Reborn in the Chinese Entertainment Industry: You're a Director, But You're a Casanova?

Berlin, -10 degrees Celsius.

In the underground youth hostel surrounding the venue, Mr. Wang, the coal mine owner, stood at the basement entrance, his face ashen, wrapped in a mink coat.

"Brother Yuehua, I spent 30 yuan on public relations for you, and you're living in this rat hole?" Boss Wang gritted his teeth.

"There's a Ritz-Carlton nearby. All the other directors' crews are eating, drinking, and popping champagne there, while we're stuck here eating nothing?"

"You didn't go to the media or attend parties for public relations. Did you embezzle the 30 yuan budget?"

Niu Yuehua, the temporary Hans commissioner, was wearing a military overcoat and eating a Northeastern... uh... German sausage.

"Mr. Wang, the essence of capital is to pursue the highest rate of return."

"30 RMB is only a little over 3 Euros. If you use that money to buy official media press releases, you won't even make a ripple. But if you use it to buy voices from the grassroots, you can build an army to control public opinion." Niu Yuehua wiped his mouth.

"Besides, what's the rush? The biggest weapon and trump card in this movie is you!"

Mr. Wang was taken aback.

"Do you know why I designed those two low-level security guards to have no lines, only physical actions?"

"At the end, as the boss, you bring the newcomers to inspect the place. Watching their dancing figures on the monitor, you are the only one who utters the only line in the entire film: 'You can't dance, can you?'"

Niu Yuehua quietly activated the "Heavenly Demon Enchanting Voice" and added emotional value.

"This means that in the steel jungle of capitalism, the proletariat is completely silenced."

"Only you, as a high-ranking capitalist, have the right to speak. You not only exploit their bodies, but also mock their souls."

"These left-wing judges at the Berlin Film Festival would be so excited they'd wet their pants if they saw this ending. You are the ultimate walking metaphor in the whole film."

Which man doesn't have a little vanity about being praised?

Mr. Wang's mind went blank for a moment, his scalp tingling from the sheer euphoria of this theory of class... oh no... art theory.

Deeply moved, she still refused the suffocating idea of ​​living in a rat hole with Niu Yuehua and went to the Ritz-Carlton to book the presidential suite.

……

10 p.m., a district in Berlin.

This is a gathering place for impoverished artists, anarchists, and homeless people.

Niu Yuehua, accompanied by Xia, a Chinese student studying abroad, pushed open the door of an underground beer hall.

Xia, who studied fine arts, was tricked by Niu Yuehua into hiring her as a translator for 10 euros.

The underground bar reeked of cheap tobacco and beer. Dozens of down-on-their-luck actors and extras were idly boasting.

Niu Yuehua walked to the table in the middle and slammed the 1 euros in banknotes he had received onto the table.

Visual shock is always the best switch to shut down human rationality. The tavern fell silent instantly, and all the green-eyed people stared at the money.

There's also Niu Yuehua standing on the table.

Xia nervously raised the megaphone to prepare to translate, but Niu Yuehua remained silent.

For 10 seconds, 20 seconds, a full minute, he stood on the table like a statue, scanning everyone present with a gaze that was both oppressive and aggressive.

This is a speaking technique I learned from one of Xia's seniors: using long, suffocating silences to artificially create psychological suspense and pressure to obey.

When the audience's expectations are pushed to the limit, the penetrating power of what he says will be amplified 10 times, or even 9 times.

A minute later, the air in the basement had solidified, and even breathing could barely be heard.

Niu Yuehua finally spoke, his tone carrying a strange, infectious quality.

"I don't need you to understand Eastern films, I just need you to understand the euro on the table."

Xia immediately began to translate simultaneously in German, her voice hoarse with passion.

"Tomorrow at 2 PM, in screening room number 2 of the film festival, your only identity will be extras hired by me."

"The group of people in front of us, after about 5 minutes, saw the security guard wiggling his butt on the screen and started to gasp in shock, showing their shock at the alienation of capitalist society."

"The group on the left, around the 10-minute mark, wiped away tears with a bit of onion, sobbing softly, crying out the despair of a capitalist society where people can't communicate."

"When the black screen ended after 15 minutes, the group on the right all stood up and shouted 'genius! Perfect!' in various words."

"The base salary is 50 euros. Whoever cries the most and successfully moves the real audience around them will come out to me for a 100-euro bonus. Anyone who dares to laugh will not get a penny."

The real money and inflammatory instructions instantly ignited the German extras, who frantically scrambled for a chance to enter.

As Xia walked out of the beer hall, she looked at the brainwashed Germans with disbelief on her face.

"Brother Niu, why didn't I realize Germans were so naive? Doesn't anyone question this kind of tactic?"

Niu Yuehua gave a cold laugh.

"It's not that Germans are naive, it's that you artists are naive."

"Since the end of World War II, the German arts have been emasculated by political correctness."

"They think art is pure and have completely lost the ability to manipulate human nature through group psychology. Today I was just giving them a re-enactment of your predecessors' skills in the Munich beer hall."

The next day, outside Screening Room 2 of the film festival, Niu Yuehua and his meager film crew were queuing to enter when they bumped into Zhang Ziyi, who had just finished walking the red carpet.

Zhang Ziyi frowned as she looked at her compatriots, who were dressed simply and in a traditional style.

"Niu Yuehua, I've seen the film schedule briefing. The silent video recording of the two security guards—are you out of your mind?"

"This is Berlin. The judges aren't as easily fooled as Lao Tian. You're making a joke of the reputation of Chinese cinema."

Niu Yuehua looked at this international film star who had achieved fame at a young age and was unaware of the hardships of life, and gave a brief explanation.

"Senior sister, the security guards don't have lines because the lower class is voiceless, while the capitalists have lines because the powerful monopolize the right to speak."

"This is the ultimate explanation of Western structuralism. You are used to looking at problems with the popcorn logic of Hollywood and have never struggled to make a living at the bottom of society, so naturally you can't understand these human sufferings."

Zhang Ziyi was speechless, choked by this impeccable sophistry. She could only walk into the screening room with a cold face, ready to see how he would die later.

Inside the screening room, the lights were about to dim, and the 100 enthusiastic members of the public hired by Boss Niu were already evenly distributed at various key points.

Just then, the door was pushed open again, and an old German man in a smart wool coat, who looked serious and unapproachable, walked in. He sat in the center of the first row and casually placed a mechanical watch on the deck in his hand.

Xia, the translator next to me, started to tremble.

"Director Niu is finished. That's Goppert, the chief film critic for The Berliner Welt, known for his strictness. He famously hates short films that are just whining and complaining. He represents the idea that if you watch a bad film for more than 5 minutes, he will write a 0-point review and leave on the spot."

After sitting down, Gopper did not look at the briefing prepared by the organizing committee, but instead turned around and coldly scanned the theater.

He sensed something amiss in some of the shabby-dressed but excited independent artists.

As a veteran, his intuition told him that there seemed to be an incongruous sense of artificial arrangement in the theater. The distribution of the audience was very regular, and it was highly unlikely that it was the result of natural random ticket sales.

Of course, the meticulous Old Berlin Cross wouldn't jump to conclusions so easily.

He just found it funny, thinking, "Such a cheap trick, and they dare to try it on me?"

Gopper decided that he would, within five minutes, forever hang this short film and its crew on the pillar of shame in the history of the Berlin Film Festival.

……

In the center of the theater, Niu Yuehua looked at the stereotypical German old man and felt a long-lost excitement.

I want to see if you Germans can withstand the tide of public opinion.