The three of them exchanged smiles.
Business is business.
With Sega eating the meat, they, as third parties who had seen through the situation early, at least managed to keep some soup in their own bowls.
As for those peers struggling in the meat grinder of December, they could only blame their own lack of keen instincts.
Just a few days before the blockbuster sales of the Toy Story game, on November 18th, another animated film with high expectations was quietly released in theaters across Japan.
Director Mamoru Oshii's Ghost in the Shell.
This work, which had stunned the world with just a few minutes of trailer at the E3 Exhibition, faced a real cold reception when it finally met the general Japanese market.
Shochiku's publicity efforts were not lacking; they even bundled in the trailer for Sega's Jupiter game.
But the audiences who bought tickets to see it were not buying it.
Cyberpunk, cybernetic bodies, philosophical speculations on the soul and the shell—these avant-garde concepts were just too high a threshold for the average Japanese audience in 1995.
In the theaters, many people watched, drowsy, and after the show, there were endless complaints, with many calling it obscure and difficult to understand.
When the box office figures were reported back to the producers, they were so dismal that the executives at Shochiku could only shake their heads.
Only within the professional animation field and among a tiny core circle of sci-fi fans was this film placed on a pedestal.
The animation quality, storyboard design, and Kenji Kawai's soundtrack were all top-tier in the industry.
"Critically acclaimed but commercially unsuccessful" became the most accurate description of Ghost in the Shell.
Sega Headquarters, Managing Director's office.
Takuya Nakayama flipped open the document on his desk.
This was the game development progress report just delivered by Hisao Oguchi.
The report showed that the development of the Jupiter version of Ghost in the Shell was already past the halfway mark.
Yuji Naka's technical team had provided the underlying engine support, and the 3D modeling and motion capture for the protagonist, Motoko Kusanagi, had been completed and were currently undergoing level debugging.
Hisao Oguchi sat across from the desk, taking a sip of instant coffee from a paper cup.
"Oguchi-san, have you been following the box office figures for the animated film?" Takuya Nakayama signed the end of the report and pushed the document to the corner of his desk.
Hisao Oguchi sighed and crushed the paper cup before tossing it into the trash can. "It's not ideal. The news from Shochiku is that the occupancy rate for the opening week didn't even reach thirty percent. Audience feedback is severely polarized, with most people complaining that the plot is too dull."
"Director Oshii's personal style is too intense," Oguchi added. "He turned an animation into a philosophical inquiry. This will have an impact on the subsequent promotion of our game."
Takuya Nakayama leaned back in his chair.
He had long anticipated this outcome.
In his memories from his past life, the box office performance of "Ghost in the Shell" in Japan was also a complete disaster. What truly allowed it to achieve legendary status and recoup its costs were the video tapes and DVDs later released in the Western markets.
Western audiences had a far greater acceptance of such hardcore science fiction than those in Japan.
"Proceed with the game as planned, and do not reduce the promotional budget," Nakayama Takuya set the tone. "Just because the movie was poorly received domestically doesn't mean it won't perform well overseas. Have the video distribution rights for North America been finalized?"
"Manga Entertainment has secured the distribution rights for Europe and America from Shochiku. Distribution is expected to start early next year."
"That will do. The potential of the North American market is far greater than those old fogies at Shochiku imagine." Nakayama Takuya picked up the desk phone receiver. "I'm making a call."
He dialed the number for Production I.G studio.
After the operator transferred the call, Oshii Mamoru's slightly weary voice came through the receiver.
"Director Oshii, this is Nakayama Takuya."
"Executive Director Nakayama." Oshii Mamoru's tone was flat, revealing no emotional fluctuations. "Are you calling to rush the game's supervision progress? I already sent the latest batch of storyboards to Sega yesterday."
"It's not work-related," Takuya Nakayama smiled. "I've seen your film. It was truly stunning. Are you free tonight? There's a good izakaya in Shinjuku that just got in a few bottles of excellent sake. My treat."
There was a silence of a few seconds on the other end of the line.
"Are you calling to console me?" Mamoru Oshii asked in return.
"You could say that," Nakayama answered with complete candor. "After all, Sega invested the money. When a producer is feeling down, I, as the investor, have to show some concern. Besides, you spend every day holed up in your studio drinking instant coffee; it's bad for your stomach."
"Eight o'clock tonight. Send me the address." Oshii hung up the phone.
Late November 1995, Tokyo.
Cold air surged along the streets of Shinjuku, pouring into the intricate, maze-like alleys.
Neon signs hummed with the buzz of electricity.
In the distance, the sign of a Sega arcade hung high, casting red and blue light onto the wet asphalt.
The haze left in the wake of the bursting bubble economy still hung over the city, and hurried office workers wrapped their coats tightly around themselves, heads bowed as they dove into subway entrances.
In front of an izakaya with no prominent sign, a wooden sliding door was pulled open.
Warm air, mixed with the smell of grilled skewers and grease, rushed out into the cold wind.
Mamoru Oshii walked in.
He was wearing an old trench coat, and in his hand, he held a leather leash.
At the other end of the leash was a Basset Hound.
The dog's long ears drooped, brushing against the bluestone of the entryway, its pace sluggish.
Warm air mingled with the greasy scent of yakitori surged into the cold wind.
Mamoru Oshii walked in. He was wearing a worn trench coat, holding a leather leash in his hand.
At the other end of the leash was a Basset Hound.
The dog's long ears drooped, brushing against the bluestone of the entryway, its pace sluggish.
The izakaya owner was wiping sweat with a towel draped around his neck. Upon seeing the guest's attire, he was just about to reiterate the no-pets rule when a hand reached out from the corner booth.
Takuya Nakayama tapped on the wooden partition.
The owner swallowed the rest of his sentence, switched to his professional welcoming tone, and turned to grab a menu.
For regular customers, rules are always flexible.
Mamoru Oshii hung his trench coat on the brass hook in the corner and pulled out a chair.
The Basset Hound, named Gabriel, very skillfully found a spot at the edge of the tatami mat, lay down, rested its chin on its front paws, and let out a long yawn.
Takuya Nakayama pushed the warmed sake over.
The white porcelain carafe made a crisp sound as it hit the wooden table.
"Traffic was heavy," Mamoru Oshii said, picking up his cup and draining it in one gulp.
"It's always like this in Shinjuku on a weeknight," Takuya Nakayama said, refilling his glass. "You even brought Gabriel along."
Mamoru Oshii reached out and stroked the dog's back a couple of times.
A purring sound came from the dog's throat.
"If I leave it alone in the studio, it'll chew up the celluloid sheets."
Mamoru Oshii reached out and stroked the dog's back twice.
A rumble came from the dog's throat.
"If I leave it alone in the studio, it'll chew up the cels." Oshii held his glass, his gaze fixed on a yellowed poster plastered on the wall of the izakaya.
A few plates of appetizers were served.
Salt-grilled saury, chicken meatballs with sauce, and a dish of edamame sprinkled with sea salt.
The atmosphere at the table was far from lively.
Shochiku had just released the opening week box office report that afternoon, and the numbers were dismal.
Major theater chains were already rapidly cutting showtimes.
There was no trace of panic on Oshii's face over having botched a major project.
To be more precise, he was in a state of detachment, an outsider stripped of commercial concerns.
His spirits were low, and that was all.
Takuya Nakayama shelled an edamame and popped the bean into his mouth.
"The head of marketing at Shochiku called me this afternoon." Nakayama picked up a napkin and wiped his hands. "They're looking for someone to shoulder the pressure. Sega invested money too; they need an outlet for their frustration."
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