sinovels Chapter 225 Slow-burning Ambition
Chapter 225 Slow-burning Ambition
Chapter 225 Slow-burning Ambition
April 1994, an ordinary Monday noon.
Unlike Legal High, the opening of the first episode of The Great Search does not immediately grab the audience's attention with a shocking courtroom showdown.
On the screen, in the messy office of the Wangan Police Station, newly hired junior detective Shunsaku Aoshima is staring blankly at the mountain of case files while holding a cup of canned coffee that has long since gone cold.
Outside the window was the hazy Tokyo Bay, while inside came the incessant ringing of telephones and the noisy commotion of colleagues vying for the shared fax machine.
The plot itself is extremely simple: a bicycle was stolen in the neighborhood, and the old lady who reported it insisted that her neighbor had stolen it and demanded that the police come and arrest him immediately.
Meanwhile, Toshisaku Aoshima, a newly recruited detective with a passionate dream of upholding justice, finds himself caught in a triple bind: the chief urging him to buy takeout for his superior, the deputy chief asking him to help organize golf clubs, and the head of the criminal investigation department constantly sending him errands and stamps. He manages to handle this "trivial matter."
The ending is equally simple.
The bicycle wasn't stolen at all; the woman simply forgot it at the supermarket entrance.
After finishing this matter, Toshisaku Aoshima returned to the station and found that he had spent an entire day only to be given a 17-page "Jurisdiction Case Handling Opinion Form" to fill out. Two-thousand-page of it was a fixed format that he had to secretly consult with a senior colleague behind his superior's back.
The final scene shows Shunsaku Aoshima staring blankly at the seventeen-page document in his empty office for a long time. Then he takes out a bag of potato chips from his drawer, opens it, pours a handful into his mouth, and continues filling out the form.
The video ends here.
There was no ignition point, no plot twist, no thrilling highlight that would get your blood pumping.
The viewership data was released at 2 p.m. that day.
11.3%.
This figure appeared in an internal report from Fuji TV's production department, but it didn't cause any immediate stir.
For a midday slot, an 11.3% premiere rating is actually quite impressive. At that time, "Bayside Shakedown" was going head-to-head with popular NTV variety shows and NHK documentary specials; managing to carve out such a small share from those programs requires real skill.
The problem is that above this number are the three characters "Kitahara Shin".
The director of production at Fuji TV sat in his large leather chair, staring at the data sheets in silence for a long time before exhaling very slowly.
"Thank goodness." He put down the documents, a barely suppressed smile of relief appearing on his lips. He muttered to himself, "Thank goodness this..."
He didn't sign an exclusive broadcasting contract with us this time.
If Kitahara Shin had initially demanded exclusive primetime broadcasting rights, the station's top brass would be absolutely uneasy now that the figures are on the table, no matter how many reasons they could offer. But now, the production director only needs to report to his superiors that "the midday premiere exceeded expectations," and then sit back and wait for the commission to roll in.
The risks lie entirely with Kitahara Shin.
He leaned back in his chair, the look of relief on his lips gradually turning into a somewhat malicious smirk.
"So even Mr. Kitahara has his off days."
The news spread extremely quickly within the industry.
By evening, reporters from major entertainment media outlets and industry insiders had already made the topic a hot topic.
""
"Bayside Shakedown" premiered with an 11.3% rating; is the myth of Kitahara Shin over?
"The ceiling for midday slots? Or Kitahara Shin's Waterloo?"
"TV King's New Drama Meets Cold Shoulder; Has His Arrogant Declaration Backfired?"
These headlines were relatively restrained, given that Kitahara Nobu's legal team is known in the industry for being difficult to deal with, and overly offensive language could easily lead to lawsuits. However, the barely concealed schadenfreude in the text was impossible to suppress.
A columnist for an entertainment magazine even wrote a two-page "in-depth analysis," with only one core argument: Kitahara Shin is used to making high-octane dramas that generate buzz from the start and have a climax in every episode, while a slice-of-life workplace comedy like "Bayside Shakedown" doesn't suit his usual style. In other words, this was the first time he stepped out of his comfort zone and took a solid fall.
This article has sparked quite a wide discussion.
Interestingly, the financial tycoons who had just suffered a setback in their attempt to cut off supplies, who had held secret meetings in private cafes, all showed a subtle relaxation in their expressions as they watched these news reports.
"It seems we were a bit too tense before." The trading company representative, a cigar between his fingers, glanced at the viewership data and casually put it down. "A premiere at 11:30, how can that be considered a threat?"
"A midday drama." Another executive casually took a sip of sake. "To put it bluntly, the main audience for that time slot is housewives and retired seniors. Even if the ratings rise later, there's a limit to its potential. Is Kitahara Shin trying to use this drama to support his ambitious peripheral industry chain?"
He shook his head slightly, his tone carrying a hint of confident disdain: "Too naive."
However, Kitahara Shin himself showed almost no reaction to all of this.
When Ota presented him with the viewership data, he was sitting in the company's top-floor conference room, unpacking a convenience store rice ball and casually flipping through the crew's shooting schedule for the following week. His expression was so normal that Ota almost thought he was completely oblivious.
I didn't see that piece of paper.
"President—" Ota hesitated for a moment before tentatively speaking, "Should we have the public relations department prepare a statement regarding this figure in advance, just in case reporters ask—"
"No need." Kitahara Shin took a bite of his rice ball without looking up.
Ota Masakazu paused for a second, then couldn't help but continue, "But public opinion is starting to take a turn for the worse. If we let them continue writing like this, it will affect the subsequent pre-sales and merchandise promotion."
"Ota."
Kitahara Shin finally raised his head and looked at him, his tone so calm it was somewhat incomprehensible: "Do you think it's good or bad that a workplace drama that airs at 12:30 pm, with the first episode about a detective helping an old lady find her lost bicycle, got an 11.3% rating on its premiere?"
Ota Masashi opened his mouth, then hesitated for a moment, speechless.
He certainly knew the answer. In the historical data for midday slots, 11.3% was already quite impressive. Moreover, the show's target audience wasn't the young viewers who sat in front of the TV after get off work, seeking high-octane action, but rather housewives with plenty of free time at lunchtime.
However, compared to the viewership legends that Kitahara Shin had achieved in the past, often reaching 20 or 30 points, this number seemed particularly glaring.
"You're using the ruler of prime time to measure the performance of midday time slots." Kitahara Shin crumpled up the rice ball wrapper, threw it in the trash can, and clapped his hands. "That's wrong in itself."
He stood up, walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looked down at the bustling streets of Tokyo, and spoke in a calm yet penetrating tone.
"The dramas I've directed, whether it's 'Legal High' or 'The White Tower,' all start by grabbing the audience with a very strong impact. In the first episode, Komekado verbally abuses someone in court, and in the first episode, Goro Zaizen demonstrates what it means to have a dimensional reduction attack on the operating table. The logic of those dramas is to throw out the biggest cards in the first episode, letting the audience know where the ceiling of this drama is."
"But 'Bayside Shakedown' is different."
Kitahara Shin turned around and looked at Ota, his eyes revealing an extremely calm, even somewhat desperate, determination.
"The logic of this show is slow burn. The first episode makes you think that this is just an ordinary, unlucky cop story. But after you watch three or five episodes, you will find that this show has quietly occupied a place in your heart - a place that you have to turn on the TV every day at lunchtime to fill."
"Word-of-mouth dramas rely on word of mouth." He paused, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Those media outlets that were shouting that this drama would flop are now giving me free publicity. As the ratings gradually rise, those early articles predicting its failure will become the best promotional material."
Upon hearing this, Ota Masakazu fell silent.
Having followed Kitahara Shin for so many years, he had long been used to this man making all sorts of decisions that he couldn't understand, only to be proven right by reality afterward. But this time, he still couldn't help but feel a lingering unease.
After all, the factory is already up and running. The first batch of M-51 trench coat samples have been produced at the garment factory, and the mold factory is also in trial production. If this drama doesn't really gain popularity, these costs—
"President," Ota couldn't help but speak up, "I know you're always a master strategist. But what if the factories' performance continues at this level?"
No, it won't.
Kitahara Shin interrupted him, his tone calm, but with an undeniable certainty, "But I'm not going to tell you nonsense like 'trust me' here. I'll give you something practical."
He walked back to the table and sat down again, tapping his fingers on the surface intermittently.
"Do you know what percentage of the audience for this show are housewives?"
Da Tian thought for a moment and then shook his head.
"More than 60%," said Kitahara Nobu. "According to the viewership survey data, 11.3% of the audience is female, with 72% being housewives aged 30 to 50, who are the absolute core group."
He paused, letting Daejeon process the number, before continuing.
"Japanese housewives are the most underrated consumer group in the country. Who controls their husbands' paychecks? They do. Who holds the power to make purchasing decisions for monthly household expenses? Still, they do. Go to any department store, and between 3 and 5 pm, who are the people standing in front of the shelves the most?"
Ota Masashi answered instinctively, "Housewife—"
"Yes." Kitahara Shin nodded. "So do you think that after watching three, five, or ten episodes of Aoshima Shunsaku running around in front of the camera every day at noon, wouldn't these women want to buy their husbands or sons the same one?"
Da Tian was stunned for a moment, and then something in his mind suddenly lit up as if someone had hit him.
This logic—he had never thought about it from this perspective before.
Traditional film and television merchandise has always targeted young men as its primary audience—toys, figures, models, and game collaborations all aim at young people who are willing to spend money to support their idols. But Kitahara Shin's logic directly targets middle-aged women who hold the reins of family finances and have an astonishing ability to spread positive word-of-mouth.
When a housewife falls in love with a TV series, she will not only watch it herself, but also recommend it to her neighbors, sisters, and old classmates, and she will also put the same items in her shopping basket on her next shopping trip.
This is not about building a fan economy.
This is about making consumer goods.
"President, do you mean that the merchandise for this drama isn't sold to fans, but rather—" Ota's voice carried a hint of uncertainty.
"It's for ordinary people." Kitahara Shin picked up where he left off, giving an extremely concise answer: "Fans are willing to spend money on an exorbitantly priced collaboration item just for nostalgia. But ordinary people are willing to spend money on a truly high-quality everyday garment that's 'good-looking, practical, and has some cultural significance.' You can calculate the difference in size between these two groups yourself."
Ota Masakazu remained silent for a long time.
He recalled Kitahara Shin's exacting standards at the clothing factory for the M-51 trench coat sample: the fabric had to be the best, the cut had to be genuinely comfortable to wear, and it couldn't just be a replica of the prop costume; it also had to withstand everyday wear and washing. At the time, he had wondered to himself, "It's just making merchandise, does it have to be this meticulous?"
Now he vaguely understands.
From the very beginning, Kitahara Shin never intended to simply create a "featured item from the drama" to sell nostalgia. What he wanted to create was a garment that could truly enter the wardrobe of an ordinary Japanese family. The drama was merely a window, a way to build trust between the garment and the brand in the minds of the audience.
Even after this drama finishes airing, five or ten years from now, if someone is wearing that military green M-51 trench coat on the street, people will still recognize it—it's the same style worn by Aoshima Shunsaku of Wangan Department Store.
The brand memory is etched into it just like that.
"So—" Ota Shoichi struggled to process this logic, "by starting to promote the merchandise now, you're actually trying to secure your position early?"
"The sooner the better." Kitahara Shin nodded. "By the time when the ratings really take off and our competitors realize they can't keep up, our product will already have a foothold in the market."
He paused for a moment, gazing intently out the window.
Of course, Ota had no idea that Kitahara Shin was conjuring up a vision of the IP-related economic explosion that swept across Asia around the turn of the millennium in his past life. In that era, the market size of merchandise derived from countless Japanese films and television shows ultimately far exceeded the value created by the films' box office and viewership ratings. And those who survived and amassed fortunes were all pioneers who had established complete industry chains in advance.
He simply brought that era forward a little earlier.
"Keep things moving at the factory." Kitahara Shin withdrew his gaze, his tone returning to its usual concise and efficient manner when giving instructions. "The first batch of M-51 trench coats should be ready to launch next month, coinciding with the airing of the fifth episode of the drama. I'll handle the promotional copy. The focus won't be on 'the same style as in the drama,' but on the craftsmanship and design, making consumers feel that this is a truly worthwhile garment."
"Understood." Ota Masakazu replied and quickly made a note in his memo.
"And one more thing," Kitahara Shin added casually, but it sent a chill down Ota's spine. "Let the media keep badmouthing it. The worse they do, the better. Once the show gets a lot of positive reviews, those screenshots of articles will be great talking points in the future."
While Kitahara Shin and Ota were making these seemingly far-fetched plans, the "Bayside Shakedown" crew continued to move forward at an extremely steady pace.
Episode 2, Episode 3, Episode 4.
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Each episode follows the same seemingly ordinary formula: a case of moderate importance occurs in the Wangan Police Station, and the rank-and-file detectives try to rush out to solve it, but the bureaucratic system above erects a series of administrative barriers that are either absurd or suffocating.
A group of ordinary people, whose edges have been worn down by the system, yet who occasionally spark genuine inspiration, live out their absurd daily lives on the screen day after day.
But it was precisely this "ordinariness" that, at some unknown point in time, quietly accomplished an extremely dangerous thing—
It has allowed more and more viewers to see themselves in these absurd yet realistic characters.
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