The Wave That Reached Japan Early
Even more interesting things happened at Kinokuniya Bookstore.
The bookstore manager, Ikeda, is quite perplexed lately.
The Jurassic Park movie is scheduled for release in Japan in July, which shouldn't be the peak of its hype yet.
But starting last week, Michael Crichton's original novels seemed to have grown legs; even before they had a chance to be featured on recommendation lists, they were completely sold out by a group of young people.
"Boss, do you still have Jurassic Park?" A high school student with a backpack rushed into the store, sweating profusely.
"It's gone, long gone." Ikeda pointed to the empty bookshelf. "Restocking won't be available for another three days."
"Huh? It's gone again?" The high school student looked despairing. "I'm stuck on a level in the game! I heard the novel has detailed descriptions of how to deal with velociraptors, I wanted to buy it and study the walkthrough!"
Ikeda listened, completely stunned.
Buying science fiction novels as game guides? These gamers really have a unique way of thinking.
But he quickly realized what he was doing, turned around, grabbed the phone, and dialed the publisher. "Hello? This is Kinokuniya's Shinjuku. Order another two thousand copies of Michael Crichton's * Jurassic Park *! Yes, right now! Empty the warehouse and send them over!"
After hanging up the phone, Ikeda looked at the Sega game poster on the wall of the store and muttered to himself: Strange things happen every year, but this year there seem to be more than usual.
People used to buy books after watching movies, but now they buy books after playing games.
This tropical storm, blowing in from across the ocean, had already turned the Japan archipelago into a sweltering heatwave even before the film officially landed.
The atmosphere inside Bandai's headquarters building was as hot and humid as a freshly baked steamer.
Several sales reports faxed back from the United States were spread out on the conference table, the strings of zeros in the data columns making one dizzy.
The head of the publicity department was pointing at the project proposal on the wall with great enthusiasm, wishing he could immediately dump the hundreds of thousands of plastic dinosaurs that had just been sent to the warehouse a few days ago into toy stores all over Japan.
"President! We can't wait any longer! Sega is making a killing, even bookstores are getting a piece of the action, and we're holding the official model license, just sitting here watching?" The publicity manager slammed his fist on the table. "Right now, hype is gold! My suggestion is, tomorrow we'll plaster those Tyrannosaurus Rex models all over the Ginza shop windows, combined with a massive TV blitz, that'll absolutely—"
"And then, before the audience even enters the theater, they're already labeling this film as a two-hour extended version of Toy Story?"
A cold voice interrupted the impassioned speech.
Mitsui Chuta sat at the end of the long table, slowly closing the lid of his teacup with a crisp "click".
The meeting room fell silent instantly.
Yamashina Makoto frowned and looked at the executive director who had recently become very close to Sega: "Mitsui, what do you mean?"
"This was specifically instructed by Director-General Nakayama over the phone." Mitsui Chuta didn't even look up at the blushing propaganda minister, but simply pulled a memo from his briefcase and pushed it to the center of the table. "Spielberg is an artist, but also a control freak. What he hates most is that overly commercialized promotional activities ruin the mystique of a film. If we now shove those plastic dinosaurs up the audience's noses with great fanfare, it will only make people think this film is cheap."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over each of the executives present, a hint of mockery in his tone. "Gentlemen, don't forget, we only got this license because Sega gave it to us. If we mess this up and anger Universal Pictures, do we still want to do business with Hollywood in the future?"
The propaganda minister opened his mouth, wanting to refute but unable to find the words, his face turning red with frustration.
"So we're just going to watch the money slip away?" someone muttered resentfully.
"This isn't called slipping away, it's called storing water." Mitsui Chuta stood up, walked to the window, and pointed to the bustling street below. "The current patience is to prepare for a more violent flood in July. When the audience is completely captivated by that Tyrannosaurus Rex in the movie theater and wants something to soothe their nerves, our models will be their best choice."
He turned around and held up one finger. "Remember, a true hunter never rushes to fire."
Yamashina Makoto remained silent for a long while, his gaze shifting between the radical publicity plan and Mitsui's calm face.
Finally, he let out a sigh of relief and swept the colorful proposal into the trash can.
"Listen to Mitsui," Yamashina Makoto decided, his voice steady. "Notify the factory: keep the production lines running, fill the warehouses to capacity. Stop with the promotional materials, and don't expand any further. We need to make those kids begging us to sell to them with their money in hand."
Mitsui Chuta nodded slightly, secretly relieved.
Takuya's strategy of "holding back" not only preserved the film's Bandai -class image but also kept Bandai in suspense.
When the floodgates are opened, the flood will probably blow up Bandai's money-counting machine.
Meanwhile, deep within Bandai's warehouse, thousands of beautifully packaged dinosaur models lay silently in the darkness, awaiting the starting gun.
Looking at the ever-increasing box office forecast curve in the Los Angeles Times, and the phone lines in Sega of America Headquarters Marketing Department almost jammed with order faxes, Nakayama Takuya knew that he was no longer needed here.
This monster, named "Jurassic," has completely broken free of its chains; now all that's left is for it to devour US dollars worldwide.
He didn't even wait for the champagne at the celebration banquet to be opened before hurriedly packing his bags and heading straight to Los Angeles International Airport.
All those headache-inducing additional orders and media interviews were dumped on Tom —after all, that guy was enjoying being in the spotlight, so a little extra work was to be expected.
After a flight of more than ten hours, the plane landed at Narita Airport.
It was afternoon when I returned to my home in Meguro Ward.
Pushing open the door, I saw a pair of tiny toddler shoes placed in the entryway.
"I'm back."
Nakayama Takuya changed out of the wrinkled suit he'd worn on the plane and ripped off his tie.
He tiptoed and peeked into the living room.
On the carpet, a chubby little guy is sticking his bottom out, intently stuffing building blocks under the sofa.
"Kazuki?" Takuya squatted down, opened his arms, and his face was full of that enigmatic smile that was so common in the Japan business world, but now it just looked silly. "Dad's back."
The little guy paused, then slowly turned his head.
One-year-and-eight-month-old Nakayama Kazuki stared at the unfamiliar man in front of him for a full five seconds.
There was no expected return of the fledglings, nor a sweet "Daddy."
The little one pouted, his eyes filled with terror, turned around and stumbled towards the kitchen. Before he even reached the door, he burst into tears.