Takano meticulously recorded Mamoru Oshii's words, his pen scratching softly against the paper.
"Regarding the background music, the one that's been called a masterpiece," Takano said, looking up. "Mr. Kenji Kawai mentioned that you were the one who requested it. Could you elaborate on the creative concept behind Kugutsuuta?"
Hearing this question, Oshii's desire to explain was immediately ignited.
"Ghost in the Shell is set in a future networked society," Oshii said, gesturing with his hands. "Skyscrapers, cybernetic bodies, electronic brains. It's a highly advanced material world. If we'd followed the conventional approach, the music would have used a lot of synthesizers to create that typical Cyberpunk tech feel."
The two reporters nodded in agreement.
"But I didn't want that," Oshii continued. "The more advanced technology becomes, the more humans search for the dwelling place of the soul—the so-called Ghost. I needed a sound that was primal and pure to break through that cold, technological atmosphere. I took Kawai to an izakaya, we had a couple of drinks, and I told him I wanted a choir with the feeling of a religious ritual."
"Bulgarian Harmony?" Sasaki interjected.
"Exactly," Mamoru Oshii leaned back against the sofa. "The specific vocal placement Kenji Kawai chose for the Bulgarian Harmony has a unique quality, a piercing resonance that strikes directly at the soul. But harmony alone wasn't enough. I had Kawai delve into ancient Japanese texts and write the lyrics in classical Yamato. The result is a powerful sense of dissonance—the oldest prayers echoing in the most advanced cybernetic body manufacturing facility."
The only sound in the meeting room was the faint hum of the air conditioner.
The two reporters were captivated by this unconventional creative concept.
"What was Takuya Nakayama's reaction the first time he heard the song?" Sasaki asked curiously.
"He listened to the entire piece with his eyes closed, wearing headphones," Oshii recalled. "When he took them off, he said 'Good' three times in a row. He said the music would pin everyone in the audience to their seats. As it turned out, his prediction was accurate."
Takano turned a page in his notebook and asked the final question: "The film opens in a few months. What are your expectations for its box office performance and critical reception?"
Mamoru Oshii shook his head.
"I never predict box office numbers. I simply took the themes of future society explored in Masamune Shirow's manga and gave them my own form. The internet is vast and boundless. When human memory can be altered and bodies replaced, how do we define ourselves? By posing this question to the audience, my work is done.
Far away in California, the creative team at Pixar Animation Studios faced a similar dilemma.
If Ghost in the Shell's visual impact radiated outward from Japan's gaming scene, Toy Story's sensation exploded directly from the heart of American gaming media.
In the first week after E3, the $35 hardcover special edition videotape from GamePro became a hot commodity among North American gamers.
The editor who assembled the tape used a clever trick. Instead of starting with bloody zombies or hardcore Japanese RPGs, he inserted a segment of vibrant computer-generated animation into the first three minutes.
Cowboy sheriff Woody and astronaut Buzz Lightyear argued on a colorful carpet, then the scene abruptly cut to gameplay footage: Woody racing a remote-controlled car through a miniature-scale room.
In the special issue of the magazine, the Editor-in-Chief had deliberately reserved two full spreads for the game.
The headline was printed in massive letters: "The Perfect Handshake Between Hollywood and Video Games: How Sega Jupiter Brings Plastic Toys to Life."
The article lavished praise on Yuji Naka's physics engine and Sega's clever art strategy, elevating them to the heavens.
Parents struggling to choose Christmas gifts for their children, after seeing the game's demonstration on the video tape at the video store, immediately asked the clerks about pre-order dates for the game and console.
In Richmond, California, at the Pixar Animation Studios office.
Disney's Public Relations Department had temporarily booked a large conference room to host a joint interview for major North American entertainment and gaming media.
At the long table sat John Lasseter, director of Toy Story, and Ed Catmull, Pixar's technical director.
Across from them were over a dozen tape recorders and a forest of reporters' cameras and microphones.
Disney's PR manager stood in the corner, clutching a schedule.
He hadn't had high expectations for this interview.
In traditional Disney marketing logic, video games had always been mere ancillary merchandise after a film's release—something to be outsourced to a third-party company, with a simple side-scrolling game thrown in to earn licensing fees.
Who could have predicted that Sega would make such a splash at the Los Angeles Convention Center?
By combining Hollywood's resources with the power of the next-generation console, they've managed to elevate a yet-to-be-released animated film to the center of North American pop culture discourse.
Now, it's Disney that needs to leverage the game's popularity to promote the movie.
A reporter from the entertainment section of the Los Angeles Times was the first to ask a question.
"Director Lasseter, the trailer shown at the E3 Exhibition gave the public its first glimpse of the potential of full computer-generated CG animation.
How did you decide to combine this cutting-edge technology with Sega's new console?"
Lasseter adjusted his microphone.
He wore his signature Hawaiian shirt, his slightly plump figure exuding the laid-back California vibe.
"We have to thank Steve for making the connection, and of course, the bold executives at Sega of America," Lasseter replied. "We were initially very resistant to a game adaptation. As you know, most licensed movie games in the past just slapped movie character textures onto crude pixel sprites with incredibly simplistic gameplay. We spent years refining every movement of Woody and Buzz Lightyear, refusing to let them become mere jumping and running automatons in the game."
"How exactly did Sega win you over?" the EGM editor pressed.
"They sent Yuji Naka to meet with us," Lasseter said, chuckling as he leaned back in his chair. "The genius who created Sonic. He didn't just feed us empty promises; he brought a Jupiter Console development kit and a demonstration of the underlying code."
Ed Catmull took over the conversation.
As technical director, he had the most direct insights into this aspect.
"Mr. Naka had a very clear vision for graphics rendering," Catmull said, tapping his finger on the table.
"He told us that with the current processing power of home consoles, achieving realistic human skin textures was still beyond our reach. But for rendering toys, especially those with highly reflective plastic shells, it was a perfect match. He directly transplanted the plastic textures from our films into the game console. That really surprised us."
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