Chapter 209: Awards Begin! Best Screenwriter! Hiroshi Nohara! Well-deserved!
Soon, three days flew by, and the highly anticipated grand event of the Neon television industry – the Japan Drama Academy Awards ceremony – was about to begin.
As one of the four major mainstream television stations, Tokyo Television naturally needed to send its elite forces to attend.
Tokyo Television was led by Koichi Amuro, the Production Bureau Executive Deputy Director, accompanied by the highly acclaimed first-class director and “God of Romance,” Keiko Matsumoto.
Seeing Hiroshi Nohara appear on time, Koichi Amuro managed a smile on his usually somber face, and Keiko Matsumoto also nodded gently at him with the approval of a senior appraising a junior.
Though no words were exchanged, their attitude of regarding Hiroshi Nohara as a core strength of the television station, one of their own, was evident.
Standing beside Hiroshi Nohara were three capable section chiefs under his command: Tsuyoshi Yamamoto, responsible for World of the Strange; Kei Tanaka, responsible for Super Change Change Change; and Ichiro Hashishita, responsible for the animation An Shizhi.
These three, along with Hiroshi Nohara himself, were almost the list of creators behind Tokyo Television’s most dazzling successes in recent years—
The animation An Shizhi achieved a 15% rating, becoming phenomenal; the unit drama World of the Strange reached a high of 21%, leading the “Urban Legends” trend; and the variety show Super Change Change Change boasted a terrifying 40% ratings, worthy of national recognition.
Just then, a somewhat unexpected figure approached the edge of the group with slight hesitation.
It was Masao Iwata.
This third-class director, who had once been incredibly popular within the television station, and whose mentor Kiyoto Suzuki had even been his rival, now greeted Hiroshi Nohara with a sheepish smile, humbly saying, “Minister Nohara, hello.”
“Oh? Director Iwata, you’re here too,” Hiroshi Nohara replied calmly, his tone betraying no significant emotion.
“Yes,” Masao Iwata quickly nodded, “Thanks to Managing Director Takada, the station has also submitted my Oni-bō Samurai for consideration this time.”
“Mmm,” Koichi Amuro responded from the side, a confirmation.
Hiroshi Nohara looked at Masao Iwata’s respectful yet slightly anxious demeanor, his heart unmoved.
In such a short time, the gap between himself and this “senior” whom he once had to look up to, and who could have been a significant threat, had become so vast.
It was no longer him who feared this Masao Iwata as before. It was this formerly arrogant Masao Iwata who now had to speak cautiously and watch his expression when facing him.
After all, in Japan’s strict hierarchical system, the reason for the shift in status could not ignore the decisive role played by “strength.”
Hiroshi Nohara was well aware of this.
He maintained his politeness, nodding slightly at Masao Iwata, “I wish you success.”
Koichi Amuro, seeing this, had a barely perceptible flicker of satisfaction in his eyes.
Masao Iwata was his wife’s cousin, and seeing their harmonious relationship was naturally better.
“Let’s depart once everyone is here,” Koichi Amuro stated. The other three directors of Tokyo Television, all over forty, as well as several assistants, were already waiting. The group boarded the station’s dedicated minibus and headed towards the awards ceremony venue.
The seating arrangement in the car implicitly divided the hierarchy.
Koichi Amuro and Keiko Matsumoto naturally sat in the front row.
Hiroshi Nohara followed closely behind.
Behind him were Tsuyoshi Yamamoto and the other two section chiefs, along with Masao Iwata.
The two second-class directors sat further back.
Shortly after the car started, Hideya Noguchi, one of the second-class directors sitting in the back, known for his historical dramas and stern appearance, proactively addressed the front row, his tone full of respect: “Managing Director Takada, Director Matsumoto, with the two of you and Minister Nohara present, our Tokyo TV’s momentum completely overwhelms the other stations.”
He looked at Hiroshi Nohara: “Minister Nohara, your works are hot contenders for awards this time. The dramas our old guys submitted are merely there to add to the festivities.”
Kiyoto Suzuki, another second-class director, slightly plump and always wearing a genial smile, chimed in sincerely: “Indeed, Minister Nohara’s works are truly stunning! Especially the ‘Urban Legends’ genre you pioneered, it’s a groundbreaking creation! Director Ashikaga and I were just discussing the other day, why is it that seemingly ordinary urban corners can become so immersive and terrifying in your lenses and stories?”
The last, somewhat silent second-class director couldn’t help but ask with curiosity, “Especially the ‘hopscotch little girl’ segment in World of the Strange, the scene in the telephone booth at midnight, it still sends shivers down my spine when I think about it. Minister Nohara, do you have any particular thoughts on creating such an atmosphere that is both relatable to daily life and chilling?”
Hiroshi Nohara, facing the questions from these “seniors” who were already veteran directors, showed no arrogance. He remained calm and composed: “Thank you for your praise, seniors. Regarding ‘Urban Legends,’ the core is ‘familiar places made strange.’ Audiences have fixed perceptions of urban environments and rules. Disrupting these perceptions—introducing the unknowable into the safest homes, hiding terror at ordinary street corners, giving everyday objects eerie attributes—this subversion of the ‘presumption of safety’ is the source of fear. When filming, one should restrain from showing the ‘monster’ and instead focus on the ‘strangeness’ of the environment and characters, allowing the audience to fill in the most frightening images themselves. Sound and pacing are key to amplifying this effect.”
Keiko Matsumoto then turned around and joined the discussion. Her voice carried the certainty of a veteran director, yet also a hint of admiration: “Director Hiroshi is right. The core of horror is the projection of the human heart. The brilliance of your ‘Urban Legends’ lies in the fact that those seemingly bizarre plots, upon closer reflection, can find shadows in real-life anxieties—for example, the unit with the constantly ringing office phone that no one answers is a unique portrayal of the culture of overtime. Encasing insights into social phenomena within the ‘supernatural tale’ wrapper is the fundamental reason they resonate widely, rather than becoming mere sensory stimulation.” She looked at the directors in the back row: “Ashikaga, Asano, you should also observe the thinking of the younger generation more. Genre films also require depth.”
Hiroshi Nohara nodded: “Director Matsumoto hits the nail on the head. Fear is an external manifestation of social pressure and loneliness. Finding that ‘pain point’ that resonates with urban dwellers, and then expressing it in a way that adheres to genre rules but also bears the creator’s personal imprint, is the core creative logic of ‘Urban Legends’.”
Masao Iwata, sitting further back, listened attentively, feeling both shocked and ashamed.
He had once been so proud of the so-called “exquisite” costume, makeup, and action design of his Oni-bō Samurai. Now, he finally understood the vast difference in creative philosophy and insight between himself and Hiroshi Nohara.
He could no longer hold back. Putting aside his pride, he leaned forward respectfully, asking like a student seeking knowledge: “Minister Nohara, what about the ending design of the segments? Many viewers say that your supernatural tale segments often have open endings, or even abrupt pauses with blank space, which are more memorable and terrifying than providing a clear explanation. How do you strike that balance? Is it deliberate, or is there a pattern?”
All eyes turned to Hiroshi Nohara. He paused slightly, then replied clearly: “Open endings are meant to emphasize that ‘the unknown’ itself is the greatest fear. When the eerie occurs, whether the protagonist escapes or not, the world that ‘broke the rules’ has already existed and may continue to exist in any corner of the city. Rather than providing false reassurance like ‘the monster is defeated’ or ‘the curse is lifted,’ it is better to let the sense of anomaly linger, reminding the audience of the fragility beneath the everyday facade. This is not bluffing, but rather using the ‘unsolvable’ nature of the ending to reinforce the theme: the ‘modern rules’ we live by are inherently vulnerable to certain forces. Blank space does not mean there is no answer; the answer lies in the preceding hints and the audience’s logical imagination. The key is sufficient foreshadowing and logical consistency, allowing the possibilities the audience deduces to be more terrifying than direct revelation.”
His words were clear and thorough, carrying a calm insight that transcended his age.
The inside of the car fell silent for a moment, as the directors savored his words.
Even Koichi Amuro nodded slightly, and a look of undisguised admiration flashed in Keiko Matsumoto’s eyes.
Kiyoto Suzuki was the first to react, unable to resist slapping his thigh: “Brilliant! Truly enlightening, Minister Nohara! Listening to you speak is like reading ten years’ worth of books!”
Hideya Noguchi also exclaimed: “So that’s how it is! No wonder those segments leave people thinking for days after watching, with such lasting impact!”
Amidst the professional and enthusiastic discussion, the minibus smoothly traveled towards the prestigious hall of the Neon television industry—the Japan Drama Academy Awards ceremony venue.
Outside the car window, the Tokyo street scenes of 1991 continuously flashed by, while inside, the voices of discussion grew more fervent.
Everyone’s astonishment at Hiroshi Nohara’s talent grew with each passing moment.
…
The air in the Grand Prince Hotel Takanawa, Tokyo, was thick with expensive perfume, tense anticipation, and the scent of paper whose fate was about to be turned.
The Tokyo night, on such grand occasions, always temporarily suppressed the usual clamor and fatigue, leaving only the dazzling illusion of dreams and money intertwined.
Countless flashes of light were like falling stars, each burst tearing through the night’s curtain, freezing meticulously sculpted faces into eternal moments.
Hiroshi Nohara and his group slowly entered this star-studded domain with the crowd.
They were the representatives of Tokyo Television, each with a look of calm that was incongruous with the ostentation, or a sharp edge of impending power.
Managing Director Takada led the way. Though not tall, he possessed an aura, as if he had been steeped in this fame and fortune arena for years, having long ago developed an unflappable composure.
They followed the directions to Tokyo Television’s dedicated seating area. The sign there, bearing the words “Tokyo Television,” gleamed under the crystal chandeliers, proclaiming the glory and heritage of this veteran television institution.
However, just as Managing Director Takada was about to take his seat, his gaze inadvertently swept over the adjacent seating area.
There, a sign remarkably similar to theirs stood – “Tokyo City Television.”
Managing Director Takada’s brow furrowed, a subtle, almost imperceptible movement.
The arc was shallow, yet it resembled the calm before the surging undercurrent beneath the deep sea.
“Managing Director Takada, it seems our paths have crossed again,” Tsuyoshi Yamamoto’s voice was low, with a hint of worry. He adjusted his glasses, his gaze sharply glancing at the neighboring seats.
Ichiro Hashishita also came closer, his usually cheerful face now cast with a solemnity: “Tokyo City Television is coming on strong. Their Nan Dao A Feng and His Beloved Dog, it was rumored, directly targeted our station’s Late-night Diner. And now they’re right next to us.”
“Not just close,” Kei Tanaka added, a flicker of caution in his eyes: “That old fox, Kazuo Takahashi, never acts without a motive. Him bringing his people to this awards ceremony, I suspect his intentions are not as simple as they appear.”
“They come with ill intentions,” Tsuyoshi Yamamoto concluded, his tone filled with an anticipation of potential conflict.
Hiroshi Nohara stood behind them, listening quietly, his expression unchanged.
His usually somewhat casual eyes were now as deep as Tokyo Bay at night, the surface calm, yet unfathomably deep.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he said softly, his words like a gentle breeze, calming the tension in everyone’s hearts.
Managing Director Takada heard this, and the corner of his mouth curved into a smile, a hint of approval in his eyes.
Yes, there was nothing to be afraid of.
Had they, Tokyo Television, ever feared any challenge?
Besides, the drama Nan Dao A Feng and His Beloved Dog had already been defeated by their Late-night Diner. Did they really need to care that much?!
Just then, Hideya Noguchi’s voice rang out, his gaze fixed on the entrance, carrying an indescribable complexity:
“They’re here.”
Hearing this, everyone followed Hideya Noguchi’s gaze. They saw a group of people entering the venue in a grand procession.
Leading them was Kazuo Takahashi, the Executive Deputy Station Manager of Tokyo City Television.
His slightly puffy face wore a characteristic hypocritical smile, but his eyes scanned the entire hall like vipers.
Behind him followed several directors famous in the industry, and the rising star Tokyo City Television was promoting, Shunsuke Kamiki.
Shunsuke Kamiki was handsome, and at this moment, he was radiating confidence, a smile that could melt ice and snow playing on his lips, yet it also held an undeniable arrogance.
The gazes of the two groups met in mid-air, and invisible sparks seemed to flash in the atmosphere.
Kazuo Takahashi took the lead, walking directly towards Tokyo Television’s seats, his smile stretched to its extreme falsity.
“Ah, isn’t this Managing Director Takada! Long time no see, you’re looking as distinguished as ever!” Kazuo Takahashi approached, his tone overly enthusiastic, yet with a hidden sharpness.
Managing Director Takada subtly took half a step back, maintaining a proper distance, a polite smile on his lips: “Deputy Station Manager Takahashi, you flatter me. You are the one who is still vigorous, looking several years younger than when we last met.”
To outsiders, these pleasantries exchanged felt like two finely honed swords lightly colliding within their sheaths; though no sparks were visible, a chilling undercurrent permeated the air.
Kazuo Takahashi’s gaze then shifted to Hiroshi Nohara.
A subtle disdain flickered in his eyes, yet he pretended to be affectionate as he said, “This must be Nohara-kun, correct? I’ve heard much about you, you’re quite the rising star lately, truly a formidable young talent!”
“I heard Nohara-kun’s Late-night Diner has good reviews and passable ratings, but…” Kazuo Takahashi paused, his tone becoming sarcastic, “Our Tokyo City Television is planning to gather many renowned screenwriters and directors to discuss more creative content. Nohara-kun should work harder; young people need to strive more to catch up to their seniors.”
His words caused the faces of several directors and producers from Tokyo Television to darken.
This was clearly a provocation, openly belittling Hiroshi Nohara and promoting their own station’s dramas in front of everyone.
Hiroshi Nohara, however, did not get angry. He simply smiled faintly, his smile imbued with composure.
“Thank you for your guidance, Deputy Station Manager Takahashi. This junior will bear it in mind,” Hiroshi Nohara’s tone was as calm as water, yet conveyed no trace of timidity. “However, judging the quality of a work involves more than just ratings; perhaps there are deeper elements. For instance, can it touch people’s hearts, leave ripples in the audience’s minds, and be remembered years later?”
His words were gentle, yet like a fine needle, they accurately pierced Kazuo Takahashi’s vanity.
Kazuo Takahashi’s smile froze on his face, his eyebrows slightly raised.
Managing Director Takada, seeing this, interjected at the opportune moment: “Hiroshi speaks the truth; art always has its unique value. Of course, ratings are also a hard truth. However, I heard that Deputy Station Manager Takahashi has been quite busy with the celebration banquet for Nan Dao A Feng and His Beloved Dog. It must have been very fruitful, worthy of such a grand celebration?”
Managing Director Takada’s statement was extremely clever.
On the surface, it was a compliment, but it subtly implied that Tokyo City Television had invested excessive resources and energy, even resorting to sensationalism, for a short-term rating success.
The implication was that their success might be fleeting and lacking in depth.
Kazuo Takahashi’s expression grew even more displeased. He took a deep breath, about to retort, when Shunsuke Kamiki interjected from the side.
“Managing Director Takada, you are too modest. Our station’s Nan Dao A Feng and His Beloved Dog won the audience’s affection through its solid script and exquisite acting. This cannot be measured by a celebration banquet,” Shunsuke Kamiki’s tone carried the sharpness of youth, but also seemed somewhat impetuous.
Hiroshi Nohara’s gaze turned to Shunsuke Kamiki, a hint of subtle amusement flashing in his eyes.
He asked softly, “Shunsuke-kun’s acting is indeed exquisite. The role you played in Nan Dao A Feng and His Beloved Dog was very memorable. However, I heard that Shunsuke-kun has also taken on many endorsement deals recently?”
Upon hearing this, a flicker of pride crossed Shunsuke Kamiki’s eyes, and he straightened his back: “Naturally. The audience recognizes my performance, so manufacturers naturally value my commercial value.”
Hiroshi Nohara nodded slightly, his tone calm: “That is good. It’s a win-win when actors can enjoy art while also receiving economic returns. However, while pursuing commercial value, don’t forget the original intention of acting. After all, popularity is temporary, but works are eternal.”
With these words, Shunsuke Kamiki’s face immediately showed embarrassment.
Hiroshi Nohara’s words, though seemingly a kind reminder, pointed out the matter he found most difficult to admit: that he, Shunsuke Kamiki, was merely an idol star relying on his looks, not a truly respected actor!
This was actually a topic of private discussion among many in the industry.
“You!” Shunsuke Kamiki gritted his teeth but couldn’t utter a word, as he truly had no grounds to refute.
Kazuo Takahashi watched his ” ace ” being rendered speechless by Hiroshi Nohara’s few words, his eyes blazing with anger.
He shot a fierce glare at Hiroshi Nohara, then looked at Managing Director Takada’s imperturbable expression, realizing that in this verbal sparring match, his side had taken the disadvantage.
“Hmph!” Kazuo Takahashi snorted, channeling all his dissatisfaction into a heavy exhalation, “Managing Director Takada, Nohara-kun, we’ll see!”
With that, he turned and left in a huff with Shunsuke Kamiki and the others, returning to their seats at Tokyo City Television.
The entire episode was like a brief probing between two lions at the edge of their territory; though no direct biting occurred, the atmosphere was charged with gunpowder.
Managing Director Takada watched Kazuo Takahashi’s retreating back and let out a dismissive scoff. The smile held the composure of a victor and a disdain for his opponent’s petty tricks.
“Petty tricks,” Managing Director Takada commented dismissively, then turned to the group and said, “Everyone, please be seated. No need to pay attention to those clowns. Our stage is in our works, and in the hearts of the audience.”
He waved his hand, signaling everyone to sit down. Then, he took out his mobile phone, a rare luxury in 1991 Neon Country, owned only by a select few elites.
He dialed a number and instructed into the receiver: “This is Takada. Inform them to have all our station’s lead actors come to the venue now. Yes, right now, all of them.”
A brief response came from the other end. Managing Director Takada hung up, his face still calm. He knew the real competition was far from over.
Not long after, the venue entrance caused another small commotion.
Several lead actors from Tokyo Television, including those from popular dramas like Yesterday’s Cherry Blossom, World of the Strange, Super Change Change Change, and Midnight Detective, Tokyo’s Number One Expert, began to arrive one after another. They had arrived in a different car and were waiting in the lounge; upon receiving the notification, they appeared together.
They were all dressed in fine attire, wearing perfectly calibrated smiles, and their arrival immediately drew the attention of many present. As the facade of Tokyo Television, each of them possessed a massive fan base and immense national recognition.
However, as they entered the venue and walked towards Tokyo Television’s seats, even more industry giants and celebrity guests began to pour in from outside.
This time, the number of people entering was greater, and their caliber was even higher.
Many were vice presidents and managing directors from other renowned television stations in Neon Country, as well as influential film directors, and veteran actors who held significant status in the hearts of the nation.
Each of them represented a force to be reckoned with, the true backbone of the Neon Country film and television industry.
Yet, an unexpected scene unfolded.
As these important figures successively entered, their gazes invariably swept towards Tokyo Television’s seating area.
Many, after exchanging a few pleasantries and customary remarks with Managing Director Takada, surprisingly turned their attention to Hiroshi Nohara, who stood beside Managing Director Takada.
“Nohara-kun! Hello!”
“Director Nohara! It’s a pleasure to meet you!”
One by one, loud voices echoed, breaking the venue’s original social etiquette.
These industry titans, usually aloof and unapproachable, now approached Hiroshi Nohara with unreserved enthusiasm, as if seeing a long-lost dear friend.
They extended their hands one after another, initiating handshakes with Hiroshi Nohara, their voices filled with undisguised admiration and affirmation.
“I’ve been following Nohara-kun’s Late-night Diner! It’s filmed so well, that sense of worldly life is simply marvelous!” a renowned film director said, patting Hiroshi Nohara’s shoulder with eyes full of camaraderie.
“Director Nohara is truly young and promising! I happen to have a project that I felt was missing something, and after meeting you today, I suddenly feel inspired! I hope we can collaborate if there’s an opportunity!” Another Managing Director Takada from a local television station was even more direct, enthusiastically handing over his business card with a tone filled with the desire for collaboration.
“Nohara-kun, your grasp of urban themes is simply masterful! I’ve been watching World of the Strange until now! When you have some free time, we can chat and discuss future collaboration directions.” An veteran actor also stepped forward, offering his business card with both hands, his posture humble and sincere.
One by one, gilded business cards fluttered into Hiroshi Nohara’s hands.
The names printed on those cards were all prominent figures in the Neon Country film and television industry.
Their attitude towards Hiroshi Nohara was not merely polite; it was genuine respect and regard.
This respect even subtly surpassed their perfunctory greetings to Managing Director Takada.
Everyone present could see that these people were genuinely showing respect to Hiroshi Nohara.
There was no hint of perfunctoriness in their eyes, only admiration for his talent and anticipation for the future.
In a short period, Hiroshi Nohara, through his numerous works, had become the industry’s recognized “rising star,” even surpassing many senior figures in certain aspects.
Managing Director Takada stood aside, watching his “ace” being surrounded and fawned over by numerous big shots, his face displaying a complex expression of pride mixed with a hint of “jealousy.”
He quickly stepped forward, gently pulling Hiroshi Nohara slightly closer, his tone carrying a hint of “protectiveness,” yet appearing so sincere:
“Everyone! Everyone! Hiroshi is our Tokyo Television’s priceless treasure, not for sale!”
His words were half a joke, half a declaration.
Everyone present understood the deeper meaning behind Managing Director Takada’s words—Hiroshi Nohara was the core asset of Tokyo Television, and anyone wishing to poach him had to think twice.
This statement indirectly raised Hiroshi Nohara’s value, making him a rare treasure coveted by all.
And this scene naturally fell into the eyes of the Tokyo City Television group not far away.
Kazuo Takahashi, who had initially hoped to see Tokyo Television in a predicament, was instead confronted with such a spectacle.
He stared intently at Hiroshi Nohara, who was being celebrated like a star, and then at the industry bigwigs who usually paid him little attention, yet were so enthusiastic towards Hiroshi Nohara. His face turned terrifyingly dark, his teeth grinding audibly.
Shunsuke Kamiki’s face alternated between green and white. He had thought of himself as Tokyo City Television’s future star and was somewhat known in the industry.
But now, the treatment Hiroshi Nohara received was something he had never seen in his life. The big shots looked at Hiroshi Nohara with admiration, respect, and desire.
And they looked at Shunsuke Kamiki with perfunctory politeness, not even stopping for a moment.
The immense sense of disparity made him feel an unprecedented humiliation.
The flames of jealousy burned fiercely in the eyes of everyone at Tokyo City Television.
They felt as if they had been stripped naked in public, all their radiance dimming in the face of Hiroshi Nohara’s brilliance.
Kazuo Takahashi and Shunsuke Kamiki, at this moment, felt as if their taste buds had been turned upside down, with bitterness, anger, and unwillingness intermingling, making them wish they could tear apart the false harmony before them.
The prelude to the awards ceremony slowly began amidst this silent competition and surging undercurrent.
……
The prelude to the awards ceremony slowly began amidst this silent competition and surging undercurrent.
The dazzling crystal lights, like silent prophecies, fell upon the marble floor, reflecting countless illusory angles.
Center stage, two hosts in formal attire, with professional yet approachable smiles, slowly walked into the spotlight.
Their voices, amplified by the adjusted microphones, carried an irresistible solemnity, announcing the official start of this grand annual event.
The hushed whispers in the venue gradually subsided, all eyes drawn to the spotlight on center stage.
Hiroshi Nohara’s gaze, however, inadvertently passed over the crowded audience seats and looked towards the VIP section.
There, several figures who were usually only seen on newspaper headlines were now seated formally, their expressions serious and reserved.
Their presence added a profound weight to the already star-studded ceremony.
“Hiroshi, do you see those two over there?” Executive Deputy Director Takada’s voice, with a subtle low tone, sounded in his ear.
Hiroshi Nohara followed Takada’s gaze.
“Yes, President Shimazu and Mikami Tanaka are both here,” Hiroshi Nohara nodded slightly, his tone calm.
The two elderly men, one from the east and one from the west, were not far apart but were like two invisible mountain peaks, each exuding an undeniable aura.
President Shimazu, the highest-ranking executive at Tokyo Television, was currently speaking softly with the person next to him, his smile hiding wisdom and composure honed by years.
On the other side, Mikami Tanaka sat upright like a pine tree, his sharp eyes scanning the entire venue as if searching for some invisible crack.
“Don’t underestimate them,” Executive Deputy Director Takada leaned slightly, partially blocking potential gazes, and lowered his voice further, “This is no ordinary awards ceremony.”
“Oh?” Hiroshi Nohara’s eyebrows twitched almost imperceptibly.
“President Shimazu is part of the ‘Regulation Faction’ within the ‘Free Opinion Faction’,” Executive Deputy Director Takada spoke slowly, each word painting a clear outline in the air.
“Regulation Faction?” Hiroshi Nohara repeated, his understanding of politics far less sensitive than his intuition for cinematic language.
“That is, he advocates for macro-control of the economy, especially the issue of overheated real estate, hoping to cool it down,” Executive Deputy Director Takada explained, a hint of profundity flashing in his eyes.
“And what about Mikami Tanaka?” Hiroshi Nohara pressed.
“He, well, he’s the representative of the ‘Real Estate Faction’,” Executive Deputy Director Takada chuckled lightly, his laughter carrying a sense of worldly wisdom.
“The name says it all,” Hiroshi Nohara’s lips also curved into an arc.
“Exactly. He supports continued promotion of real estate development, viewing it as a symbol of economic prosperity,” Executive Deputy Director Takada’s voice became somewhat complex, “Currently, Neon Country’s economy is like a high-speed giant ship. Whether to continue accelerating or slow down and re-examine the direction, various parties have their own opinions.”
“So they’re mortal enemies,” Hiroshi Nohara’s gaze flickered between the two big figures.
“A head-on confrontation,” Executive Deputy Director Takada’s tone was affirmative, “It’s currently the eve of the elections in the second half of the year. They are here not just to watch the awards, but more importantly to gain support and votes from people from all walks of life. This stage is also an invisible battlefield.”
“Politics…” Hiroshi Nohara sighed softly, a hint of alienation in his eyes.
“I still don’t want to get involved in this,” Hiroshi Nohara shook his head, preferring to tell stories behind the scenes with images.
“Haha, not getting involved is the best way to get involved,” Executive Deputy Director Takada, upon hearing this, laughed instead, his smile carrying a composure that saw through the world, “You just focus on developing your career at Tokyo Television and create more excellent works.”
“In the future, politics will naturally seek your help,” Executive Deputy Director Takada said suggestively, his gaze fixed on Hiroshi Nohara, his eyes filled with anticipation.
“But I seem to already be on President Shimazu’s side,” Hiroshi Nohara shrugged. After all, he had given President Shimazu quite a few ideas, including the information cocoon that Director Sakata had been personally controlling recently, which he had helped with, hadn’t he?
“You’ll know when the time comes,” Executive Deputy Director Takada patted his shoulder and said no more, leaving behind a meaningful remark.
While this quiet exchange was taking place among the Tokyo Television group, the atmosphere at the Tokyo City Television seats not far away was frozen like ice.
Kazuo Takahashi’s face was ashen. He stared intently at Hiroshi Nohara, who was surrounded by numerous industry bigwigs, jealousy burning in his eyes.
“Hmph, that old fox Shimazu is here too, putting on an act,” Kazuo Takahashi snorted coldly, his voice very low, like a viper’s hiss.
Shunsuke Kamiki’s face was a mixture of pale and green, his teeth clenched, his fists balled.
“President, his presence won’t make a difference,” Shunsuke Kamiki tried to calm his inner unwillingness, his voice trembling slightly.
“Of course,” a sinister glint flashed in Kazuo Takahashi’s eyes, “Our backer, Mikami Tanaka, will definitely be re-elected.”
“Then, let’s see how arrogant Tokyo Television will be then,” Shunsuke Kamiki’s tone was filled with malice.
“That old fox Toshihide Takada, and that brat Hiroshi Nohara, you’d better wait!” Kazuo Takahashi roared in a low voice, as if he were about to pounce and tear them apart.
“I will let them know what real strength is,” Shunsuke Kamiki’s jealousy towards Hiroshi Nohara had also reached its peak.
The connections that he couldn’t even access now, the connections that disdained him, were actively approaching Hiroshi Nohara. He truly hadn’t expected it and was immensely jealous!
“Tokyo City Television will definitely grow rapidly!” Kazuo Takahashi’s eyes gleamed with a crazy light, as if he could already see future glory.
“Tokyo Television, get ready to be surpassed by us!” Shunsuke Kamiki added fiercely, as if he could already foresee the decline of Tokyo Television.
Kazuo Takahashi and Shunsuke Kamiki exchanged glances, seeing the same fervent ambition and hatred in each other’s eyes.
They raised their beer mugs and gently clinked them. The crisp sound of collision, in the noisy venue, was particularly jarring, like a vow or a curse upon the future.
The stage lights shifted again. The hosts had finished their opening remarks, and now, short films of the nominees for the first major award began to play on the big screen.
All eyes were drawn to the screen, and the atmosphere in the venue shifted from a simmering undercurrent to one of mixed anticipation and nervousness.
“Next, we will present the – Best Screenwriter of the Year Award!” the host’s voice was passionate and infectious, each word striking a chord with the audience.
On the big screen, clips of the nominated works were being played, along with brief introductions of the nominated screenwriters.
Hiroshi Nohara’s name was prominently listed. His 《World of the Strange》, with its unique creativity and profound social commentary, achieved phenomenal success this year, becoming a topic of conversation for countless audiences.
Executive Deputy Director Takada’s eyes were filled with confidence; he knew this award was a sure win for Hiroshi Nohara.
“Congratulations to all the nominated outstanding screenwriters!” another host continued, “Your talent has added countless splendors to Neon Country’s television screens!”
“But there can only be one ultimate winner!” the male host deliberately paused, building the audience’s anticipation.
In the audience, the staff of Tokyo Television, including Tsuyoshi Yamamoto, Ichiro Hashishita, Kei Tanaka, Hideya Noguchi, and the lead actors who had just arrived, held their breath, their eyes fixed on the big screen. They knew this was Tokyo Television’s first “card” of the evening and an important moment to showcase their strength to the outside world.
On the Tokyo City Television side, Kazuo Takahashi and Shunsuke Kamiki’s faces grew even more grim.
They stared intently at the close-up shot of Hiroshi Nohara on the big screen, their eyes almost spewing fire. They knew how successful Hiroshi Nohara’s 《World of the Strange》 was, but the greater its success, the more it stung them.
“And the winner of the Best Screenwriter of the Year Award is…” the host’s voice rang out again. This time, his pause was exceptionally long, making the atmosphere in the entire venue extremely tense.
The air seemed to freeze, and only the sound of heartbeats echoed in their ears.
Hiroshi Nohara’s heart, however, was calm. He looked at his name on the big screen, as if looking at a stranger’s story. He knew his worth was not solely defined by an award.
“You will win,” Executive Deputy Director Takada whispered to Hiroshi Nohara beside him, his tone filled with certainty.
“Of course,” Tsuyoshi Yamamoto adjusted his glasses, a look of recognition for Hiroshi Nohara flashing in his eyes.
“Hiroshi Nohara!” the host’s voice exploded like thunder in the venue, breaking the silence.
Before the words even finished, the Tokyo Television section erupted in thunderous applause and cheers.
Everyone stood up, casting congratulatory glances at Hiroshi Nohara.
Hiroshi Nohara stood up, nodded slightly to those around him, and then, with steady steps, slowly walked towards the stage.
The spotlight followed his figure, casting his solitary yet determined silhouette onto the big screen, making him exceptionally conspicuous.
He walked step by step onto the award stage and received the heavy trophy from the presenter.
The trophy’s luster shone brilliantly under the lights, as if it contained his countless nights of thought and sweat.
The moment he took the microphone, all eyes in the venue focused on him.
“Thank you, everyone,” Hiroshi Nohara’s voice, transmitted through the microphone, spread throughout the entire venue, possessing a unique magnetism and penetrating power. “Thank you to the jury, thank you to Tokyo Television, and thank you to all the audience friends who supported 《World of the Strange》.”
His gaze swept across the audience, finally resting on the Tokyo Television section, and then on Executive Deputy Director Takada and his colleagues.
“This award does not belong to me alone,” Hiroshi Nohara’s voice became slightly hoarse, but even more sincere. “It belongs to everyone who put in effort for this work.”
“What we have done is simply to try and use images to depict the wonders and realities hidden in the corners of the city,” Hiroshi Nohara paused, a hint of emotion in his tone. “To touch the forgotten softness deep within people’s hearts, those unknown struggles.”
“This world is full of bizarre phenomena, but as long as we feel with our hearts, we can always find our own share of wonder,” Hiroshi Nohara’s gaze turned towards the distance again, as if piercing through the venue’s roof to see the vast expanse of stars. “Thank you all. It is your recognition that lets me know that the stories we tell have a meaning for their existence.”
His speech lacked flowery language or impassioned shouts, but it deeply touched everyone present in a subtle, profound way. The applause thundered again, even more enthusiastic and prolonged than before.
Amidst the applause, Hiroshi Nohara smiled and bowed, then, holding the trophy, slowly descended the stage.
Every step he took was calm and firm, as if he were walking not just towards the podium, but towards a broader future.
PS: Continuing to ask for recommendation tickets and monthly tickets, thank you all very much for your support, I sincerely thank you all here.
