Chapter 252: Shinji: Toho, Here Comes Grandpa!
Just as Cloris had predicted, when the stock market opened on Monday, IMAX Corporation's shares began soaring immediately, propelled by the explosive success of Super 8's premiere.
Unlike China, where red signifies a rise and green a fall, in the North American stock market, green means up and red means down.
Of course, to North Americans, green doesn't carry any negative connotations—in fact, since it's the color of the U.S. dollar, a green stock chart just means more green in your wallet.
Anyway, when IMAX's board members saw that glowing, upward green line, they all felt their financial futures looked bright as ever.
At that moment, everyone agreed: having Matou Shinji—this tech-savvy director—tied to the IMAX board, even if unofficially, was a godsend.
Even though Shinji had no formal stake in the company—not even a single Zimbabwean dollar—everyone knew what was really going on.
Let's just say, his word in IMAX held more sway than the actual chairman and CEO combined.
Moviegoers got a film they loved. Investors made truckloads of cash. Everyone was heading toward a brilliant future.
Everyone except Matou Shinji.
Because no matter how much he earned, the money just never seemed to stick, and only Shinji himself could truly understand that painful reality.
Fortunately, the Matou family's fortune meant that even when he was frustrated, he wasn't bitter. In fact, when others congratulated him, he could still flash them a bright smile.
"Congratulations, Director Matou! Super 8 has passed 200 million dollars in the global box office!"
At a Super 8 promo event in Tokyo, Johnny & Associates' boss, the legendary Mr. Kitagawa, personally extended his congratulations to Shinji.
"To hit that number in under five days— your talent in commercial filmmaking is beyond imagination!"
Though it sounded like typical flattery, in truth, it came from the heart.
Johnny Kitagawa now understood what it felt like to be an old-timer washed away by the rising tide of youth.
After all, breaking 100 million in two days, and 200 million in a week—that kind of performance used to be a legend in the industry.
It could happen within Japan, measured in yen—but on a global scale, in U.S. dollars?
That was something else entirely, and Johnny couldn't help but take Shinji seriously.
Not even Johnny's top idols could make money like Shinji's movies did.
And thanks to the limited availability of glasses-free 3D screens, Super 8's ticket sales were staying strong, meaning that the high revenue stream could continue for quite a while.
If that trend held, Super 8's total box office could only be described as terrifying.
In that kind of situation, even a man like Johnny Kitagawa—who had once scoffed at glasses-free 3D tech—couldn't help but feel a little admiration for its creator.
Of course, a big part of that admiration came from Johnny's desire to create a "Johnny's × Type-Moon" boy band, and he was trying to stay in Shinji's good graces.
In Japan's entertainment world, Johnny approval was extremely valuable—valuable enough that other agency heads would brag about receiving it.
Unfortunately, Shinji didn't play by the rules of the Japanese entertainment industry.
Internally, he felt absolutely nothing—in fact, he was kinda holding back a laugh.
"You flatter me, sir," Shinji replied politely, doing his best not to grin.
After a couple more polite exchanges, Shinji casually asked,
"By the way, isn't Godzilla's premiere happening the day after tomorrow? In Tokyo, right?"
"That's right," Johnny nodded.
Johnny's had a key partnership with Toho Studios, so he was naturally well-informed about their schedule.
They're two titans of their industries—one Japan's largest male talent agency, the other Japan's biggest film company—so of course they'd have connections.
In fact, the old man himself had received an invitation to attend Godzilla's premiere the day after tomorrow.
But now that Shinji brought it up like this, Johnny couldn't help but wonder:
"What's this kid planning?"
Shinji immediately noticed the classic overthinking glint in the old man's eyes.
This guy was a serious conspiracy theorist at heart.
"Don't overthink it, old man," Shinji quickly explained.
"I just got an invitation from Toho via Tsuburaya Productions. Thought I'd drop by the Godzilla premiere, that's all."
"Ah, I see."
Johnny nodded, choosing not to press further.
Whatever Shinji's true intentions were, if that's what he said, he was happy to take Shinji words at face value.
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"Looks like that old guy is pretty sharp."
After Johnny Kitagawa left, Cloris casually walked over and leaned against Shinji, her arm draped over his shoulder as she offered her commentary.
"I'd heard before that he built his talent empire from nothing. But seeing how flattering he was toward you today—that's a complete turnaround from his reputation. Really lives up to the hype about being adaptable and cunning."
"Anyone who survives that long in the entertainment biz, running the whole scene for decades—how many of them are simple?"
Shinji shook his head, clearly unimpressed, and gave Cloris a sideways glance.
"What do you think, Lissy?"
"What, are you calling me manipulative now? Or saying I'm money-hungry?"
Cloris rolled her eyes at him playfully.
"You're one to talk—you're the real trickster here. Not a single punctuation mark in your sentence I'd trust!"
Shinji burst out laughing.
"You're not wrong. I'm the big fox, and Lissy, you're the little fox."
'So what, you're saying I've been completely played by you?'
Cloris thought bitterly to herself.
'But I've figured out your style, Little Shinji. I'm improving too.'
"Shinji, you're not actually planning to attend Godzilla's premiere, are you?"
"Why do you say that?"
"You're not even interested in the movie," Cloris said, cuddling up closer and speaking in a cutesy tone.
"And you're not really looking to publicly humiliate Toho either. Add to that your secret little bet with the board of directors—I'd bet anything you're going to stay behind the scenes and tank Godzilla's box office in secret, aren't you?"
She looked at him with sparkling curiosity.
"So, tell me, how exactly are you going to crush the movie that dared to go head-to-head with yours?"
Cloris knew Shinji too well.
He might look all smiles on the surface, but the guy was fiercely competitive deep down.
If he weren't, he wouldn't have hesitated so much about marrying her just because he worried she'd become a puppet of the Times Group.
And after all the underhanded tricks Toho had been pulling lately—trying to smear Super 8, flooding critics with praise for Godzilla—If Shinji didn't get a little fired up over that, Cloris swore she'd do a belly dance in front of him wearing nothing but gauze.
"Whoa, saying 'crush' is a bit harsh, don't you think?"
Shinji gave a helpless laugh, rubbing his nose.
"I am a proud heir of the Matou family's 500-year legacy. No way I'd resort to something that crude~"
"So, instead of crushing, you're planning to... 'suppress' it?"
Cloris smiled sweetly, her eyes gleaming with mischief.
Shinji Matou never believed in turning the other cheek.
Whether you call it "suppressing" or outright "crushing," Cloris had no doubt—Shinji was definitely going to strike back.
In fact, Type-Moon Studios. had already launched its counter-offensive against Toho's media campaign.
Besides keeping the hype around Super 8 burning hot, the once-laid-back PR teams and hired commentators—who Shinji had previously written off as lazy freeloaders—were now in full attack mode, going all-out to undermine Godzilla from every possible angle.
Because if Godzilla's box office exploded, even without swaying public opinion, it would still compete with Super 8 for screen time, which in turn could severely affect Super 8's total gross.
It was basic movie math: limited screens mean limited revenue.
No matter how good a film is, without enough showings, it can't go big.
And you can't magically pop up new screens overnight—it takes months to build and install new ones.
"Most North American theaters probably won't cut our screen count," Cloris said, clinging to Shinji's arm as they walked.
"But with a big new release, Super 8's scheduling is definitely going to take a hit. Not to mention Japan is Toho's home turf."
That was a given. Even with Shinji's global influence pushing screen expansion, the process took time.
You can't grow theaters like mushrooms. Even a baby takes 10 months.
"So… have you thought of a suitable way to counterattack?" Cloris asked.
She didn't care what the old geezers on the board thought, she was firmly betting on the young, handsome director in this game.
Shinji raised a finger, confident as ever.
"The test screenings of Godzilla told us everything we need to know. All we have to do is focus on one thing."
When waging a smear campaign against a specific film, the best approach is to zero in on a single weak point and hammer it relentlessly.
Sure, this method had its risks—if the film was solid overall, audiences might ignore a nitpick.
But as the old saying goes:
Great films share a few common traits.
Bad films fail in uniquely awful ways.
Toho had done well keeping things under wraps, but Shinji's people had still easily gotten their hands on the test screening reports.
Frankly, most insiders in the film industry already had a copy.
From what Shinji saw, Godzilla had okay overall feedback—nothing disastrous—but critics nitpicked the acting, plot coherence, special effects, and more.
That gave Shinji his opening.
All he had to do was latch onto the one point everyone disliked.
Godzilla's design.
Even though this new Godzilla had no real link to any previous version in the franchise, fans were furious that this version looked more like a big lizard than the King of Monsters.
Super 8 appealed largely to Ultraman fans, while Godzilla's core audience was, well, Godzilla fans.
And if even those die-hard supporters turned against the film—given its already so-so early buzz—it wouldn't take much to tip the narrative.
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In the days leading up to Godzilla's premiere, social media exploded with hate posts centered around one rallying cry:
"This Godzilla is just a lizard!"
Adding fuel to the fire, someone "somehow" leaked the official design sheet for Godzilla's final appearance—not a discarded concept, but the exact look the director had signed off on and used in the movie.
Shinji had no idea where the PR team dug that up from.
But hey—if you've got the ammo, fire away.
The leak was framed as coming from a "concerned Godzilla fan" and spread by the network of online commenters, fanning the flames:
"Why the hell would you design Godzilla like this?! Did Toho lose its mind?"
"I feel sick just looking at that thing."
"Using a lizard to play the King of Monsters? What a slap in the face!"
"This is just someone's pet iguana, right? And Toho execs thought it'd be cute to put it in a movie?"
Even the rare positive comment said stuff like,
"Well, the lizard CGI is decent…"—which wasn't really praise for the design, just for the visual polish.
For any film, if the lead character's very look gets universally trashed, it's a disaster waiting to happen.
Contrast that with Shin Ultraman, where the marketing constantly emphasized how the new design paid homage to the original—to avoid backlash.
Toho right now?
They felt like EVA fans seeing Unit-01's redesign for the first time.
Their mood?
"What the f**k—it's all gone to hell!"
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