Chapter Ninety-Six: Even Madness Must Have Its Limits

The original version of “The Talent for Love” featured Yasuyuki Okamura as the backing vocalist for Kazuyo Kawamoto, but now Ye Zhao naturally shouldered the responsibility, taking on the task himself and adding a bit of buzz to her debut single. To tell the truth, Ye Zhao and Kazuyo Kawamoto’s voices weren’t exactly a perfect match, so before officially producing the single, he first commissioned the studio to create a sample demo. If the effect was too poor, they’d abandon the plan.

“Well, it’s a little strange, but unexpectedly, the effect isn’t bad at all.” Hearing his own backing vocals, Ye Zhao nodded thoughtfully.

“It was a bit abrupt at first,” the recording engineer interjected, “but although it’s odd, it has a certain unique flavor. It makes you want to listen to it again.”

Ye Zhao turned to Kazuyo Kawamoto. “What do you think, Miss Kawamoto?”

“I think it’s great, actually. In another song, this kind of backing might not work, but with this arrangement, it actually feels just right—and very fashionable, too.” She paused, then added, “I’m not just saying this for form’s sake. This is my debut single; I can’t afford to be careless about its quality.”

Since signing with Sony, Kazuyo Kawamoto had grown far more confident than when they first met. In the studio, she would voice her opinions directly if she disagreed with something. This change wasn’t a bad thing at all. Knowing this, Ye Zhao wasn’t worried that she would be anything but honest.

“In that case, let’s record it this way,” Ye Zhao decided.

...

“A film?”

“That’s right. Mr. Takeda, if I wanted to make a movie, what preparations would I need to do first?”

“Well,” Takeda Jun thought for a moment, “I’m not clear on all the specifics, but first and foremost, you’d need a script. Then you’d look for investments, set up a production committee, and once the funding’s in place, pick a director and production staff, finalize the cast, choose and negotiate for studios and locations. Once those are set, you can get started.”

“A production committee?”

“Exactly. To make a movie, you need secure funding. The more investors you can pull in, the better. Next are the equipment, studios, and locations you’ll need for filming. If you have support from TV stations and film companies, a lot of it is ready-made. After the film’s finished and ready for release, you’ll need a film distributor. Before the premiere, there’s TV and offline promotion, and after the film’s run, there’s the video release…”

“Sounds complicated, right? That’s why you set up a production committee. Besides wooing investors, you want to bring in film studios, distributors, TV stations, publishers, and advertising companies. That way, all those complicated tasks are shared out.”

“But with so many parties involved, wouldn’t the director be constrained at every turn? And with so many people sharing the pie, wouldn’t the profits be minimal?”

“That’s true, but it’s actually a way to spread risk. The film market’s not doing well. If the box office flops, the more people on the committee, the less each has to lose.”

That’s probably why the market keeps getting worse… Ye Zhao thought silently.

After Takeda Jun had finished his thorough explanation, he couldn’t help but ask, “So why are you suddenly asking about this, Ye Zhao-san?”

“Mr. Takeda, I plan to make a film.”

“A film?!”

...

“That’s right. I plan to invest in and produce a film myself.”

“Well…” Takeda Jun’s expression grew conflicted. He didn’t immediately voice support or opposition, but silently handed over the notice in his hand. “I think, rather than making a movie, you should consider this first.”

Ye Zhao took the notice and glanced at it. “Cultural Broadcasting?”

“It’s an invitation to host a named radio program, running from October this year until April next year, every Tuesday night from ten to eleven. That’s an excellent time slot for radio. Cultural Broadcasting is a radio station covering the Kanto region, with great ratings in the metropolitan area. For a musician like you, who rarely appears on TV, hosting a radio show brings only benefits.”

“Radio, huh.” Ye Zhao had no aversion to radio. Even setting aside his own beginnings, simply the freedom radio offered compared to TV was enough to make him like it.

The show’s format was basically Ye Zhao plus one guest per episode, chatting, playing music, commenting on the weekly singles chart, and sharing some “insider info” about music that listeners wanted to know. The atmosphere was bound to be pleasant.

“Looking at it that way, it seems pretty good, and the schedule is manageable.” Ye Zhao nodded. “Please tell Cultural Broadcasting that I’ll accept the show.”

“Understood.” Takeda Jun seemed relieved at having successfully redirected Ye Zhao’s unrealistic ambitions—but unfortunately, that relief was shattered the next moment.

“Wait a moment.” Ye Zhao suddenly stopped him.

Takeda Jun turned back. “Is there something else, Ye Zhao-san?”

“Mr. Takeda, can you buy radio time slots?”

“Buy time slots?” Takeda Jun was confused.

Ye Zhao nodded. “I’d like to do a radio drama.”

“Well, Ye Zhao-san…” Takeda Jun’s expression was complicated. “Didn’t you just say you wanted to make a movie?” Seeing Ye Zhao nod, he continued, “And now you want to do a radio drama too?”

“Is there a problem?”

“This is a very big problem!” For once, the usually composed Takeda Jun openly showed his disapproval. “Ye Zhao-san, while no one in the entire country would question your musical talent, film and radio drama are entirely different fields. For an outsider to break in and succeed is extremely difficult.”

Given their relationship, Takeda Jun couldn’t speak too harshly, but from his expression, it was clear he was holding back a “there are limits to recklessness.”

“Take film production, for example. These days, the bar is low—some agencies will spend a few million yen to make a film just to pad a newcomer’s resume, then release it in fewer than fifty theaters. If you want to make something like that for fun, I’d oppose such a waste of money even more.”

“If you actually care about the film, even a modest low-budget production will run into tens of millions of yen. Even if you secure the funds, you need to pick a director and crew, audition actors—suppose you manage all that. Next, you have to arrange for locations, studios, distribution, PR before release—how will you handle all that?”

“Suppose you pull together a production committee and manage everything smoothly, and the film is released. First, fifty percent of the box office goes to the distributor. The rest is split with the committee, and if the film flops, you lose a huge sum.”

“As for radio dramas, they’re certainly easier and cheaper to make. Broadcasting stations have their own voice actors and composers, so that part’s simple. But you still need a script—are you writing an original script or buying rights to an existing one? Most importantly, radio dramas cost little but also bring little return. Making money from one is nearly impossible.”

...

“I’ve seen many artists who shot to fame overnight, who, after suddenly coming into great wealth, find all sorts of ways to spend it. If their popularity and resources can’t keep up, they quickly fall into financial trouble. I have no intention of criticizing your choices. In under a year, you’ve earned what most people couldn’t in a lifetime—that’s remarkable. But even so, no matter how much you can earn, if you keep acting on every whim, I’m sorry, but I can’t continue working for you.”

Though Takeda Jun’s words were harsh, they were also sincere, and Ye Zhao appreciated that. “Mr. Takeda, I know it’s hard for an outsider to enter a new field, but if you don’t try, your chances are always zero. If you do try, you at least have a fighting chance.”

“You might think that sounds like a gambler talking, but I’m not acting on a whim. Money left sitting is just money. If you use it, it can become something richer. The future’s uncertain—I might end up with nothing after a failed investment—but it’ll still be more than I had a year ago.”

“Even so,” seeing his persuasion had failed, Takeda Jun shifted his focus, “if you’re prepared, what kind of film do you want to make? And what kind of radio drama?”

“The film script is still being developed, but it’ll be a low-budget drama. Of course, until the script’s finished, this is all just talk.” Ye Zhao paused. “So let’s discuss the radio drama first. The script is ready. If you don’t mind, come back to my apartment with me and read the script before judging whether I’m acting on impulse. What do you say?”

“I don’t know much about scripts,” Takeda Jun said.

“That’s beside the point. At the very least,” Ye Zhao looked at him, “I want you to believe I’m not just messing around without preparation.”

“Well…” Takeda Jun thought for a moment. “Alright.”

...

Takeda Jun drove them quickly to Ye Zhao’s apartment.

Once inside, “Please make yourself comfortable,” Ye Zhao said, offering Takeda Jun the sofa. Before fetching the script, he went to the kitchen and poured two glasses of bottled oolong tea from the fridge.

“It’s all I have left, I’m afraid.” With all the time spent at the studio and on set lately, his kitchen had been empty for a while.

Takeda Jun didn’t mind, sipping the tea as he glanced around the small living room. Noticing a bass guitar by the TV stand, he asked, “Do you still play bass, Ye Zhao-san?”

“That?” Ye Zhao replied casually. “A friend of mine who’s a bassist went back home from Tokyo recently. Before leaving, he gave me the bass as a keepsake, so I’ve been learning to play.”

“I see,” Takeda Jun nodded.

Ye Zhao went over to his typewriter, picked up the neatly organized script clipped together, and handed it to Takeda Jun. “Please take a look.”

Takeda Jun took it, surprised by its thickness. “This is impressive.” He opened the cover and read the title softly: “Crying Out Love, at the Center of the World?”

...