After all, the sales figures for the Jurassic Park game were undeniable—real, tangible revenue.
While the film itself was a box office behemoth, Sega's pre-release marketing campaign in Japan had saved Universal a fortune in promotional costs.
"Is Steven here?" Takuya Nakayama asked casually as he walked inside.
"He is, but—" The manager looked troubled, gesturing toward the conference room, which was completely swamped with bodyguards and public relations staff. "He's been in there all morning working on Schindler's List."
Just then, the conference room door opened.
Steven Spielberg emerged, looking rushed and clutching a thick stack of documents. His eye bags were noticeably darker than the last time Takuya had seen him.
Upon spotting Takuya, the renowned director's stern face finally broke into a genuine smile.
"Takuya! What are you doing here?" Spielberg stopped, but only for a moment. "Sorry, I have an important interview tonight about Schindler's List. Those old academic types are such a pain to deal with."
"I understand. It's the crucial moment for Oscar campaigning," Takuya Nakayama said, quickly stepping aside to let him pass without prolonging the pleasantries. "I wish you a sweep of the awards season."
Spielberg waved dismissively and disappeared into the waiting limousine.
Watching the car's taillights vanish, Takuya shrugged.
He knew perfectly well that Jurassic Park was about business, while Schindler's List was the bloody history of the Jewish people and a masterpiece that would burnish Spielberg's reputation within his community.
As a transmigrator with a Japanese face, it was best for him to stay out of such sensitive racial and political territory.
To force a conversation about anything else at this moment would be tactless and could easily land him in trouble.
After saying goodbye to Universal, they hurried on to Fox and Warner Bros.
The executives at these studios were equally cordial to Takuya Nakayama. After all, who wouldn't want to earn more from Sega? They eagerly pulled out scripts they had been preparing for the past two years.
Unfortunately, Takuya Nakayama spent the entire afternoon reviewing scripts but didn't find anything that truly caught his eye.
While Hollywood was a land of opportunity, not every film was suitable for a video game adaptation.
At least, he hadn't seen any today.
In recent years, the most profitable and game-adaptable property had been Pixar's Toy Story.
That was still a bit premature, but he'd have Bernard look into securing the game rights later.
"Looks like finding another Tyrannosaurus Rex won't be so easy," he thought.
As he left Warner Bros., Takuya tossed the last script outline back to Bernard and stretched lazily.
Two days later, at San Francisco Fisherman's Wharf, the salty sea breeze mingled with the cries of seagulls begging for fries at the outdoor cafes.
Yasuo Miyakawa still had faint dark circles under his eyes, clearly struggling with jet lag.
Before him sat a bowl of San Francisco's signature clam chowder in a sourdough bread bowl, untouched. His notebook, however, was already half-filled with dense Japanese text.
"Eat first, President Miyakawa. Ted Turner isn't going anywhere," Takuya said calmly as he cracked open a king crab claw and offered the snowy white meat.
Yasuo Miyakawa smiled sheepishly, setting down his pen. "Managing Director, I can't settle my mind. That 'threshold' you mentioned on the phone—what exactly is it?"
Takuya Nakayama wiped his hands and pointed toward the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance. "Before, Japanese animation couldn't break into the American market. It wasn't about quality; it was about failing to meet the needs of American television networks."
He took a sip of ice water and raised a finger. "You know Robotech, right?"
"Of course. That's the product of forcibly stitching together Macross, Southern Cross, and Genesis Climber MOSPEADA." Yasuo nodded, and as an industry insider, he harbored some reservations about such a "Frankenstein" approach.
"Americans didn't want to do that either; they were forced to," Takuya explained. "The American Broadcasting Alliance has a rule: to be broadcast on the Public Television Network, a program must maintain a continuous run of 13 weeks, with five episodes per week. That means your show needs at least 65 episodes. Not a single episode less, or the networks won't even consider it—they're too lazy to adjust their schedules for you. And it's a real headache for the affiliated stations too, making it harder for them to negotiate GG deals."
Yasuo Miyakawa suddenly understood. Japanese animated series typically aired weekly, with only about 50 episodes per year. Many shorter series had even fewer—just over twenty or just over ten episodes—which simply didn't meet the required threshold.
"But times have changed," Takuya Nakayama said, shifting his tone. "The Ted Turner we're meeting is the founder of Turner Broadcasting, which owns Cartoon Network, a professional animation channel on cable. Cable TV doesn't have as many rigid rules. They're more flexible with scheduling and are currently hungry for content. If we pitch them even a 20-episode series, they'll find a way to fit it into their schedule."
"So what do we use to knock on their door? Gundam?" Yasuo Miyakawa asked tentatively.
"No, Gundam is too heavy, and American kids wouldn't understand Director Tomino's complex thoughts on war and peace," Takuya Nakayama replied, shaking his head. He pulled two poster drafts from his bag and slapped them on the table.
Yasuo Miyakawa stared, stunned.
Not Gundam, not Armored Trooper Votoms.
It was Mashin Hero Wataru and Magical King Granzort.
"Isn't... isn't this too childish?"
"We need something for a younger audience. You know, Cartoon Network's current animated shows are primarily aimed at a relatively young demographic," Takuya Nakayama said with a grin, his smile as shrewd as a toy salesman's. "President Miyakawa, don't forget, we're not the ones who are most anxious to get these shows into the United States. Bandai is dreaming of selling their plastic figures there. These two series have simple plots—good triumphing over evil—that are universally understandable, requiring no cultural background. Most importantly, the robots have unique, highly recognizable designs. They were practically born to be sold as toys."
He paused, lowering his voice. "If Turner Broadcasting airs them, even at an off-peak time with mediocre ratings, just one hit with the GG robot toy will open up the American market for Bandai. And when that happens, will Sunrise's share of the profits be small?"
Yasuo Miyakawa swallowed hard.
He suddenly realized that this young Managing Director wasn't just looking at the animation itself, but at the entire industry chain.
"And this is just a trial balloon," Takuya Nakayama continued, delivering the core of his proposal. "If this succeeds, Sunrise will need to change its habits when producing future animations."
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