January 5, 1995. Night.
Kameda Kanta settled onto the couch with a steaming cup of espresso, his eyes scanning the TV guide: "23:15–0:50, Tales of the Unusual." He scratched his head in mild frustration.
Kameda was a "television critic," or perhaps more accurately, a drama reviewer. His job primarily involved writing critiques for newspapers, assigning ratings to shows, and offering commentary that helped viewers decide whether to tune in. While he occasionally dabbled in film reviews, his focus remained firmly on television.
This role held significant importance in Japan, where the entertainment hierarchy operated differently from other countries. In most nations, the pecking order went like this: filmmakers looked down on TV producers, who in turn dismissed animators, and all three collectively sneered at variety shows and idols. But in Japan, the dynamic shifted. Anime stood apart, claiming an almost sacred status—its creators prided themselves on passion over profit, eschewing mainstream showbiz (at least in the 1990s). Television and cinema existed on relatively equal footing, both united in their disdain for the shallow spectacle of variety shows. As for idols? They were disposable cogs, barely worth acknowledging.
Though perplexing to outsiders, Japanese television carried a unique responsibility: it was expected to educate and uplift the populace. Its cultural standing rivaled, if not surpassed, that of cinema. There was no snobbery here; renowned directors and actors didn't belittle their television counterparts. In fact, appearing in a hit TV series was often the fastest route to stardom. Nearly every major award-winning actor had graced the small screen, many achieving fame through iconic dramas.
Kameda's work revolved around this ecosystem. Each week, he provided concise summaries of new episodes, delivered professional critiques, and offered deeper analysis for readers navigating the labyrinth of programming options. In the pre-internet era, his contributions mattered greatly. His columns formed a cornerstone of the newspaper's family entertainment section, second only to scandalous headlines about celebrity infidelity.
But there was one catch—he was a rookie. The plum assignments covering prime-time hits eluded him, leaving him stuck with the graveyard shift: late-night dramas. Not only did these require burning the midnight oil, but even the wittiest critique would likely go unnoticed. It felt like spinning wheels in mud, exhausting yet futile.
Still, he couldn't complain too much. Late-night slots were ideal training grounds for newcomers. His strategy? Tear them apart mercilessly. Simple, direct, and perfect for honing his craft. These low-budget horror flicks and softcore films rarely demanded full viewing before unleashing vitriol.
"Crude, vulgar, tasteless garbage!" he'd write. "Is nudity the only thing you know how to film?"
"Sloppy production values! Is that blood made from ketchup? How dare you insult audiences by skimping on corn syrup fake blood? I bet the budget went straight into catering!"
"Idiotic writers, brain-dead directors, greedy producers—all of them deserve to fail spectacularly!"
Such scathing remarks guaranteed reader agreement—and zero backlash. Satisfied with his battle plan, Kameda sipped his coffee, idly watching a shopping channel while waiting for the appointed hour. Nitpicker Mode: Activated.
The opening theme began—a forgettable tune that confirmed his suspicions. Budget constraints loomed large. Traditional Japanese dramas adhered to a golden ratio: 80% effort on casting, 100% on scriptwriting, and 120% on theme songs. Clearly, this show fell short. And the music style… predictably generic horror fodder. Was this another cheap knockoff of Terror Ward, that infamous disaster?
Pen poised over his notepad, he scribbled his verdict: "Opening theme is atrocious!" Nitpicker Mode: Level Two Engaged.
Then Michiko appeared onscreen, her delicate face framed by dim lighting as the story unfolded. Kameda braced himself to unleash his verbal artillery. Three… two… wait, what?
Within moments, the first short episode gripped his attention completely. Without realizing it, he found himself drawn into the narrative rhythm, following the twists and turns effortlessly.
Ah, soul-swapping—a fresh concept, rarely explored before…
Wait, wasn't she supposed to visit her brother? Why bring up old romances now? And who's this girl? Her acting is explosive—wasted on a late-night slot…
What's going on here? Betrayal? How could someone do such a thing? What kind of monster are we dealing with?
This writer has serious talent!
Thirty minutes flew by in the blink of an eye. As the haunting nursery rhyme echoed and the screen froze on Miho's enigmatic smile, Kameda shivered, snapping out of his reverie. A darkened stage materialized, introducing Takeda Kazumasa, who began explaining the philosophy behind Tales of the Unusual. Lost in thought, Kameda mulled over what he'd just witnessed.
Damn it… Is this really a late-night drama? This blows those clichéd slasher flicks out of the water! Tight pacing, innovative plot twists, stellar performances—it could easily compete in primetime against other networks' flagship programs.
Could Tokyo Eizo Broadcasting (TEB) be plotting something ambitious? Launching a ratings war during the dead zone? But why bother fighting over this timeslot? Strategic move to carve out a fourth battlefield?
No, that line of thinking was pointless. Focus, Kameda. Criticize objectively. What flaws could he pinpoint?
Well, the director lacked experience handling top-tier actors. Miho's performance overshadowed everyone else, rendering supporting characters nearly invisible. Still, this was minor nitpicking. Overall, the segment was brilliant—an extraordinary piece of storytelling. Honestly, cramming it into thirty minutes felt like a waste!
Lost in musings, Kameda barely registered Takeda's monologue, his pen remaining idle. Before long, Takeda transformed into a black cat, signaling the start of the second short episode.
He glanced at the screen, exhaling slightly. Ah, yes—this cast matched typical late-night standards. But the storyline… killing so many people, yet sentencing the culprit to just thirty days? Social commentary? Or pandering to anti-death penalty sentiment?
The premise intrigued him… until the torture scenes kicked in, nearly giving him whiplash.
For twenty-five minutes, he watched intently, still unable to jot down a single note. By the end, when five minutes equated to a day, stretching the murderer's thirty-day sentence into decades of torment, Kameda felt a surge of satisfaction.
Another captivating story, distinct from the first, packed with exhilarating twists. But who was this writer? An industry veteran demoted to late-night purgatory? Was there dirt to dig up?
Lost in speculation, Kameda continued watching until the next episode preview flashed across the screen. Only then did he snap back to reality. Glancing at his notebook, he saw the hastily scribbled phrase: "Opening theme is atrocious." Groaning, he yanked at his hair.
Damn it! All my pre-written jabs are useless. Looks like I'm pulling an all-nighter tonight!
---
At almost the same moment, Futazeno Seiko sat in stunned silence. Untouched by the internet age, she'd never encountered such cleverly crafted, twist-laden short dramas. After binge-watching three consecutive episodes, she was practically speechless.
It was incredible—so engrossing that despite the eerie undertones of the first segment, she couldn't resist diving into the next. Worried the subsequent stories wouldn't live up, she instead found herself craving more once they concluded.
So this is what late-night dramas could achieve?
That weasel… no, that meerkat… no, Chihara-sensei must be some kind of genius!
Initially, Seiko hadn't planned to watch Tales of the Unusual. She'd tuned in solely to catch the premiere of her favorite screenwriter, Terada Takashi's latest project, Happiness in the Fields. A historical romance set in feudal Japan, it aligned perfectly with her idol's signature style. Yet after finishing the pilot, she felt oddly dissatisfied. Something about the protagonist, Konosuke, seemed off. Was he truly the lead? Moreover, his childhood friend-turned-love interest came across as overly artificial, her wooden acting detracting from any semblance of authenticity. The character felt less like a village maiden and more like a misplaced pop starlet.
Still, trusting Terada's track record, Seiko resolved to stick with the series. Perhaps future episodes would redeem its promise of heartrending romance.
Afterward, she turned off the TV and headed to the bathroom to wash out her hair treatment. Long, silky locks required meticulous care, though the routine grew tiresome at times.
Once finished, she prepared for bed. School awaited tomorrow, as winter break had officially ended. Lying down, however, a nagging sensation lingered. What had she forgotten? Ah yes! She'd promised to watch Konoe Hitomi's screen debut.
True to her word, Seiko scrambled out of bed, donned her plush bear-patterned pajamas, grabbed a pillow, and curled up on the couch. Hours passed as she waited impatiently for the late-night slot. Thankfully, her patience paid off—it was worth every minute!
Nestled under a blanket, legs tucked beneath her, Seiko replayed the episodes in her mind, marveling at their brilliance. Inspired, she considered pitching similar multi-layered, twist-driven plays to her school drama club. But glancing at the clock—past 1 AM—she reluctantly shelved the idea of calling friends to discuss the show.
Tomorrow would have to do. Oh, how she longed to share her excitement about this gem of a series!