Entertainment from Divorce

At three in the morning in Manhattan, New York, Brian Hansen stood at the exit of the AMC theater. The cold air felt like countless tiny needles seeping into his trench coat, but it did nothing to dispel the surging heat within him.

The Interstellar ticket stub he was clutching was crumpled, the jagged edges deeply embedded in his palm, leaving several red marks, just like the spinning black hole on the screen that had left an indelible mark on his heart.

He is an astrophysicist at NASA and was accompanying his daughter to the movies today.

Before leaving home, he was still mocking at the breakfast table, saying, "How hardcore can a science fiction film made by a Chinese director be?"

At this moment, it felt like being nailed to the snow, letting the cold wind blow the tears into ice crystals, which slid down the cheeks and into the collar, bringing a bone-chilling cold.

My phone kept vibrating in my pocket, messages from colleagues. The screen lit up and went off in the darkness, all asking, "I heard the black hole in that Chinese sci-fi movie is even more impressive than our simulation? Did the parameters leak out?"

The theater lights came on behind him, casting a long, warm yellow shadow.

Emma, ​​the daughter, ran out carrying a half-bucket of popcorn, her pink scarf adorned with glistening sugar granules, and tears still clinging to her eyelashes.

"Daddy, did Cooper finally find Dr. Brand?" The little girl's eyes shone like stars, and her voice trembled with tears. "The flowers on that planet were so beautiful. The purple petals seemed to glow, even more beautiful than the fireworks at Disneyland."

Brian knelt down and helped his daughter tie her scarf tighter, his fingertips touching her cold ear.

He recalled the countless daughters Cooper saw in the fifth dimension in the movie, those overlapping figures like overturned puzzle pieces; he remembered that before each of his business trips, Emma would stuff a postcard with a rocket drawn on it into his suitcase, with the words "Daddy, come home early" crookedly written on the back.

"We will find it."

His voice choked with emotion, his Adam's apple bobbing violently, "Because love can transcend all distances, whether it's from the Earth to a black hole, or from Dad's lab to your bedside."

Recalling the movie experience two hours earlier, Brian's heart was still pounding in his chest, as if it wanted to break free of his ribs.

As Cooper's spacecraft passed over Saturn's rings, he instinctively pulled out his phone to compare it with NASA's live footage.

The reflection angle of those ice crystal particles, the thickness of the halo, and even the sense of layering in the shadows were almost identical to the data they had observed last month.

My physics colleague next to me pushed up his glasses and exclaimed in a low voice, "They even got the density of the interplanetary medium right. It's like they took a picture using our observation report."

What impressed him most was not the technology.

When Cooper roared "Murphy" at the black hole, a wave of sobbing swept through the theater, drowning out all the other sound effects.

The Black girl next to him covered her mouth with a tissue, her shoulders shaking like leaves in the wind.

The elderly Chinese woman in the front row was speaking in Chinese.

Although we couldn't understand what they were saying, the concern in their voices transcended the language barrier, like a warm hand gently grasping everyone's heart.

"Dad, why is that old man crying?"

Emma pointed to Deng Gaofei on the poster. The bloodshot in his eyes was particularly clear under the light, and there were still traces of tears hidden in the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

Brian stared at the Asian man in a spacesuit on the poster and suddenly remembered a line from the movie: "We're not exploring the universe, we're looking for our way home."

These words struck him like a bolt of lightning, and he pulled out his phone to call his mother, who was far away in Houston.

At three in the morning, his mother's voice, still sleepy but warm, rang: "Brian? Do you want my apple pie again? There's still some leftover from last time frozen in the fridge."

He covered his mouth to stop the sobs from getting out, and only said, "Mom, I'll come home to see you next week."

At five o'clock in the morning in Beijing, the faint light shining through the gap in the curtains fell on Ye Wen's phone on her bedside table, like a thin golden thread.

The screen was completely black, but she had been awake for a full hour. The invitation to the premiere of "Interstellar" beside her pillow had been repeatedly rubbed, leaving deep creases on the edges and some of the gold lettering worn away.

As the director of the State Administration of Culture, "insomnia" is never an option on her schedule.

I get up at six o'clock every morning without fail, and I have been doing this for twenty years.

But today was different. There were still two hours until the International Cultural Center announced the global box office figures. Her fingertips tapped lightly on the blanket, the rhythm as chaotic as an out-of-tuned pendulum, and her heart pounded like a rabbit.

On the bedside table was the brochure she brought back from the movie she watched last night. She had circled the black hole image on the cover with a red pen, and next to it was written "Gravitational lensing effect handled properly".

As someone who grew up watching war movies, her initial impression of science fiction films was still at the stage of "five-cent special effects".

The spaceship was made of plastic, the starry sky was painted with paint, and the dialogue was full of stiff preaching.

It wasn't until a few years ago, when she saw Tan Yue's film win a major award at the Cannes Film Festival, that she suddenly realized that perhaps someone could take up the mantle of bringing Chinese films to the world stage—the goal that she and her colleagues had strived for their entire lives.

For last night's premiere, she deliberately chose a regular audience room and didn't tell anyone her identity.

The gasps of amazement, sobs, and lively discussions among the young people around me were more convincing than any research report.

When the Chinese space station appeared on the screen, the familiar words "Tiangong" stood out against the cosmic background. The college students in the back row spontaneously applauded. The pride in their applause struck her like an electric current, instantly bringing tears to her eyes.

She recalled the embarrassment she felt when she attended an international film festival ten years ago.

The Chinese exhibition area was located in the far corner of the exhibition hall, and the movie posters on the display boards had accumulated a thin layer of dust because no one had visited them.

A foreign journalist approached with a cup of coffee, his tone sharp with provocation: "Are your films destined to only ever be about kung fu and history? When will you start making stories we can understand?"

At that moment, she clenched her fists and couldn't speak, her nails digging deep into her palms, only able to hold onto a strong determination in her heart: one day, our film will stand at the very center.

Now, Tan Yue has provided the answer with a science fiction film.

The precise physical settings, delicate emotional expressions, and unpretentious cultural symbols are like an exquisite code that has been deciphered by audiences worldwide, resonating across national borders.

She turned on her computer and pulled up data on domestic science fiction films from recent years: dismal box office returns, low ratings, and audience reviews focused on "rough special effects," "unrealistic stories," and "flat characters." The most glaring was an industry report from last year, with a red title like a scar: "The gap between Chinese science fiction films and Hollywood is at least twenty years, and it will be difficult to break through in the short term."

But Tan Yue insisted on breaking through this "impenetrable" wall.

She recalled her meeting with Tan Yue last month. He was wearing a simple white shirt, and his eyes shone like stars when he talked about science fiction movies.

"Director Ye, science fiction is not about showing off skills, but about letting the world see our worldview. In our philosophy, exploring the stars and protecting our home are never contradictory. Just like Cooper left to come back, this bond is the most touching thing."

The sky outside the window gradually brightened, slowly turning from a pale white to a light pink.

The sound of sanitation workers sweeping the ground came from downstairs, and the "swish" sound of the brooms cutting across the road was particularly clear.

Ye Wen brewed a strong cup of tea. The amber-colored tea swayed gently in the glass, and the tea mist blurred her glasses and the moisture in the corners of her eyes.

She wasn't afraid of Tan Yue's failure; what she feared was that the hope that had been so hard-won would be extinguished.

Chinese cinema desperately needs a complete breakthrough, and it desperately needs to show the world that we not only have a long history, but also a vast imagination and the emotional power to empathize with all of humanity.

Before the 6:30 alarm went off, Ye Wen was already sitting at her desk.

The heating was on full blast, yet she still held the teacup, feeling the warmth of the ceramic with her fingertips.

On the computer screen were her movie-watching notes from last night, the last sentence of which read: "The significance of Interstellar lies not in its box office numbers, but in the fact that it proves that Chinese filmmakers can also touch the stars and let the world hear our voices."

The phone on the desk suddenly rang, its ringing particularly jarring in the quiet office.

It was the voice of the duty secretary, brimming with barely suppressed excitement, like she was holding a little bird in her pocket: "Director Ye, have you seen the international forums? 'Interstellar' is all over the place! Audiences from all over the world are discussing it!"

She clicked on the link her secretary sent her, and praises in various languages ​​flooded in like a tidal wave, refreshing so fast it was almost impossible to see:
"As a Russian cosmonaut, I must say that the weightlessness in this movie is even more realistic than in 'Gravity'! Cooper's floating posture in the spacecraft is exactly the same as ours in the space station!"

"After watching the premiere in Tokyo, all I want to do now is call my pen pal in China and tell him that we are looking up at the same starry sky and being moved by the same story."

"German viewers said: The light effects of that black hole are even more beautiful than the simulations in our lab! They asked the special effects team to share the parameters! We want to use it at a science exhibition!"

"I cried like a baby in the Paris cinema. I never knew a Chinese director could make a sci-fi film so touching. When Cooper said goodbye to his daughter, I thought of my father..."

When she browsed through domestic forums, her eyes fell on a popular comment written by a netizen named "Stargazing Enthusiast": "Before, when I watched science fiction movies, I always felt that they were other people's stories, that the spaceships belonged to other people, that the heroes belonged to other people, and that even the starry sky seemed to belong to other people. This time, I finally felt that 'this is our movie.' When I saw the Chinese space station appear, I was so proud that I wanted to stand up and salute!"

Below are more than 20,000 likes, each like a little star twinkling on the screen, forming a dazzling galaxy.

Ye Wen's phone vibrated—it was an internal briefing from the International Cultural Center, with the title in bold black font: "Data Summary of the Global Premiere Day of 'Interstellar'".

She took a deep breath and clicked on the details page, her fingertips trembling slightly.
The real-time occupancy rates of cinemas in various regions continue to climb, all prime-time screenings in North America are sold out, and IMAX theaters in Europe have applied for additional screenings more than twenty times.

On social media, the topic has garnered over 8 million views, with overseas film critics publishing lengthy reviews on professional platforms.

The data was accompanied by an internal analysis from the International Cultural Center, which was carefully worded but could not hide its anticipation.

"Tan Yue built a bridge across East and West with Interstellar. Current market feedback shows that excellent science fiction films can break through cultural barriers. Because curiosity about the universe and longing for our home are a common language of all mankind and the most powerful emotional bond."

Ye Wen picked up the phone and dialed Tan Yue.

After ringing three times, a sleepy voice came from the other end, hoarse and tired.

"Tan Yue, have you seen the real-time data?" Her voice was tinged with laughter, and the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes gathered together like blooming chrysanthemums. "The situation is excellent."

"I've been watching the backstage all night, Director Ye." Tan Yue's voice was calm, revealing little emotion. "Thank you for your continued support. Without the help of the General Administration, we wouldn't have come this far."

"We are the ones who should be saying thank you." Ye Wen looked out the window at the rising sun, which dyed the clouds gold, like a magnificent robe draped over the sky. "You have shown the world the possibilities of Chinese cinema and fulfilled the dreams of our generation. What are your next plans? The State Administration of Culture will fully support you, providing manpower and funding as needed."

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone, then Tan Yue's clear voice came through, filled with unwavering determination: "I want to build a science fiction film laboratory to cultivate our own special effects team and screenwriting talent. After all, one 'Interstellar' is not enough; we need a vast starry sky, and we need more science fiction works that can tell Chinese stories."

After hanging up the phone, Ye Wen walked to the window.

In the morning light, the rooftops of the Forbidden City were covered with a thin layer of snow, like wearing a pure white coat, and the glazed tiles shimmered with a warm light in the sunlight.

In the distance, the CCTV building gleamed with a metallic sheen in the sunlight, while further away, the National Centre for the Performing Arts resembled a giant water droplet, reflecting the rising sun with shimmering light.

She recalled overhearing a conversation between two middle school students outside the cinema last night. They were wearing school uniforms and carrying backpacks, but they were so excited that they seemed to have forgotten about going to school altogether.
"I want to be an astronaut someday and see real black holes! Just like Cooper!" The boy clenched his fist, his eyes shining brighter than a streetlamp.

"Then I'll become a science fiction writer, write space stories about Chinese people, and have Director Tan Yue turn them into movies!" The girl's braids swung high, her tone full of longing.

Ye Wen smiled, her eyes crinkling with contentment.

She knew that the significance of Interstellar went far beyond just box office numbers.

It's like a pebble thrown into a lake, the ripples spreading far beyond the film itself.

Perhaps ten years from now, Chinese astronauts will be carrying out missions in space, and Chinese science fiction writers will be standing on the international award stage. Their starting point may be this morning when they decided to pursue their dreams after reading "Interstellar".

Ye Wen picked up her pen and wrote the first entry of the day in her work log: "Witnessing the historic start of Chinese science fiction films, the future is promising."

The sound of the pen tip gliding across the paper is as light as a shooting star streaking across the night sky, yet it quietly sows the seeds of something to come in the long scroll of history.

The alarm clock rang, at exactly seven o'clock.

Ye Wen hurriedly refreshed the International Cultural Center's webpage. (End of Chapter)