Chapter 237: Kanto Television Station Reform! Hiroshi Nohara’s Ideas! Transformation Into A Humanities Television Station!
Kanto Stage’s meeting room was older than Hiroshi had imagined.
Wall plaster had cracked near the air conditioner vent, revealing yellowed cement underneath; the edges of the long wooden conference table were worn smooth and shiny, and a stubborn dark brown coffee stain remained in the gap of the tabletop near Yuichi Matsui’s end – it was said to be from when Matsui accidentally spilled it during the Kanto Scenery Painting celebration ten years ago.
Three framed photos hung on the wall.
The center photo was a group picture of the Kanto Scenery Painting film crew, with the young Asumi standing on the right, holding a sign that read “18% Ratings.”
The left photo showed a Kanto Stage investment promotion meeting from its peak era, with well-dressed people filling the venue, clutching contracts.
On the right was a faded cherry blossom picture, with the inscription “Showa 62, [（1987）] All Staff Gift” – that was Kanto Stage’s last profitable year.
Yuichi Matsui stood at the doorway of the meeting room, wearing a dark gray old suit, his tie still the one given out at last year’s Tokyo TV annual meeting, his cuffs a bit frayed.
Seeing Asumi enter, the tense corners of his mouth loosened, but he didn’t smile immediately. He simply extended his hand, his voice a little hoarse, “Asumi-kun, long time no see.”
“Matsui-san.”
Asumi shook his hand, his fingertips feeling the calluses on the other man’s palm – worn from years of holding a camera. “I wanted to visit you last winter, but I got tied up with a meeting at the station, and never got the chance.”
Matsui hummed, but stepped aside, “Please, come in. Our Kanto Stage’s Deputy Station Manager, Asumi, appointed by Tokyo TV, and Nohara-san, please come this way.”
His gaze swept over Hiroshi, pausing for two seconds – clearly, he had heard of this young director’s name before. There was scrutiny in his eyes, but no obvious hostility.
Asumi smiled and nodded, his thermos still in hand, “Matsui-san, thank you for having us. We’re all here for Kanto Stage’s sake, so let’s talk things through slowly.”
“First, arrange for the Tokyo TV colleagues,” Matsui turned to Yamada behind him, “Have the production department prepare the small meeting room on the third floor and serve tea to the accompanying personnel from Tokyo TV – use the Uji tea left from last year, don’t use instant stuff to fool them.”
“Yes!” Yamada immediately responded and quickly walked out.
Kimura pushed up his glasses and hurried to follow, “I’ll go to the office to get teacups, and have the logistics people send over some snacks – dorayaki bought this morning, still warm.”
Ken Fujishita patted his beer belly and said with a smile, “I’ll go with Kimura-san, and also check if there’s enough tea – the owner of Asakusaya gave us two cans of green tea last time, perfect for serving guests.”
Before long, the accompanying personnel from Tokyo TV went to the small meeting room with Yamada, leaving only Asumi, Hiroshi, Matsui, Yamada, Kimura, Kobayashi, and Saito in the large meeting room.
They all sat around the conference table. Kimura placed a cup of hot tea in front of each person. The steam from the ceramic cups rose, mingling with the faint tea aroma, easing the tense atmosphere.
“Speaking of which, Asumi-kun.”
Matsui picked up his teacup but didn’t drink. He just looked at the tea leaves at the bottom, “Do you remember the filming of Kanto Scenery Painting twenty years ago? That time we went to Chiba Prefecture to film the Inari Festival, you squatted outside the shrine for three whole days waiting for a good shot, ended up with a fever from the cold, but still insisted on finishing the edit.”
Asumi smiled, his eyes filled with nostalgia, “How could I forget? Matsui-san, you scolded me then, saying ‘you’re risking your life,’ but you secretly made me ginger soup that night – that soup was so spicy, I still remember it.”
Yamada quickly added, “I remember too! After that episode aired, the ratings shot up to 18%, three points higher than Tokyo TV’s Tokyo Wide Angle! The advertising department was almost driven crazy, phones ringing from morning till night. The owner of Marui Soy Sauce even came in person, insisting on adding twenty million yen to our advertising budget.”
“Indeed!”
Kobayashi opened his notebook and pointed to an old newspaper clipping tucked inside, “Look, this is a report from the Asahi Shimbun back then, saying our Kanto Scenery Painting ‘captured the soul of Kanto’ – who at Kanto Stage didn’t envy us then? People from NHK even tried to poach me, offering double my salary, but I refused.”
Ken Fujishita slapped the table, his voice full of excitement, “I still remember that year’s investment promotion meeting! At the ‘Kikusui’ hotel in Ginza, over thirty companies attended, and we ended up signing twelve billion yen in advertising contracts – Matsui-san, you were so drunk then, you grabbed the microphone and sang Kanto Love Song, and everyone at the station sang along with you, and it didn’t break up until midnight.”
Kimura pushed up his glasses and nodded with a smile, “Our employee benefits were so good back then! We got ice pillows in summer, down jackets in winter, and end-of-year team-building trips to Hokkaido – my daughter still asks me when we’ll go to Hokkaido to see snow again.”
Kobayashi chimed in, “And the late-night meals from the production department! We often worked overtime until eight, and the logistics people would bring ramen, the char siu bigger than our faces – now, we have to buy our own instant noodles even when working overtime, and fix broken equipment ourselves.”
Asumi sighed, his tone filled with emotion, “We had so much drive back then! The production department staff often worked together late into the night, then went for drinks at the izakaya downstairs, talking about what program to film next, talking about Kanto Stage’s future – who would have thought that in just ten years, it would become like this.”
Yamada’s gaze darkened, and he gripped his teacup tighter, “Yes… the programs we filmed back then were what people in Kanto loved to watch. Like filming the old streets of Kamakura, the rice harvest in Ibaraki, the hot spring festival in Gunma – viewers wrote in saying they felt a special connection seeing their own region on television. And now? We broadcast Tokyo TV programs all day, and there are hardly any shots of Kanto.”
Ken Fujishita patted his stomach, his tone filled with helplessness, “Advertising is also hard to solicit. Before, we could shoot a short film about a local specialty, and businesses would come looking for us; now, we run ourselves ragged and no one wants to invest – the owner of Asakusaya told me yesterday that City Stage’s advertising spot prices are twenty percent higher than ours, and they even hired Shunsuke Kamiki to shoot a promotional film, he’s tempted.”
Matsui didn’t speak, just took a sip of tea, his brow furrowed even tighter.
Hiroshi sat beside them, listening quietly, his gaze sweeping over everyone’s expressions – Matsui’s fingers unconsciously rubbed the rim of his cup, Yamada stared at the old photo on the wall, Kobayashi flipped through a notebook filled with proposals, Ken Fujishita fiddled with bread crumbs on his suit, and Saito clutched his pager, his knuckles white.
He knew clearly that what these people were talking about was past glory, but what they harbored in their hearts was dissatisfaction with the present, and resistance towards Tokyo TV – after all, Tokyo TV was inseparable from Kanto Stage’s current state.
“Speaking of which, Asumi-kun,” Matsui suddenly spoke, his tone becoming more serious, “When Tokyo TV acquired us four years ago, you were still at Kanto Stage, weren’t you? After you were transferred to Tokyo, did you also feel that… Kanto Stage was crushed by Tokyo TV?”
The moment he said that, the meeting room fell silent.
All eyes were on Asumi, with expectation, scrutiny, and a hint of grievance.
Asumi put down his teacup, tapped his fingers lightly on the edge of the table, and said with a heavy tone, “Matsui-san, everyone… I won’t hide it from you. When we were acquired four years ago, I was against it. I told the old station manager that Kanto Stage had its own characteristics, its own audience, and shouldn’t be swallowed like this. But at that time, Kanto Stage’s board of directors had already made the decision, and as a Deputy Director, I couldn’t stop it at all.”
He paused, his voice dropping lower, “After I was transferred to Tokyo TV, it wasn’t easy either. The Tokyo Faction people called me an ‘outsider from Kanto,’ I wasn’t allowed to touch important projects, and I couldn’t even get a word in during meetings. For three whole years, I was doing nothing but insignificant chores, I didn’t even touch a camera – do you think I didn’t want to help Kanto Stage? I couldn’t even take care of myself.”
Matsui’s body trembled slightly, his teacup wobbled, and a little tea spilled, but he didn’t care, “I knew it… those people at Tokyo TV never considered us at Kanto Stage as one of their own. In the first year after the acquisition, we wanted to film a sequel to Kanto Scenery Painting, the script was even ready, but Tokyo TV said it ‘didn’t fit the positioning of a nationwide program’ and rejected it outright!”
“It’s not just the programs!” Yamada immediately chimed in, his tone full of anger, “The production department’s budget was cut in half, several young directors were poached by Tokyo TV, and even Old Zhou’s camera was broken for half a year, but when he applied for a new one, they said it was ‘a waste of money’ – Old Zhou finally had no choice but to pay for the repair himself, and he’s in the hospital now!”
Ken Fujishita slapped the table, bread crumbs falling onto the table, “The advertising department is even worse! Tokyo TV snatched all our major clients. Marui Soy Sauce had cooperated with us for ten years, but last year they moved their budget to Tokyo TV’s Super Change Change Change! I went to argue with the advertising department people, and they said ‘Kanto Stage has no presence, investing is a waste’ – isn’t that bullying?”
Kimura pushed up his glasses, his voice filled with grievance, “It’s the same in the Human Resources Department. I wanted to give the old employees a subsidy increase, but Tokyo TV said ‘we need to unify standards with headquarters’ and rejected it outright. An old editor who worked at Kanto Stage for twenty years retired last year, and even his retirement pay was half less – I went to argue with finance, but they said ‘it’s the regulations’.”
Kobayashi flipped through his notebook, his finger pointing to a proposal, “Last year I submitted a proposal for ‘Kanto Old Town Exploration,’ wanting to film some nearly extinct traditional crafts, but the people at Tokyo TV said ‘no one wants to watch this kind of niche program’ and rejected it outright. That young girl, Honda, cried several times for this proposal and is still upset.”
Saito finally spoke, his voice as low as muffled thunder, “The equipment in the Technical Department hasn’t been replaced in five years. Last time we filmed local news, the camera suddenly broke. I drove to Tokyo all night to borrow one, but the people at Tokyo TV said ‘equipment is not for loan,’ so I had to buy a home video camera from a roadside electronics store to make do – the footage was very blurry, and viewers wrote in to scold us, saying Kanto Stage was ‘fooling people’.”
“And me!” Matsui’s voice rose, and he placed his teacup down heavily on the table, “Last winter, I wanted to film Kanto’s snowy scenery and applied for an expense of 50,000 yen. Tokyo TV only approved 20,000, and said ‘what’s so good about snow scenery, Tokyo TV has it in the weather forecast’ – they don’t understand at all, Kanto’s snow is different from Tokyo’s snow! Kanto’s snow is heavy, deep, can bury you up to your knees, children build snowmen in the snow, and the elderly cook mochi indoors, this is Kanto’s winter!”
Asumi listened quietly, nodding occasionally, his eyes full of understanding. Hiroshi sat beside him, not saying anything, just tapping his notebook with his finger – he remembered being ostracized by an old director when he first joined Tokyo TV.
At that time, he wanted to film An Shizhi, and some people said “no one watches urban legends,” some people snatched his production budget, and some people secretly boycotted him.
He could understand how Matsui and the others felt, the feeling of having something precious to them disregarded by others, and wanting to do something that was being blocked by others – he knew it better than anyone.
“Everyone,” Asumi said slowly after everyone had spoken enough, “I know you feel wronged, and I know you hate Tokyo TV. But now is not the time to complain – City Stage has already started snatching our audience. If this continues, Kanto Stage will really be finished.”
Matsui took a deep breath, his hand gripping the teacup until it was white, “Asumi-kun, do you think we want to complain? We have no choice! Tokyo TV has almost uprooted our roots, and now they say they want to reform, to let us live again – is that so easy?”
“It’s not easy,” Asumi nodded, but his tone became firmer, “But we can’t give up. Matsui-san, do you remember the old grandmother from Chiba Prefecture when we were filming Kanto Scenery Painting? She said, ‘It’s good that we can see Kanto’s affairs on TV’ – we can’t disappoint those viewers.”
Matsui’s body paused, a hint of emotion flashing in his eyes. Yamada also sighed, “Asumi-kun is right… Last time I went to Gunma Prefecture to film the news, an old man grabbed me and said he hadn’t seen the Gunma hot spring festival on TV in a long time, and asked when we would film it again – I almost cried then.”
“Actually, we’re not unwilling to reform,” Ken Fujishita patted his stomach, his tone softening, “We’re just afraid… after the reform, Kanto Stage won’t be Kanto Stage anymore. If we all become like Tokyo TV and film those nationwide programs, then what’s the difference between us and Tokyo TV’s subsidiary station?”
“We won’t,” Asumi said immediately, “This reform is not to turn Kanto Stage into a subsidiary of Tokyo TV, but to let Kanto Stage do what it’s good at. For example, filming Kanto’s local programs, soliciting Kanto’s local advertisements, and serving Kanto’s audience – these are things Tokyo TV cannot do, and City Stage cannot snatch away.”
He looked at Hiroshi, his tone full of expectation, “Nohara-san, why don’t you tell them. Your Late-night Diner became popular precisely because it was close to ordinary people’s lives, right? Kanto Stage’s reform is essentially the same principle as Late-night Diner. As long as we film what the audience wants to see, there is hope.”
All eyes focused on Hiroshi.
Matsui’s gaze held scrutiny, Yamada’s held expectation, Kobayashi flipped through his notebook, preparing to take notes, Ken Fujishita and Kimura awaited his answer, and Saito remained expressionless, but also looked at him.
Hiroshi put down his teacup, leaned forward slightly, his tone calm but firm, “Senior colleagues, I know you have reservations about Tokyo TV and lack confidence in reform. But I want to tell you, I never make programs for Tokyo TV, nor for any ‘nationwide positioning.’ It’s for the audience – just as Matsui-san said, Kanto’s snow is different from Tokyo’s snow, and Kanto’s audience also wants to watch programs that belong to them.”
He paused and continued, “I’m not here at Kanto Stage to ‘direct’ you, but to find solutions together. For example, the ‘old town exploration’ proposal that Kobayashi-san mentioned, I think it’s very good; regarding the equipment problem Saito-san mentioned, I will apply for a budget from Tokyo TV to replace it as soon as possible; for Fujishita-san’s advertising problem, we can go together to solicit local businesses in Kanto, such as Asakusaya and Marui Soy Sauce. They are all old brands in Kanto and will definitely be willing to support Kanto Stage.”
Matsui looked at Hiroshi, the scrutiny in his eyes lessened, replaced by seriousness, “Nohara-san, do you really think… Kanto Stage can still be revived?”
“Yes,” Hiroshi nodded, his tone affirmative, “As long as we find the right direction, as long as we are still willing to do things for Kanto’s audience, we will definitely be revived. Just like in Seven Samurai, it says, as long as there is someone willing to protect, no matter how many enemies there are, we can win.”
The meeting room fell silent. Sunlight streamed through the glass window, falling on the conference table, illuminating the tea in the cups, and also the faces of everyone present.
Matsui’s hand, which had been gripping the teacup, slowly loosened. Yamada’s eyes regained their light. Kobayashi closed his notebook, a slight smile appearing at the corner of his lips. Ken Fujishita patted his stomach, no longer complaining. Saito’s pager beeped, but he didn’t look at it immediately, just looked at Hiroshi and nodded.
Asumi watched this scene, a sense of relief washing over him – this was the effect he wanted.
These people harbored affection for Kanto Stage, and nostalgia for the past. As long as these emotions were awakened, and these grievances were expressed, they would be willing to fight for Kanto Stage again.
“Alright,” Asumi stood up and picked up the jacket draped over his chair back, “It’s getting late, let’s go for lunch first. We’ll have another meeting in the afternoon to discuss the reform plan in detail – I’ve already asked logistics to order ramen from Asakusaya and some local Kanto specialty side dishes, we’ll eat and talk.”
Matsui also stood up, a smile finally appearing at the corner of his mouth, “Good! Then let’s eat and talk. Coincidentally, I also want to talk to Nohara-san about Seven Samurai – that movie was really well made.”
“Thank you for the compliment, Matsui-san,” Hiroshi smiled and nodded.
Everyone filed out of the meeting room. The sunlight in the corridor was bright, shining on the old photos on the wall. A young Asumi and Matsui stood at the forefront, their smiles radiant.
Hiroshi walked at the end, looking at the crowd ahead, and suddenly felt that Kanto Stage’s reform might not be so difficult – these people still loved Kanto Stage in their hearts, and were still willing to work hard for it, and that was enough.
…
By the time the takeout from Asakusaya arrived, the long table in the Kanto Stage meeting room had just been wiped clean.
Ken Fujishita rushed to open the door, still clutching the tuna sandwich wrapper from the morning. As soon as the door opened, a rich tonkotsu broth aroma wafted in – the owner of Asakusaya had specially sent two extra jars of char siu, wrapped in foil and still steaming.
“Hurry, set it up, set it up!” Ken Fujishita handed the sandwich to Kobayashi beside him and reached out to take the takeout box, his beer belly bumping the table with a “creak.” “Let me tell you, Asakusaya’s char siu is fatty but not greasy. Last year, when I came to eat with Suzuki-san, we each had three big slices!”
Kimura brought over folding chairs from the office, shaking his head with a smile, “Fujishita-san, first clean the bread crumbs off your suit. Suzuki-san will be here soon, and he’ll say you’re not neat.”
As he spoke, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed a piece to Ken Fujishita – this handkerchief was a gift from his daughter last year, printed with Chibi Maruko-chan, a bit out of sync with his serious demeanor.
Saito said nothing, silently picked up the disposable chopsticks, and broke them apart one by one, arranging them with a neatness akin to adjusting a camera.
Yamada, on the other hand, stared at the old photo on the wall, his fingers unconsciously tracing the coffee stain on the edge of the table, and suddenly said, “After wrapping up filming Kanto Scenery Painting back then, we often went to Asakusaya. Suzuki-san always said ‘tonkotsu broth replenishes the spirit drained by the lens,’ and he always added two soft-boiled eggs.”
Hiroshi sat in the corner, smiling as he watched everyone busily preparing.
The atmosphere among them was quite good.
Asumi sat next to him, unwrapping disposable chopsticks. Suddenly, he turned his head and whispered, “Suzuki-san, he looks stern, but he’s actually very protective. Back when Kanto Stage and Tokyo TV were competing for the time slot of Kanto Scenery Painting, he led the production department to work for three consecutive nights, editing the film flawlessly, and finally managed to win back the ratings.”
Hiroshi nodded, recalling what Kiyoto Suzuki had said at the izakaya yesterday, and felt even more respect for this senior.
“Suzuki-san is here!” Ken Fujishita shouted from the doorway, almost dropping the char siu in his hand.
Everyone looked up and saw Kiyoto Suzuki wearing a navy blue windbreaker, his hair neatly combed, though there was a hint of fatigue at the corners of his eyes. He was carrying a black briefcase, clearly having just rushed over from Marui Soy Sauce.
He blinked at the scene in the meeting room, then his mouth curved into a smile, “Yo, quite lively? I could smell the ramen from Asakusaya from a long way off.”
“Suzuki-san!” Yamada was the first to step forward, reaching out to help him with his briefcase, “You’re finally back, we thought you’d miss lunch.”
“Made it, made it.”
Kiyoto Suzuki patted Yamada on the shoulder, his gaze sweeping over the people in the room – Matsui stood by the table, holding an empty wine glass, the previous tension gone from his eyes.
Asumi, sitting in the corner, smiled and nodded at him.
Hiroshi also stood up and bowed slightly.
He secretly breathed a sigh of relief; his worries from the morning seemed to have been unfounded, these old subordinates hadn’t fallen out with Asumi and Hiroshi.
“Suzuki-san, please sit!” Ken Fujishita offered him the best seat and also handed him a can of ice-cold beer, “Just took it from the refrigerator, your favorite Asahi Draft.”
Kiyoto Suzuki took the beer, pulled the tab with a “snap,” and took a big gulp, sighing with satisfaction, “Still tastes the same! I was talking with the owner of Marui Soy Sauce this morning and drank a belly full of inferior sake, my mouth was bitter.”
He paused, his tone deepening, “But it’s okay, we finally managed to settle the advertising intention for next year – although it’s only ten million yen, half of last year’s amount, it’s better than losing it to City Stage.”
“Ten million yen!” Ken Fujishita’s eyes lit up, his ramen bowl even shaking, “Suzuki-san, you’re amazing! I negotiated with Asakusaya three times, and they only agreed to give three million, and it’s paid quarterly!”
Kimura pushed up his glasses and nodded along, “With Marui Soy Sauce’s advertising, our advertising department’s bonuses for this month are finally secured. The finance department of Tokyo TV was urging us to cut the budget before, but with this money, we can at least get some breathing room.”
Kiyoto Suzuki smiled and waved his hand, his gaze falling on Asumi, teasing, “Asumi-kun, long time no see, your belly hasn’t changed much – last time I saw you in the Tokyo TV cafeteria, you said you wanted to lose weight, looks like you didn’t stick to it.”
Asumi also smiled and picked up his chopsticks to take a bite of ramen, “Can’t compare to you, you run around for advertisements every day, your exercise is enough. I sit in the office at Tokyo TV, besides meetings, I just look at reports, it’s hard not to gain weight.”
Everyone laughed, and the atmosphere in the meeting room became completely lively.
Matsui walked over to Kiyoto Suzuki and offered him a cigarette, “Suzuki-san, I was just talking to Nohara-san about Seven Samurai, his shot composition in the Battle of Inada is even more impressive than Eiji Kurosawa’s.”
“Oh?”
Kiyoto Suzuki looked at Hiroshi, a hint of anticipation in his eyes, “Hiroshi-kun, I haven’t had a chance to watch Seven Samurai yet, but Senior Kurosawa said you captured the ‘righteousness’ of the samurai perfectly, with more human touch than his own Seven Samurai.”
“Suzuki-san is too kind,” Hiroshi smiled modestly, “I’m just standing on the shoulders of giants and adding my own understanding.”
Kiyoto Suzuki didn’t say more, just nodded, feeling even more satisfied with this young man in his heart – not arrogant, completely different from those juniors who get carried away with the slightest achievement.
“Alright, alright, let’s eat first, the noodles will get mushy,” Asumi smiled to ease the tension and put a piece of char siu on Kiyoto Suzuki’s plate, “You must not have eaten well this morning, eat more.”
Everyone picked up their chopsticks, and the meeting room was filled with the sound of slurping noodles.
Ken Fujishita ate the fastest, his mouth full of ramen, and mumbled indistinctly, “Suzuki-san, you don’t know, we were just talking with Asumi-kun and Nohara-san about many past events, talking about when Kanto Scenery Painting filmed the Inari Festival, do you remember? Matsui-san squatted outside the shrine for three days waiting for a good shot, and ended up with a fever from the cold.”
“How could I forget?” Kiyoto Suzuki put down his beer can and took a bite of soft-boiled egg, “I scolded him then, saying ‘you’re risking your life,’ but he secretly made me ginger soup that night, it was so spicy it brought tears to my eyes.”
Matsui’s old face flushed, he picked up his wine glass and took a sip, muttering, “That was for the sake of the film… Tokyo TV’s Tokyo Wide Angle was watching us then. If we messed it up, Kanto Stage would lose all face.”
“Exactly!” Kobayashi put down his chopsticks and flipped through his notebook, “I still have the ratings data for that episode here – 18%! Three points higher than Tokyo TV! The advertising department’s phones were almost overloaded then, and the owner of Marui Soy Sauce even came in person, insisting on adding twenty million yen to our advertising budget.”
Kimura pushed up his glasses and recalled, “Our employee benefits were so good back then! We got ice pillows in summer, down jackets in winter, and end-of-year team-building trips to Hokkaido. My daughter still asks me when we’ll go to Hokkaido to see snow again.”
Kiyoto Suzuki listened to everyone’s words, his eyes full of nostalgia. He put down his chopsticks, looked at Asumi, and said with a hint of emotion, “Asumi-kun, back when you and I filmed Kanto Scenery Painting Season 2, we said we’d film every mountain and river in Kanto, but we only got halfway through when Tokyo TV acquired us.”
Asumi sighed and nodded, “Yes… If we hadn’t been acquired back then, maybe we would have filmed Kanto Scenery Painting Season 10 by now.”
“But it’s not too late now,” Hiroshi suddenly spoke, his tone calm but firm, “As long as we work together, we might be able to produce even better programs than Kanto Scenery Painting, and make the Kanto audience fall in love with Kanto Stage again.”
Everyone looked at Hiroshi, their eyes full of expectation. Kiyoto Suzuki looked at him and suddenly smiled, “Hiroshi-kun is right! We can’t always live in the past, we have to look forward. By the way, I haven’t officially introduced everyone yet.”
He stood up and pointed at Asumi, teasing, “This is Asumi-kun, a former leader from our Kanto Stage, now the Executive Deputy Director of Tokyo TV’s Production Bureau, and he’s in charge of our Kanto Stage affairs – no need for further introduction, right? You’ve been dealing with him for so many years, who doesn’t know he’s a protective person?”
“Hahaha!” Everyone burst into laughter. Matsui also laughed, his wine glass wobbling, spilling a little without him noticing.
Kiyoto Suzuki waited for everyone to finish laughing, then solemnly pointed at Hiroshi, his tone full of admiration, “This is Hiroshi Nohara-kun, a Third-Class Director at Tokyo TV, and also the Head of the Independent Production Department, promoted exceptionally by our station – don’t be fooled by his youth, he’s incredibly capable.”
He paused and began counting Hiroshi’s achievements on his fingers:
“You’ve all seen An Shizhi, right? An animated film in the late-night slot, its ratings surged to 13%, and it created a new genre called ‘urban legends.’ Now all the TV stations in Japan are learning from it; World of the Strange, with its unit drama format, every episode has a twist, and its ratings are consistently above 15%, even NHK comes to learn from us; Super Change Change Change goes without saying, it’s the number one variety show nationwide, bringing people closer together. Governor Koike even praised it specifically, saying this program ‘changed Japan’s indifference’.”
Everyone nodded, their eyes showing recognition – they had all seen these programs, especially An Shizhi. Achieving 13% ratings in a late-night slot was simply a miracle.
Kiyoto Suzuki wasn’t finished yet and continued, “And movies, Seven Samurai, box office exceeded 8.9 billion yen, praised by Senior Eiji Kurosawa as the ‘true progenitor of samurai films,’ thoroughly exploring ‘era,’ ‘humanity,’ and ‘class’; in terms of manga, it’s even more impressive, Yu Yu Hakusho, Doraemon, Late-night Diner, all top-tier works from Shueisha. Doraemon is now watched by all children in Japan, my grandson cries every day for a Doraemon pocket.”
“My goodness…” Ken Fujishita’s chopsticks almost fell on the table, “So many achievements? I thought An Shizhi was impressive enough, I didn’t expect there to be so many!”
Yamada was also stunned, looking at Hiroshi with shock in his eyes, “I went to the cinema to watch Seven Samurai, the shots were even more evocative than Senior Eiji Kurosawa’s. I thought it was filmed by some old director, I didn’t expect it to be someone as young as Nohara-san…”
“13% ratings…” Matsui murmured, his wine glass hovering mid-air, “Our prime time programs at Kanto Stage don’t even exceed 5% ratings. Nohara-san’s late-night animation alone has 13%, the difference is too huge.”
Kimura pushed up his glasses, his tone filled with emotion, “When I was 23, I was still serving coffee to seniors, and Nohara-san had already won the Best New Director award at the Tokyo International Film Festival and became a key manga artist for Shueisha. Truly, the waves behind push the waves ahead.”
Kobayashi flipped through his notebook and suddenly said, “I still have the ratings data for Late-night Diner here. When it was re-broadcast last time, the ratings were still as high as 8%. Viewers wrote in saying that watching this program made them feel warm inside – it’s a bit like Kanto Scenery Painting that we filmed before, both are close to ordinary people’s lives.”
Kiyoto Suzuki looked at everyone’s shocked expressions and smiled, “See? Didn’t I tell you? Hiroshi-kun is the treasure of our Tokyo TV. Bringing him to Kanto Stage this time is precisely to have him help us with real reform, not like before, forcing Tokyo TV’s programs on us.”
He looked at Asumi, and they exchanged a knowing smile – a smile filled with tacit understanding, the trust only old comrades possess.
The meeting room suddenly fell silent. Everyone lowered their heads, lost in thought.
Matsui put down his wine glass, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table. Suddenly, he looked up at Kiyoto Suzuki, his tone laced with annoyance, “Suzuki-san, I know Nohara-san is capable, and I know you and Asumi-kun mean well for Kanto Stage. But I’m still worried – if Kanto Stage truly starts to improve, will Tokyo TV suppress us again like before? Last time we wanted to film Kanto Old Crafts, the script was ready, but Tokyo TV said ‘it doesn’t fit the positioning of a nationwide program’ and rejected it outright; and regarding the production budget, it’s always cut in half whenever we apply, and they don’t provide us with good equipment…”
“Matsui-san is right!” Ken Fujishita immediately chimed in, his tone full of agreement, “Last time I was negotiating advertising with Asakusaya, people from Tokyo TV suddenly intervened and offered Asakusaya a rebate twenty percent higher than ours, almost ruining our cooperation! If Suzuki-san hadn’t gone to negotiate with Marui Soy Sauce this time, Marui Soy Sauce might have been snatched by Tokyo TV too.”
Kimura also nodded, his voice tinged with grievance, “I wanted to give the old employees a subsidy increase, but Tokyo TV said ‘we need to unify standards with headquarters’ and rejected it outright. An old editor who worked at Kanto Stage for twenty years retired last year, and even his retirement pay was half less – I went to argue with finance, but they said ‘it’s the regulations’.”
Kobayashi flipped through his notebook, his tone heavy, “Last year I submitted the ‘Kanto Old Town Exploration’ proposal, wanting to film some nearly extinct traditional crafts, but the people at Tokyo TV said ‘no one wants to watch this kind of niche program’ and rejected it outright. That young girl, Honda, cried several times for this proposal and is still upset.”
Saito finally spoke, his voice as low as muffled thunder, “The equipment in the Technical Department hasn’t been replaced in five years. Last time we filmed local [Truncated: Max tokens]
Kiyoto Suzuki watched everyone’s excited expressions without speaking, and only looked at Asumi.
Asumi understood and cleared his throat, saying, “I understand everyone’s concerns. I used to worry like you all, that Tokyo TV would suppress Kanto TV. But this time is different – Director Sakata has clearly stated that Kanto TV will become an important part of the ‘Greater Tokyo Area,’ not an appendage, but a television station with its own unique characteristics.”
He paused, looked at Hiroshi, and said with a degree of seriousness, “Moreover, the core of this reform is Hiroshi-kun. Hiroshi-kun not only has talent, but more importantly, he has ties to our Kanto Faction—when I was first transferred to Tokyo TV, many employees from the Kanto Faction had no work, and it was Hiroshi-kun who found a way to bring them into the production teams of 《 World of the Strange 》 and 《 Super Change Change Change 》, giving them the opportunity to earn money.”
“There’s such a thing?” Yamada looked at Hiroshi in surprise, “How come I don’t know? Last year, a nephew of mine was an assistant director at Tokyo TV, and he said he made quite a bonus following a young department head on a program. Could that have been Mr. Nohara?”
Hiroshi nodded with a smile, “Probably. Last year, for the ‘Old Postman’ episode of 《 World of the Strange 》, they needed a director familiar with the customs and culture of the Kanto region, so I chose a few from the Kanto Faction. Your nephew might have been one of them.”
“No wonder!” Yamada realized. “My nephew said that department head was particularly skilled, teaching him how to focus on details and communicate with actors. He can now independently manage small projects.”
Kiyoto Suzuki watched this scene, a hint of gratification flashing in his eyes—it seems Hiroshi had already established contact with the Kanto Faction, which would make reforms smoother.
He cleared his throat and said, “Everyone, Mr. Asumi is right, Hiroshi-kun genuinely wants to help our Kanto Stage. Now, why don’t we listen to Hiroshi-kun’s thoughts and see what good ideas he has for reform.”
Everyone looked at Hiroshi, their eyes full of expectation.
Hiroshi was stunned for a moment, not expecting the topic to suddenly turn to him. He instinctively and humbly said, “All you seniors are veterans of Kanto Stage, with more experience than me. I just have an immature idea that needs everyone’s input.”
“Hiroshi-kun, don’t be so modest!” Asumi patted his shoulder and said with a smile, “You can even film An Shizhi and Seven Samurai, so you must have good ideas. We’re all on the same side, so speak up if you have any thoughts, and we can discuss them together.”
Hiroshi looked at the expectant eyes of everyone, took a deep breath, and slowly said, “I think our Kanto Stage doesn’t need to compete with Tokyo TV for the national market, nor does it need to compare with the City Stage in terms of entertainment—we can transform and become a ‘special television station’.”
“Special television station?” Matsui frowned and asked, “What do you mean?”
“It’s a television station that mainly focuses on humanistic documentaries, while also covering local news and specialized advertisements.”
Hiroshi explained, “Our Kanto Region has many crafts that are on the verge of disappearing, such as woodblock prints in Kamakura, washi paper in Gunma, and pottery in Chiba. There are also many old streets with stories, like Yokohama’s Chinatown and the old streets of Kawasaki—these are things that Tokyo TV and City Stage wouldn’t film, and they are what Kanto audiences are most familiar with and feel most emotionally connected to.”
He paused and continued, “We can film a series of humanistic documentaries, called 《Kanto Old Crafts》, with each episode featuring a different old craft, living alongside the artisans, documenting their production process, and their stories. This way, we can preserve these old crafts and also allow Kanto audiences to see things from their own vicinity. The ratings are bound to be good.”
“And advertisements!” Ken Fujishita’s eyes lit up, and he said excitedly, “We can combine advertisements for local specialties with the documentaries—for example, when filming Chiba’s pottery, we can also film how the potter uses Marui Soy Sauce bottles for decoration; when filming Gunma’s washi paper, we can film Asakusaya Ramen with washi paper packaging—this way, the advertisements won’t feel forced, and businesses will be willing to invest!”
Kobayashi also flipped through his notebook and said excitedly, “The ‘Kanto Old Street Exploration’ proposal I submitted last year is similar to Hiroshi-kun’s idea! I’ve also collected a lot of materials on old streets, such as the century-old baozi shop in Yokohama’s Chinatown and the old bookstore on Kawasaki’s old street—if these can be made into documentaries, I’m sure audiences will love them!”
Matsui stroked his chin and said thoughtfully, “This idea is quite good… However, the production cost of humanistic documentaries is not low, and can the ratings be guaranteed? If no one watches what we film, we’ll have just been busy for nothing.”
“There’s no need to worry about that.”
Hiroshi said with a smile, “We can film three episodes as a pilot first to see the reaction. If the reaction is good, we can then apply to Tokyo TV for a production budget and expand the scale. Moreover, we can cooperate with local governments, such as the Kamakura City Government and the Gunma Prefecture Government. They will surely be willing to support programs that promote local culture, and we might even get subsidies.”
Kiyoto Suzuki watched Hiroshi articulate his ideas in an orderly manner, his eyes full of admiration: “Great idea! This way, we avoid the strengths of Tokyo TV and City Stage while highlighting the characteristics of our Kanto Stage. Furthermore, cooperating with local governments can bring in more advertising resources—such as local tourism bureaus and specialty merchants, who all need such promotional platforms.”
Asumi also nodded and said with a smile, “I think this idea is feasible. I’ll report it to Director Sakata and apply for a pilot fund. If the pilot is successful, we will officially launch this project and make 《Kanto Old Crafts》 our Kanto Stage’s signature program.”
Everyone became excited and began discussing the details—
Yamada said they could find the old camera operators who previously filmed 《Kanto Scenery Painting》; they were most familiar with the local customs and human relations of Kanto.
Kimura said they could select a few promising young directors from the new batch and have them learn from Hiroshi.
Ken Fujishita, on the other hand, said he would immediately go and talk to the bosses of Asakusaya and Marui Soy Sauce about advertising cooperation, striving to increase next year’s advertising budget.
The atmosphere in the meeting room was more heated than ever before; previous concerns and dissatisfaction had disappeared, replaced by anticipation for the future.
Hiroshi sat in a corner, watching everyone’s excited faces, a smile appearing on his lips—he knew that Kanto Stage’s reform had finally taken its first step.
Kiyoto Suzuki drank a beer and looked at the scene before him, suddenly feeling that the glorious Kanto Stage of yesteryear might truly be able to return.
He looked at Hiroshi, his eyes full of gratitude—this young director not only had talent but also warmth; he truly understood Kanto Stage and the Kanto audience.
“Alright, alright.”
Kiyoto Suzuki clapped his hands and said with a smile, “Everyone, don’t just keep discussing; finish your meals first. We’ll have a formal meeting this afternoon to finalize the reform plan. I believe that as long as we work together, Kanto Stage will surely be able to stand up again and let all of Japan know that our Kanto Stage has its own characteristics, its own soul!”
“Great!” everyone responded in unison, their voices full of determination.
The sunlight outside the window shone through the glass onto the table in the meeting room, illuminating the leftover ramen in the bowls, and also illuminating everyone’s faces.
It was the light of hope, shining with anticipation after hope had appeared!
PS: I hope for more recommendation tickets and monthly tickets. Thank you!
