It wasn't just mainstream theaters in the U.S.—many major cinema chains in other countries also refused to screen the movie.
"They're refusing to show it? What's going on? Is there some misunderstanding with the revenue-sharing agreement?"
Takayuki was confused.
For a movie screening, this shouldn't have been such a big issue.
The one who informed him was Tukarev. It was nighttime in the U.S., and he sat in his office, frustrated, unable to hold back from calling Takayuki.
His team had been working on distribution negotiations for theaters over the past few days.
In the past, things had gone relatively smoothly—even when he'd faced targeted attacks, they didn't affect his ability to get films into theaters.
But this time, the resistance was much stronger.
...
...
He had sent his team to negotiate with multiple cinema chains, but the results were all disappointing.
Tukarev let out a string of Russian curses as he explained: "It's not a revenue-sharing issue—they wouldn't even sit down to discuss the split. They rejected us outright. It's obvious someone is pulling strings behind the scenes."
He spat out a few more colorful phrases in Russian.
"Someone pulling strings? Enough to influence the entire theater network? That's no small deal," Takayuki muttered.
"That kind of pressure could only come from one of the top ten film groups," Tukarev said. "They have real influence in the theater guilds. And I suspect it's not just one group—multiple may be acting in concert. Mr. Takayuki, it's possible that this is targeted at me… and possibly at you, too. I'm sorry that it's affecting your movie release."
Tukarev had indeed ruffled feathers during the release of Star Ocean Unlimited in the U.S.
He had stepped on the toes of some very influential people in the industry.
Even though the film had ended up a huge success—a classic example of low-budget, high-return—many still looked down on him.
"No need to apologize," Takayuki replied calmly. "We're friends, after all. If you're taking a hit, I'll take it with you."
Being targeted was nothing new. But going after a single movie like this? These people were really making a fuss over nothing.
"Is there no room for negotiation?"
Tukarev shook his head. "No chance, Mr. Takayuki. They're dead set on this. Completely shut down. I've never seen them so stubborn before—it's honestly shocked me. They're usually a lot more flexible."
Takayuki paused, then said, "Let's wait and see. I don't think this is over yet. You contacted me right after the last theater turned you down, right?"
"Yeah. Just finished negotiations with the last major chain and called you right after."
"Then let's hold off. There's still half a year until release—we're not in a rush."
Tukarev nodded. "Alright, I'll get some sleep… suka…"
He hung up, still in a terrible mood.
After so many years in the film industry, things had never been smooth sailing. It was infuriating.
On Takayuki's end, he had just been supervising the production of Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children.
He was especially focused on perfecting the visual effects. His version of the film aimed to surpass the original in every way.
The original was released in 2005, using technology from around 2003.
But this world was roughly a decade ahead technologically—equivalent to 2013—so the visuals could be significantly improved.
Still, it was frustrating to be hit with such news mid-production.
As Tukarev had suspected, the likely culprits were several powerful film companies exerting influence.
They might not be able to easily suppress competitors on their own level…
But someone like Tukarev, a relatively small-time distributor, was an easy target.
Blocking a film by leaning on theater networks was a common, simple tactic.
After thinking for a while, Takayuki decided not to waste any more energy on this for now. He would wait and see if anything else happened in the U.S.
Then he turned his focus back to the movie and Monster Hunter development.
As expected, the situation didn't end there.
Somehow, members of Hollywood's old guard—traditionalists from the film academy scene—began speaking out against Gamestar Electronic Entertainment on various media platforms.
"At the outset, I must acknowledge that Gamestar Electronic Entertainment has an unshakable presence in its industry. That's impressive. One company holding such a dominant position is something their competitors must find hopeless," said one veteran film figure at a movie premiere. "And I'll admit, a company like that entering the film world can be a good thing—new perspectives are valuable. But their behavior has crossed a line for me."
His expression was one of disdain, as though he harbored deep personal hatred for Gamestar.
Reporters rushed forward, shoving microphones toward him to get more details.
"What line did they cross?"
"My line is the dignity of the director."
"The dignity of the director?"
"That's right," he nodded. "This Takayuki guy, he's a brilliant game developer—no one denies that. Some even call him the god of games. That's all great. But that doesn't give him the right to override a film director. The director's authority must be respected. What he's doing is trampling on that dignity. And for that reason alone, I will absolutely boycott all films from Gamestar Electronic Entertainment."
"Are there other filmmakers who feel the same?"
"Absolutely. We've already formed a coalition with multiple theater chains to protest this behavior. We demand full respect for directors. Unless Gamestar changes course and returns creative control to the director, we won't back down."
It was a moderately explosive bit of news. It wasn't often that multiple well-known figures in the film world publicly boycotted a single movie.
But, of course, things were likely far more complex than they appeared.
"This is way too targeted. Could they be any more shameless? Since when did the U.S. go back to total director authority? Did I miss something?" Tukarev cursed again after watching the interview footage.
The U.S. film industry had gone through many phases—it was nearly a century old.
In the earliest days, movies were just short sequences of moving images. Over time, the medium evolved into what we now know as film.
Directors emerged during that evolution and eventually became the creative heads of film projects.
But this structure changed after a major big-budget production bombed and nearly collapsed an entire studio.
Since then, the industry shifted from pure director control to a system with producers overseeing them—especially to prevent runaway budgets.
That shift happened long ago. But listening to these film veterans, you'd think it never did.
To be fair, Takayuki's involvement was a bit unusual.
He wasn't just managing the budget—he was also directly injecting his own creative vision into the film.
Takayuki was providing the core creative ideas, while the director acted more like a project coordinator with little room for personal expression.
Yet the director himself had no complaints. Outsiders making a fuss on his behalf were sticking their noses where they didn't belong.
If there was no deeper agenda behind all this, it would truly be an insult to anyone's intelligence.