Premiere Sensation
Tom Kalinske tilted his head slightly and said to Takuya in a low voice, "Takuya, I think we made a mistake."
"Um?"
"The initial shipment quantity was too small." Tom's voice trembled slightly. "This isn't a movie; it's a manifestation of the Creator. After watching this, no one will want to go home empty-handed."
Takuya stared at the Sega logo that flashed briefly on the screen—as a deep partner, they even made it to the end credits, a slight smile playing on his lips.
Two hours later, the lights came on.
There was no applause.
A full five seconds passed before the theater erupted in cheers and applause that seemed to lift the dome off.
Spielberg stood up and greeted those around him.
At the end-of-party, Spielberg was holding a glass of champagne, but before he could even take a sip, an excited Tom stopped him.
"Steven! You're a lunatic!" Tom completely abandoned business etiquette, slapping the director hard on the shoulder. "That Tyrannosaurus Rex! Damn, it almost ate me too!"
"That's the effect we wanted, Tom." Spielberg laughed, pointing to his head. "The future has arrived ahead of schedule. And the best news is, your game allows this fear to be brought home."
Los Angeles was sleepless that night.
The press releases didn't even need polishing; the Los Angeles Times ran the headline "The Year Zero for the Film Industry" on its front page. And this fervor quickly translated into even more tangible data the following day.
Tickets for 3,400 movie theaters across the United States sold out within three hours.
On the day of its official release, the 11th, the situation completely spiraled out of control.
In New York, Chicago, and San Francisco, long lines formed outside countless cinemas, with scalped tickets being sold for several times their face value.
An angry mob, unable to buy tickets, blocked the ticket window, forcing the manager to call the police to maintain order.
US dollar 41.5 million.
These are the box office figures for the opening weekend.
Tom Kalinske slammed the thin sheet of fax paper onto the mahogany desk with such force that it nearly knocked over the cold cup of coffee.
This is not just a number; it's the roar of Hollywood's money-printing machine running at full speed.
"They're insane, completely insane." Tom loosened his tie, his eyes bloodshot from staying up all night, but his energy was as high as if he'd just downed a can of Red Bull. "The media even reported that people were fighting at the ticket booth for a midnight showing. This isn't going to the movies, it's a pilgrimage."
The media was completely overwhelmed. Variety and the Hollywood Reporter used words like "miracle" and "industrial milestone" to crown Spielberg.
Occasionally, a few self-proclaimed highbrow film critics would grumble in the corner, nitpicking about the thin plot or the lack of depth in the characters, but their voices were drowned out by the clamor of the queuing audience before they could even leave the pages of a newspaper column.
Who cares about the characters' inner thoughts?
This summer, everyone buys tickets just to see how that Tyrannosaurus Rex carries that unfortunate lawyer off the toilet.
The main cast and crew were also busy.
Jeff Goldblum was sitting on the sofa of David Letterman's Late Night Show, joking about the fun things that happened during filming with his signature broken-word rhythm, and his iconic open-chested look drew screams from the female audience members.
Lara Dunn and Sam Neill became frequent flyers, appearing on morning news and evening talk shows, bringing the dinosaur craze to the living rooms of every United States family.
The heatwave even reached the bookstore.
Michael Crichton's original novel was placed in the most prominent, prime position at Barnes & Noble, and the cover was changed to the classic red and black logo from the movie poster.
The store clerks couldn't even keep up with the frequency of scanning at the checkout. Many housewives who never read science fiction also casually tossed books into their shopping carts, simply because their children were clamoring to see dinosaurs.
Nakayama Takuya sat on the sofa, flipping through the latest market report in his hand, his fingertip lingering for a moment on the line of "related product sales".
Such an enthusiastic frenzy of movie-watching was like throwing a match into a dry prairie, instantly igniting the powder keg that Sega had laid in ambush.
Having learned from the successful experience of releasing "The Clear and Present Danger" and "Hook" simultaneously, Sega's ground promotion team was even more adept this time.
In the ticket halls of major cinemas, the prime locations originally used to display movie posters were now occupied by several black MD players.
The demo machines are occupied.
Several CRT televisions were prominently displayed next to the ticket booth, with the MD version of "Jurassic Park" playing on the screens. The Tyrannosaurus Rex was opening its blood-red mouth, accompanied by a deep roar coming from the speakers, instantly drawing the attention of many viewers who had just finished watching the movie and whose adrenaline had not yet subsided.
The audience members who had just left the screening room still had the nerves about dinosaurs taut in their minds, and as soon as they turned their heads, they heard the familiar roar coming from the TV.
"Hey, look at that!" A little boy wearing a baseball cap tugged at his father's sleeve, pointing at the velociraptor on the screen, "It runs just like in the movies!"
This is precisely the power of Mark Cerny's inverse kinematics program.
The dinosaurs on the screen don't have the stiffness of cheap video games; every turn and every jump has a realistic weight to them.
This seamless visual transition kept viewers, still immersed in the film's afterglow, completely captivated.
The game controller was passed around by countless sweaty hands, the clicks of the buttons echoing everywhere.
A staff member in Sega blue uniform chimed in at the opportune moment. "This is Sega's exclusive technology. Want to take this big guy home? We have some in stock over there."
Many parents who never touch video games normally find their defenses crumbling when they see their children so engrossed in the game and then look at the credit card they haven't even had a chance to warm up in their hands.
"Okay, just this once."
Such scenes were played out repeatedly in thousands of theaters across the United States.
Many people originally just wanted to buy a dinosaur plush toy or a commemorative T-shirt, but ended up leaving the movie theater with a brand-new Mega Drive console and a black Jurassic Park cartridge.
Sega's move to bring game consoles into movie theaters effectively bridged the final gap between audiences and gamers.
The situation was even more chaotic in the gaming sections of Walmart and Best Buy.
The limited-edition Sega-CD bundles with the Tyrannosaurus Rex logo on the shelves, despite their hefty price tags, are visibly decreasing in number.
"Gone? You mean even that US dollar 300 machine is gone?" A father who missed out on getting the item stood at the checkout counter, shrugging in disbelief.
"I'm sorry, sir, the last one was bought by an elderly lady half an hour ago. She said she wanted to give it to her grandson." The clerk wiped his sweat and pointed to the empty shelves behind him. "Now even the one used for display has been reserved."