93. Music Is a Grave Matter in Film
93. Music Is a Grave Matter in Film
Half of a film's budget went to marketing. Of the other half, roughly thirty percent went to labor.
The final twenty percent went to casting.
I had successfully reduced all of these costs.
Marketing? Word of mouth from the students and the academy bulletin boards would take care of that.
Personnel costs? Wasn't that why I was currently recruiting people from not just the Hero Department but every department?
And finally, the actors. They were all free, too.
I never dreamed that the labor-exploitation know-how I'd picked up during my time as an NCO would prove this useful.
By now, that battalion commander—who was probably either in a hellfire sauna or inside a zombie's stomach—would have applauded me.
Of course, even soldiers got paid, so I had absolutely no intention of slashing wages at a studio that wasn't even a military outfit.
It was just that, since I currently had no money on hand, I planned to use club activity support funds for the upfront payments, and take out a loan for the rest, to be repaid later from the profits the film brought in.
I knew.
I knew this borrow-then-repay mindset was incredibly dangerous.
History had recorded how the German mustache started a massive project with that exact mindset and ended up killing himself. Did they think I didn't know the danger?
But I was different.
I had already made the John series, Wrestle Kingdom, and Magical Mari into hits.
What's more, all three had succeeded under entirely different names—surely at this point that counted as genuine skill.
So as long as I solved the upfront payment issue, I was confident I could recoup the remaining costs and then some through the film.
When I shared this perfect plan of mine with Nikolai, his reaction was dramatic as well.
"Holy shit. Boss, seriously, what is wrong with you? You're living like you're gonna die tomorrow."
"A person is supposed to live every single moment fiercely."
"When you say it, it actually sounds convincing... but no. No matter how I look at it, this seems insane."
Letting Nikolai's compliments go in one ear and out the other, I went to find Leon.
He wasn't financing this particular film, but as co-head of the studio, he still needed to know that a project like this was underway.
And the moment I reported this news to him, magic came flying at me.
It was a sphere of light that didn't leave a wound but hurt like hell.
"Ow."
"You lunatic! I told you not to report after you've already started something!"
"Then maybe don't freeze my bank account."
"Ugh..."
Leaving Leon clutching his forehead and collapsing into his chair, I began compiling a list of the people I needed to meet now.
Unlike with the magical girl series, this time the film had to be made by the students' hands from start to finish.
And I couldn't simply hand all the villain roles to Wrestle Kingdom.
I couldn't outsource the music,
the directing and props had to be done by the students,
and I couldn't ask a trading company to handle the marketing either.
The fact that this had to be created solely by students might have felt disheartening, but for me, it was actually exciting.
'This was youth.'
From the very start, the whole reason I'd raised this ruckus about filming an academy battle story was to build memories.
So one could say that bumping up against each obstacle like this was itself part of those memories.
Anyway, the first people I needed to recruit weren't actors or a trading company, but bands.
For the actors, I planned to recruit them together with the new students during course registration after the entrance ceremony a week from now.
For directing, I already had someone in mind, so there was no rush,
and for the marketing and event-related trading company, it wouldn't be too late to find one after the film was made.
But the musical groups needed to be recruited in advance.
'I couldn't expect professional speed from students.'
With the magical girl series, I'd left it to professionals, so they'd stuck to tight deadlines and even inserted theme songs for every desired scene or character.
But it was best to assume that the students I'd be entrusting things to from now on would be roughly three times slower than pros.
It would be their first time taking on outside commissions, and meeting deadlines would be an ordeal for them.
For every three tracks a professional composer produced, a student might barely finish one.
Reusing tracks was possible too, but that was a trick low-budget studios used, and I wasn't fond of it.
If that was the case, contracting three musical groups would let me achieve the efficiency of one professional group.
But even doing it that way didn't change the fact that it would take far more time, so to hit the shooting schedule I needed to contract with them starting now.
I dashed toward the club rooms I'd shortlisted.
*
First came the dwarven band.
I'd already scouted them back during the congratulatory performance when I enrolled.
Calling themselves Harmony Atelier, they were test-running an instrument I'd never seen before when I arrived.
It was an instrument whose pitch changed depending on the direction you scraped its two metal pieces, but since it was still being tested, the dissonance was rather severe.
Only after the test run ended did I make my presence known, and the club president welcomed me warmly.
The reason I'd sought them out was simple.
In this world, genres like metal and punk didn't exist yet, and electronic music was even further off.
What's electronic music, you ask?
You'll understand if I describe it as music similar to the background theme of a skeleton with one eye burning blue.
Naturally, finding a musical group that played something like that in a fantasy world would be difficult.
Still, this was the club that at least attempted performances close to that direction, so I'd come to contract with them right away.
The metal rods they'd been testing when I arrived were producing the distinctive boing-boing sounds of electronic music, so I figured I could look forward to it.
Since I'd already given them a heads-up, the negotiation itself didn't drag on long.
Though there was a bit of wage discussion.
"No, Allen. We're telling you, we really can't accept this much."
"Hey, hey. Just take it, take it. To avoid any controversy later about us stiffing you, I have to give you at least this much. It's way cheaper than the going rate in this industry, so don't worry and just..."
"Objectively, we don't have the skill to deserve that much..."
"Then let's call it an investment in the future. You just haven't found the right musicians and the right films yet, that's all. And seeing how it looks like we'll be working together for a long time from now on, I'll call it a pre-investment."
"Sniff! Just as I'd heard—a man who understands romance!"
Their reaction was only natural.
That was because Harmony Atelier tended to be overlooked at the academy.
And no wonder—they were building instruments before the genre had even been established, so the sheet music and the instruments were bound to be out of sync.
But then, to compose scores suited to the genre, they hadn't yet found a compatible composer, and the fact that a Bon Jovi or a Daft Punk for them had not yet been born in this era played a part as well.
Above all, while the genre they pursued was good to listen to live, music like this really hit that euphoric peak only when intertwined with a narrative—so they and visual media were inseparably bound together.
Which was exactly why they'd scooped this up.
They say that people naturally follow for life the one who extended a hand when things were tough, so the loyalty was a bonus.
(For reference, this was a lesson I'd learned from my experience of signing that NCO contract.)
It seemed Harmony Atelier had already transformed into a faithful subcontractor of mine.
With a genial smile, I extended a handshake to the president and handed over the contract.
With this, I'd secured one musical group—I mean, one band.
*
The second place I headed to was the beastfolk dance team and choir.
Heroes had fundamentally outstanding physical abilities, so they could handle most of the action I requested, but dancing was a separate matter.
So here's a question.
Why was a dance team necessary for the film?
The answer to that question was the opening.
Whether as backup dancers during the opening or ending song, as dance coaches, or at worst, as someone who could dance in their place—I needed to secure someone, didn't I?
Which was why I'd sought them out.
The cat beastfolk's insane windmill at the entrance ceremony had left a deep impression on me.
The negotiation with the dance team I visited after that wasn't really a problem.
Because from their perspective, there wasn't a single reason to refuse.
The problem was the choir.
"This amount of money is absurd. Surely you weren't trying to get by with this little simply because we're students, were you?"
The choir president, whose colorful eye makeup was striking, fired off sharply.
On the back of this bird beastfolk were neatly folded wings, and seeing the feathers sparsely dotting not just his back but his limbs as well, I suspected he was part harpy.
His eye makeup was already flashy, and with decorations even on his wings, the word "peacock" kept surfacing in my mind.
This resplendent peacock of a president thrust the contract back at me as if there was no room for negotiation.
He was probably dissatisfied that his club had been priced so cheaply.
Still, perhaps because the person himself was polite, what he said next remained courteous.
"I have some outsourcing experience myself, so I know professional rates. In your estimation, Allen, our club is probably worth about one-third of the market rate. But I don't value our potential that low. I believe we're worth at least two-thirds."
It seemed I'd underestimated them too much.
In a way, it was something I could have realized with just a little thought.
The piercing sopranos of the avian beastkin and the bass voices of the furred beastkin were good enough to be in demand outside the academy.
And the fact that their performance had unanimously taken first place during the entrance ceremony at the time said it all.
'A club with some outsourcing experience is a different story.'
Still, if they were semi-pros, I had to give them treatment befitting semi-pros, didn't I?
Apologizing and saying I'd never dreamed they'd have outsourcing experience, I instantly doubled the contract fee.
My sudden no-haggle offer left the president flustered this time.
"Isn't this school money you're throwing around too recklessly?"
"Don't worry. It's all within a recoverable range."
From the start, even doubling their fee only brought it to a little over three-tenths of what I'd paid the professionals contracted during the magical girl series.
The composer I'd outsourced to back then was top-tier even among pros, after all.
And Magical Mari had recouped that entire cost in just four episodes.
So I was confident that a contract fee with this club was something I could recover in a single film.
Still looking a bit dazed, he accepted the contract.
With that, I'd recruited the beastkin dance team and choir.
*
The final destination was the orchestra.
The dwarves' electronic music and the beastkin choir could deliver a powerful rush in a film, but their uses were still fairly limited.
No matter how much the times changed, no matter how much the world changed, ultimately, the versatility of basic instruments was something they could not easily replace.
So for the foundational music, I sought out the orchestra.
Which orchestra, you ask?
The one that had been inspired by Ignos's entrance scene and come to me for advice.
The very group that had been determined to pull off Dis-X-style staging while playing their instruments, only to end up with their necks nearly snapping.
I arrived a little earlier than the promised time and watched them practice.
When they'd first come seeking advice last year, the performers had been forced to suffer inside the Sanctuary.
Attempting acrobatics while holding those heavy instruments led to plenty of accidents.
But once I'd revealed that the performance depended on the conductor's ability, his graduate-school fate was sealed overnight.
And now, a little under a year since then.
Their performance had risen to a level that was actually worth watching.
"Trumpets, ready!"
At the conductor's signal, the trumpet players took their positions and began tap-dancing.
But their feet were moving not by the performers' own will, but by the conductor's telekinesis and other assorted magic.
This was the secret behind Ignos's staging.
While the performers concentrated solely on the music, the conductor handled both the conducting and all of the performance elements.
The performers had to entrust their bodies entirely to the conductor and not stop playing, so of course it would be difficult.
But the conductor was on a whole different level.
He had to conduct every instrument while simultaneously controlling hundreds of people—it wasn't for nothing that I'd said a graduate-level course was necessary.
Naturally, there was no way a mere student conductor could pull that off right now.
So he'd made use of staging techniques.
Specifically, using lighting.
Since controlling many performers at once was still too hard, he focused the lighting on the few performers he was actively controlling.
This way, he could become about 0.2 Ignos.
After the 0.2 Dis-X stage was over, the conductor wiped away his flowing sweat and flopped down into a seat next to mine in the audience.
Between conducting the instruments, directing the lighting, and controlling the performers, he couldn't have had any brain capacity left.
But apart from the exhaustion, his face was brimming with a sense of fulfillment.
And no wonder—from his perspective too, once he mastered this staging, he would become a conductor who left his name in history.
The face of a man racing down a path where anyone could see success was guaranteed was so full of hope that it even erased the look of fatigue.
"You're here, Allen."
"Excellent work. At this level, catching up to Ignos shouldn't be out of the question."
"Ha ha. Thank you for the praise. So, have you come today regarding the contract matter you mentioned last time?"
"Yes. Is now all right?"
"Of course."
He signed the contract without hesitation.
The contract fee was exactly the market rate that professionals received.
He wasn't surprised by the amount, and I didn't particularly make a show of generosity about it either.
It was because their skill had already been objectively measured, and my eye for recognizing value wasn't so poor that I'd fail to see their worth.
After a contract that could hardly even be called a negotiation was finished, the conductor asked me for a moment of my time.
Since this happened to be my last contract of the day, I gladly granted his request.
In the midst of the performers' gazes, all listening in on my conversation with the conductor, he spoke up.
"Which school's magic tower should we enter if we want to create direction like Ignos's?"
A sudden career counseling session had begun.
Because he'd said "we" instead of "I," I'd gotten the impression that some of the performers watching us so intently also planned to enter the magic tower with him.
Recalling the background of the Ignos actor, I gave an answer that would significantly influence their career paths.
"First, the Ignos actor is from the Illusion School. As you can see, to pull off that kind of chaotic staging, that's really the only option. However—"
"However?"
"To replicate that person's staging exactly, even a direct-disciple track would be nowhere near enough."
"What? Last time you said that even as a direct disciple, the performance aspect would be sufficient..."
"I said performance. I never said staging."
A direct disciple could manage flipping and controlling the performers themselves.
But to go a step further like Ignos and alter the surrounding scenery as well, he would have to advance beyond direct disciple and become an elder.
In reality, Ignos's main profession was as an Illusion School elder, and Ceres's father—who had reproduced Ignos's performance—wasn't just an old-timer in magical academia but practically fossil fuel.
To summarize, it meant becoming at least a professor.
Hearing my words, the conductor pressed his forehead and stared up at the ceiling.
A murmur wondering if he should just give up now reached my ears as well.
There was such a thing as opportunity cost. After committing himself and running flat-out for the past year, giving up now would waste far too much.
On top of that, success was guaranteed if he just saw it through—and he was far too ambitious to refuse that.
Above all, once he had already accepted the direct-disciple track, resolving to go one step further and become an elder did not take much more effort.
"I understand. The road ahead is going to be long."
Soon he rose from his seat with eyes full of resolve.
I cheered on the dreams of this man who had steeled his determination and bid him farewell.
*
After I'd returned to the club room with the band contracts and was taking a break, Amelia came clip-clopping past me.
She must have just gotten back from her hometown, since she was carrying something like macarons in one hand and passed in front of me with one still in her mouth.
Absently watching her, I suddenly recalled that she was an elder of the Golden School and called her over.
"Emilia."
"Munch munch. Oh, you were here. Want one of these?"
"Yeah, just one."
"Perfect timing, actually. My mom made these at our family bakery. She said to keep them frozen. Also, I'm Ailey."
"Give her my thanks. Anyway, I have something to ask you."
"Go ahead."
"What was the process of becoming an elder like? You became one in the three years we didn't see each other."
"Oh, that."
With a carefree face, she rattled off everything she'd done.
To roughly summarize, she said it was possible by submitting a paper every month and producing around thirty of them over three years.
"It's all thanks to the ideas you gave me!"
I let that last comment go in one ear and out the other as flattery of some sort.
With a head that barely functioned on a good day, I tried to estimate how long it would take a normal person to produce those kinds of results.
And the conclusion I reached.
'I'd better not tell the conductor.'
There was nothing lamer than trying to scare someone who'd already steeled their resolve with something like that.
He might come find me later to curse me out, but that was for him to figure out on his own, I told myself, and I erased all thoughts of the conductor from my mind.