Chapter 56

Chapter 56: Why Not Try Filming This Kind of Story

Road trips are great.

Next time, never again.

After driving continuously for five days, he hadn’t really noticed the fatigue while still on the road. But on the second morning after returning home, Nagayama Naoki finally felt it—his waist ached, his back was sore, and his entire body felt weak.

And he was only nineteen years old. He couldn’t imagine how earlier road-trip enthusiasts managed to keep going for an entire month.

He had arranged to meet Ito Shuichi at the studio at nine o’clock. Bringing along a small gift, Nagayama Naoki headed over.

The studio was temporarily unused. Ever since they decided to accept fewer advertising projects, the place had lost its former liveliness. Only occasional regular clients still came to borrow the space.

Ito Shuichi sat in his office as usual, head lowered while reading a stack of manuscripts.

“Shuichi-san, what are you looking at?” Nagayama Naoki pushed the door open and walked in directly.

“A script someone sent over—the one I mentioned before.” Ito Shuichi had already seen him arrive through the glass window.

“Oh? What kind of script?” Nagayama Naoki handed over the bag he was carrying. “Shuichi-san, these are hot-spring manju from Bessho. Give them a try.”

“Arigato.” The small buns were stamped with decorative patterns, filled with red bean paste and salted egg yolk. They tasted quite good.

Nagayama Naoki picked up the script from the table. “Samurai of the Fields? A ninkyo drama?”

After flipping through it briefly, he saw it was about a secluded family being slaughtered and a passing samurai seeking revenge.

For Nagayama Naoki, such a storyline felt completely unremarkable. He had seen too many revenge stories: revenge followed by discovering the enemy had hidden hardships, falling in love with the enemy’s daughter, learning the enemy was actually one’s biological father, or even absurd plots where a returning war god discovers his wife and daughter humiliated and annihilates the enemy’s entire clan with a single command. After all that, nothing could surprise him anymore.

“A typical chivalry drama,” Ito Shuichi said while eating a manju. “The investors sent this script. It’s highly polished. Probably enough material for about twenty episodes.”

“A ninkyo drama like this… wasn’t that the trend ten years ago? Do people still watch this kind of TV series?”

“They do. Older audiences still enjoy them.”

“A series like this…” Nagayama Naoki struggled to find the right description.

“Very mediocre, right?” Ito Shuichi smiled bitterly. “But for a director like me who switched careers midway, opportunities like this are rare.”

Ito Shuichi was already thirty-two years old, approaching the age when many in later generations would be pushed out of the industry. Transitioning into television directing at this stage was far from easy. Being offered such a script already owed much to his previous success in advertising. Behind him, younger newcomers were lining up for resources.

“But if you start with this kind of script,” Nagayama Naoki said, “you might end up filming only similar projects forever.”

First impressions were extremely difficult to change, especially in the entertainment industry.

Ninkyo dramas indeed had loyal audiences, but directors specializing in them were usually already veterans in their thirties who had filmed five or six works. Their networks and reputations were firmly established.

For example, the blind swordsman from “Zatoichi” had appeared in more than twenty installments, with the same person serving as both director and lead actor.

If Ito Shuichi entered that field, it would be extremely difficult for him to stand out. He might end up directing obscure scripts indefinitely unless he had strong connections.

“But… there’s no choice,” Ito Shuichi said helplessly. “Without investors, it’s impossible to film television dramas in other styles.”

Unlike commercials, long television series required significant upfront investment. Producers and funding were indispensable. In later years, many directors would spend more than a decade of savings just to make a single film or drama.

Before gaining recognition, no investor would bring quality scripts to a “new director” like Ito Shuichi.

“There’s really no easy solution.” Nagayama Naoki could not offer practical help. The industry was too complex.

Ito Shuichi sighed. “Those commercials we made before—if they were expanded into television dramas or films, audiences would probably like them a lot.”

“That’s true. They were short, but the storytelling was strong. Plenty of people enjoyed them.”

If this were the era of short-video platforms in the future, such low-budget short dramas could easily attract hundreds of thousands of followers.

Low cost. Short format. Story-driven. Episodic structure.

Episodic storytelling was common in children’s programs and animation—Ultraman, Doraemon—each episode telling a separate story.

It was also widespread in foreign comedies like “Friends” and “The Big Bang Theory,” as well as suspense series such as “Alfred Hitchcock Presents” and “The Twilight Zone.”

These successful episodic shows shared one trait: longevity.

Nagayama Naoki suddenly thought of the long-running Japanese series “Yonimo Kimyo na Monogatari,” which would continue for more than thirty years. Major production companies such as Toei, Daiei Television, Toho, and Nikkatsu would all participate, and countless stars would appear in it.

In later years, Japanese celebrities who had never appeared in that program would even joke about it themselves.

If such a series were created now…

“Shuichi-san, have you ever studied episodic dramas?” Nagayama Naoki suddenly asked.

“Huh? Episodic dramas? You mean tokusatsu shows? Like Ultraman?” Ito Shuichi looked puzzled.

“Something like that. Have you watched ‘Alfred Hitchcock Presents’?”

“I’ve seen a few episodes. They felt quite frightening.”

Nagayama Naoki considered his words carefully.

“Shuichi-san, why not try filming stories like that?”

“A collection of strange, suspenseful, heartwarming, multi-toned short stories. I’ve already seen your narrative directing ability before. This type of short drama would suit you perfectly.”

“The script provided by the investors follows a fixed formula. For you, it would waste your talent. It wouldn’t attract younger audiences, and even after finishing it, breaking through would still be difficult.”

“But an episodic short-drama format would keep costs controllable. Some episodes could even be filmed in a single continuous shot. The story could remain flexible, adjusting according to audience response. Shooting time would be short—one or two days might be enough to complete an episode.”

Sensing Nagayama Naoki’s seriousness, Ito Shuichi thought carefully.

“Naoki-san, short dramas do have many advantages. But if they fail to attract viewers, there still won’t be any future.”

Although Nagayama Naoki clearly knew how popular “Yonimo Kimyo na Monogatari” would become, he had no way to explain that now.

However—

“Shuichi-san, even if it fails, it would only cost a week or two and a small amount of money.”

The cost of trial and error was extremely low, especially after they had recently received a transfer payment.

Ito Shuichi suddenly understood.

“Hahaha, Naoki-san, I almost trapped myself in a dead end. Then let’s try filming a few episodes first. I’ll go find writers immediately!”

“Shuichi-san, I actually have two small story ideas that might work.”

Nagayama Naoki recalled some of the most popular stories from “Yonimo Kimyo na Monogatari.”

“The Beauty Jar” and “Grandmother.”