
"I plan to use the late-night slot on Fridays or Saturdays, between 1 and 2 a.m., to produce some low-budget experimental short dramas or variety shows."
The production director was completely dumbfounded.
Late-night slot? That's for reruns of shows nobody watches or garbage time slots for selling health supplements. The ratings are usually only 0.1%.
Not even close.
"Kitahara-san, what do you want to do at that time? There are no sponsors willing to invest money there."
"No need for you to trouble yourself with that."
Kitahara Shin smiled and said, "I'll cover the production costs myself, and I'll find the sponsors myself. All I need is for the TV station to give me the broadcast slot. Of course, I'll still give priority to our agency's newcomers for this time slot."
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The bureau chief breathed a sigh of relief.
He originally thought that Kitahara Shin would want the production rights for prime time, but he didn't expect that he would only want a "garbage time" slot that nobody cared about.
This is practically free!
"No problem! I can make the decision right now!"
The bureau chief, fearing that Kitahara Shin might change his mind, quickly agreed, secretly pleased: This young man is still green after all. Why give up a prime-time slot to play with a late-night slot? He probably wants to give his rookies some practice. Anyway, nobody watches, so let him do whatever he wants.
He had no idea that in the next twenty years, late-night programming would become Japan's most creative and most likely to incubate blockbuster IPs.
The "Realm of the Gods." And Kitahara Shin obtained the key to this treasure trove.
"It's a pleasure working with you."
Kitahara Shin extended his hand.
"It's a pleasure to work with you! It's a pleasure to work with you!"
The bureau chief clasped his hands tightly, his face beaming with joy.
After leaving Fujidai, Kitahara Shin got into the black Mercedes.
Ota Masakazu sat in the driver's seat, holding a copy of the check he had just retrieved from the finance department.
With the final payment for "Flowers of Evil," plus dividends and the return of profits from his previous stock account, Kitahara Shin now has a staggering cash flow approaching one billion yen.
"President, this amount of working capital is quite abundant."
Looking at the numbers, Da Tian asked with a mixture of admiration and inquiry, "Should we invest in the production of the next film first? Or do you have other investment plans?"
He didn't mention anything foolish like changing cars or renovating the office. The Kitahara Office was no longer lacking in appearances; this money was not only profit, but also ammunition for the next stage of development.
"The film's budget is sufficient. I have other uses for this money."
Kitahara Shin leaned back in his leather seat, looking out the window at the bustling yet turbulent streets of Tokyo.
In 1993, the aftershocks of the bursting bubble economy were relentlessly impacting the real economy. Once-dominant real estate companies went bankrupt one after another, land prices plummeted, and countless assets were seized by banks, awaiting auction.
For ordinary people, this is hell. But for those who hold large amounts of cash, it's a once-in-a-lifetime ticket to the game.
"Ota."
"exist."
"Contact the asset management departments of several banks around Tokyo."
Kitahara Shin's voice was calm, as if he were discussing the weather: "I want to buy a movie theater."
Ota paused, glancing at the president through the rearview mirror: "Movie theaters? President, the film industry isn't doing well right now. Besides, the theater chain is basically monopolized by the 'Big Three' (Toho, Toei, and Shochiku). Even if we buy a few independent theaters, we won't be able to shake their position in terms of scale, and we might even lose money."
"I didn't intend to sway them, nor did I want to take their jobs away from us. We're not in a position to do that right now."
Kitahara Shin shook his head, tapping his knee lightly with his fingers, his tone indifferent: "But, Ota, you need to understand one thing. If we only ever create content and don't have our own channels, then we'll always be the passive party at the negotiating table."
"Buying these cinemas is not to start a war with them, but to have more leverage in our hands."
"In the future, whether it's negotiating film scheduling, revenue sharing, or even just having our own small distribution channel, it will give us more confidence when negotiating with those giants. At least, we will have a way out and won't have to act entirely at the mercy of others."
This is a defensive strategy, and also a preparation for potential future involvement in V-Cinema or independent films.
Now, with the bubble bursting, buying these assets on the outskirts of Shinjuku and Ikebukuro at rock-bottom prices is a sure-fire way to make a profit, even if it's just a real estate investment.
"I see."
Ota quickly grasped the president's intention. It wasn't about dominating the market, but about "avoiding being held hostage."
"I will screen independent cinemas in good locations that were mortgaged because the original owners failed in real estate speculation. I will try to acquire them at the lowest possible price."
"Okay, go do it."
Kitahara Shin nodded, then closed his eyes to rest.
For him, this was simply a calm and necessary move in the expansion of his business empire.
A few days later, in a lecture hall at a famous art university in Tokyo.
The venue was packed, with students even crowding the aisles.
Kitahara Shin stood on the podium, without a script, simply leaning casually against the lectern as if chatting with a friend.
"Actually, when I first entered the industry, I was even more confused than everyone here."
He picked up the chalk and wrote two words on the blackboard: "Sunflowers in Winter".
"This was my first TV drama after my debut. At that time, I played a supporting role called 'The Silent Painter.'"
He turned to the students below the stage, his tone calm: "Although the character's name is in the credits, the script doesn't describe a single line. Most of the time, this type of character serves as 'scenery' to highlight the main character and create an artistic atmosphere."
A soft chuckle escaped the students in the audience. They all understood that this kind of role was the most difficult to play; overacting would be stealing the show, while underacting would make one appear wooden.
"At the time, many people told me that as long as I stood there and pretended to be drawing, I would be fine."
Kitahara Shin shook his head, his eyes becoming deep, as if he had returned to that film set from years ago: "But I don't want to just be a background character. Since I've been deprived of language, I must develop other weapons, namely my eyes and my movements."
He stretched out his hand and made a gesture of holding a paintbrush in the air. Instantly, the muscles in his arm tensed slightly, and his eyes focused. The artist's concentration was palpable: "I observe how real painters move their eyes when they are thinking about composition; how their finger joints exert force at the moment they put brush to paper. If there are no lines, I act with my back to the camera; if there are no other actors, I express emotions by tapping the paintbrush against the palette."
"I see myself as a true mute painter. Even if the camera only pans across my profile, I make sure my eyes convey something—is it a kind of obsession with light and shadow? Or a sense of alienation from the world before me?"
The students listened intently.
For these students who had only ever made short films and were used to self-expression but had ignored commercial rules, this kind of "making a big show of things in a small space" professionalism was a huge shock to them. So this is the difference between professional actors and amateurs.
Just then, a boy in the back row, wearing black-rimmed glasses and looking somewhat cynical, raised his hand.
"Kitahara-senpai."
The young man stood up, his tone sharp, even tinged with youthful defiance: "Excuse my bluntness, but what you said is indeed very inspiring. However, there are countless hardworking people in the entertainment industry, but very few can achieve the level of fame you've attained. Do you think your success today is more due to luck or talent?"
The classroom fell silent instantly.
This is a very blunt question, even bordering on sabotage. After all, it's clear to everyone that Kitahara Shin's rise to power has been abnormally rapid.
Sayuri Yoshinaga sat in the first row of the guest seats, her brows slightly furrowed, just about to get up and smooth things over.
But Kitahara Shin waved his hand, indicating that it was alright.
He looked at the boy, not angry, but instead gave him a sincere smile: "I think it was mostly luck."
The entire audience erupted in uproar.
No one expected that a top star like him would admit it so frankly.
"Really, I'm not lying to you."
Kitahara Shin spread his hands, his tone relaxed: "If the director had been in a bad mood that day and cut that scene, if that script hadn't been handed to me, if today's audiences didn't buy into this—I might still be playing minor roles now."
The boy was stunned, seemingly not expecting the other person to say that.
"but."
Kitahara Shin abruptly changed the subject, his smile fading and his eyes becoming unusually serious: "Luck is like a sudden downpour. When it falls, if you don't have a basin in your hand, you can't catch the water."
"My meager strength is nothing more than that 'basin.'"
He pointed to his head, then to the boy: "I'm polishing this basin every day. Whether it's practicing lines, writing scripts, or observing life, all my preparations are so that when the rain falls, I can catch more than others, instead of letting it slip through my fingers."
"So, don't dwell on whether it's luck or skill. Just focus on preparation."
Kitahara Shin looked at the boy, his voice gentle yet firm: "Only when you're well-prepared will you have the right to say, 'This is what I deserve,' when luck comes your way."
The boy stood there, his originally tense face slowly turning red.
The sharp edge of his words was softened by Kitahara Shin's tactful and insightful reply. He lowered his head in shame, then bowed deeply: "I've learned a great deal! Thank you!"
next second.
Thunderous applause resounded throughout the lecture hall. It wasn't just politeness, but also the heartfelt admiration of these future filmmakers.
Backstage after the speech.
Yoshinaga Sayuri looked at Kitahara Shin, who was straightening his collar, her eyes full of approval: "You handled it very well just now. I was worried that you would get angry because of that sharp question, or give some arrogant answers. I didn't expect you to be more composed than I thought."
"After all, you brought me here, so I can't let you down."
Kitahara Shin smiled and glanced at his watch, "So, today's mission should be considered a complete success, right, teacher?"
"certainly."
Yoshinaga Sayuri nodded and waved her hand. "Go on with your work. I know you're a busy person, you must have other things to do—"
Dating."
Kitahara Shin didn't stand on ceremony; after saying goodbye, he headed straight for the parking lot.
He got into the black Mercedes and glanced at his schedule for the day.
My time management went pretty well this week.
Izumi and Akina had just returned to Tokyo and were still resting, so he arranged dinners for them tomorrow and the day after. As for Matsushima Nanako—that girl was the easiest to manage. As long as he bumped into her at work, brought her some snacks, or complimented her a couple of times in acting class, she would be happy all day long, requiring absolutely no special "date maintenance."
Today, however, belongs to Rie Miyazawa.
"Let's go, to Horikoshi High School."
Kitahara Shin started the car.
Nakano Ward, Horikoshi High School.
This is a famous "entertainment school" in Japan, where many idols and child stars have studied.
School ends in the afternoon.
The once peaceful school gate suddenly erupted into chaos.
A black luxury sedan slowly pulled up in front of the school. The door opened, and Kitahara Shin, dressed in a casual suit and wearing sunglasses, stepped out.
Right now, he's the most popular man in all of Japan.
The buzz surrounding "Flower of Evil" with its viewership rating exceeding 30% is still going strong, and his face is the best proof of that.
"Wow!! It's Kitahara Shin!!"
"Oh my god! It's Inspector Himuro! He's even taller in person than on TV!"
"We want autographs! Me too!"
In an instant, everyone, whether ordinary students or those from the high-achieving art class, surrounded them.
The screams even alerted the security guard.
On the periphery of the crowd.
Rie Miyazawa was carrying her schoolbag and walking out with her wealthy best friend, Reiko Saeki.
Seeing this, Rie froze completely.
"That's... Kitahara-san, isn't it?"
Reiko Saeki covered her mouth, her face filled with shock: "Is he crazy? Parking his car so conspicuously at the school gate? Isn't he afraid that tomorrow's Weekly Bunshun will write about him having an affair with a high school girl?"
Rie Miyazawa bit her lip, her cheeks quickly turning red.
You idiot!
They could have simply parked their car on the next street corner and walked over. Why make such a fuss!
"I have no idea what this guy is thinking—"
Rie muttered something under her breath, but her pace quickened unconsciously as she walked toward the center surrounded by the crowd.
At that moment, Kitahara Shin was surrounded by a crowd. He wasn't annoyed at all; he even took out a pen and signed autographs for a few girls who rushed to the front.
Until he caught a glimpse of that familiar petite figure out of the corner of his eye.
Kitahara Shin immediately stopped what he was doing, capped his pen, and smiled at the crowd that was trying to squeeze through, saying, "Sorry everyone, that's all for today. I'm here to pick someone up."
After saying that, he walked through the crowd and waved to Rie Miyazawa, who was standing not far away.
In an instant, hundreds of eyes at the school gate turned to look at Rie Miyazawa.
The feeling of being the center of attention made Rie's face burn. With her head down, amidst a chorus of envious and jealous whispers, she quickly walked up to Kitahara Shin.
"What are you trying to do?"
She lowered her voice, a hint of embarrassment and annoyance in her tone, like a cat with its fur standing on end: "So high-profile, do you want to die? What if the reporters take pictures?"
"So what if they took the picture?"
Kitahara Shin took off his sunglasses, smiled at her, and said with a touch of childish self-righteousness, "I drove here especially for you. I've been so popular lately, I wanted to give you some face at this school, you know."
"ha?"
Rie Miyazawa laughed in exasperation.
What kind of elementary school student's reasoning is this?
"Who needs your kind of face?!"
Although she said that, the anger that had originally arisen from her shyness inexplicably dissipated a lot.
There was even a hint of sweetness that was hard to describe.
"Alright, get in the car."
Kitahara Shin helped her open the car door.
Just as Rie turned around to get into the car, her gaze inadvertently swept over the crowd.
Then, she froze.
At the very edge of the crowd, the male classmate who had previously been making sarcastic remarks and mocking Kitahara Shin as someone who "climbed the social ladder by relying on women" and a "pretty boy with no acting skills" was now standing there.
The male student was clutching a signed autograph board he had just managed to get by squeezing in.
Their gazes met in mid-air.
The boy's expression instantly became incredibly complex, a mixture of embarrassment, shame, and utter dismay at being humiliated. He instinctively hid the autograph board behind his back, unable to look Rie in the eye.
Rie Miyazawa blinked.
I swallowed back all the words I wanted to say.
"puff."
She couldn't help but chuckle softly.
The pent-up frustration in my heart vanished completely at that moment.
"What are you laughing at?" Kitahara Shin asked.
"It's nothing."
Rie was in a great mood. She got into the passenger seat, fastened her seatbelt, and turned to look at Kitahara Shin, her eyes sparkling: "I just think—you're right. It really does make you look good."
The car door closed, shutting out the noise from outside.
"Let's go."
Kitahara Shin started the car and said while turning the steering wheel, "I'll take you out for a nice meal tonight. But I was thinking, maybe I could take you to try something special—something you've never eaten before."
"Something special?"
Rie Miyazawa tilted her head curiously: "What? French cuisine? Or one of those hard-to-book restaurants?"
Kitahara Shin glanced at the road ahead and smiled mysteriously, "I'll keep you in suspense for now. You'll find out when we get there."
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