Rebirth of Chinese Entertainment from the Oscars

The Berlin International Film Festival was scheduled to open on February 9, 2000, and last for ten days. Su Chen's schedule was very tight—he flew to Berlin on the afternoon of February 8, attended the opening ceremony on the 9th, watched the film premiere on the 11th, attended a media conference and several industry exchange activities on the 13th, and attended the closing ceremony and awards ceremony on the 15th.

Beijing Capital International Airport, early morning of February 8.

Su Chen stood in line at the check-in counter, carrying a backpack and wearing a dark gray wool coat. The coat was a gift from his mother, Wu Qingfang—after learning her son was going to Berlin for the film festival, she rode her bicycle all over Xidan Shopping Mall before finally choosing this coat, saying, "You can't dress too shabbily when you go abroad." Su Chen didn't tell her that it might get even colder in Berlin. He put on the coat, because it was something his mother had spent the entire afternoon picking out.

He reached the front of the line. He handed over his passport and ticket, the clerk verified the information, and printed out his boarding pass. Just then, he heard a familiar sound—the steady, rhythmic sound of leather shoes on the waiting area floor. He turned around and saw Zhang Yimou.

Zhang Yimou, wearing that familiar dark blue down jacket, a scarf casually draped around his neck, and carrying an inconspicuous black handbag, was walking towards him. Su Chen was taken aback: "Director Zhang?"

"On the way." Zhang Yimou handed his boarding pass to the clerk and said the two words casually.

Su Chen didn't press further. He knew Zhang Yimou's "convenient" trip wasn't a coincidence. Zhang Yimou had no films competing or jury duties during the Berlin Film Festival; he had flown in specifically to accompany him on the red carpet. For an internationally renowned director to fly to Berlin to support a sixteen-year-old newcomer—this favor was more valuable than any letter of recommendation.

After boarding, Zhang Yimou sat in a window seat, with Su Chen sitting next to him. Once the plane took off, Zhang Yimou took out a stack of storyboards from his bag and began to draw quietly.

Su Chen glanced at it—it was a storyboard of a period drama scene. Those small sketches were a common practice among great directors of that era; he had seen Zhang Yimou do them countless times on set. The composition was precise, the light and shadow relationships were clear, and each frame resembled a small oil painting.

"Is your next film a period drama?" Su Chen asked.

"An idea, but it's not fully developed yet." Zhang Yimou didn't elaborate, turning to the next page of the storyboard, and suddenly asked, "What about your next film? Do you have any ideas yet?"

Su Chen was silent for a few seconds. "Yes."

"What kind of story?"

"It's about two old men. One old man took care of his paralyzed wife, day after day. Until one day, he made a decision." Su Chen didn't continue.

Zhang Yimou turned and glanced at him. That glance held surprise, and also a complex emotion that was difficult to describe. Having finished a hard-boiled crime film, his next project was to film two elderly people—this young man's subject matter spanned a wider range than his own age.

But he didn't press the matter. He knew that every director had one or more films they desperately wanted to make, and the seeds of those films were often sown at the most unexpected moments. He simply nodded and turned his gaze back to the storyboard.

Outside the porthole, the sea of ​​clouds surged.

On the afternoon of February 11, 2000, at the Potsdamer Platz Cinema Palace in Berlin.

The world premiere of "Black Coal, Thin Ice" will be held here.

The main screening room, which can accommodate 1,600 people, was packed to capacity. The audience was filled with filmmakers, critics, distributors, and journalists from all over the world. Liao Fan and Yu Nan sat in the third row, with Su Chen and Zhang Yimou sitting next to them.

As the lights dimmed, Su Chen heard his own heartbeat. The sound in his chest was like someone beating a drum.

The big screen lit up.

The somber industrial district of Harbin, the frosty windows, Yu Nan's hands soaking in soapy water, Liao Fan's white breath as he falls in the snow, the conversation torn apart by the wind on the riverbank, the wobbly gliding on the ice rink—every detail, magnified, gains a new life on this giant screen.

Su Chen had watched this film countless times, from the editing stage to the internal screenings and now; he knew every frame by heart. But this was the first time he had watched his own film with 1,600 strangers. The feeling was completely different—you weren't just watching the visuals; you were feeling the breath of the entire space. When the audience laughed, that laughter echoed throughout the theater. When the audience was silent, the weight of that silence itself would make you hold your breath.

At the end of the 93 minutes, the image of the ice rink faded out, turning into pure white. Then came the final three seconds of black screen, during which the deliberately amplified moment of panting was cut off along with the image.

In the darkness, the first applause rang out. Then came the second, the third—and finally, the applause from the entire theater merged into a wave.

As the lights came on, Su Chen saw several elderly European film critics in the front row whispering excitedly. Liao Fan, sitting next to him, had red eyes, and Yu Nan was discreetly wiping her eyes with her sleeve. Zhang Yimou didn't applaud, but he patted Su Chen on the shoulder—a gesture more powerful than a hundred words of praise.

The post-screening Q&A session lasted a full forty minutes. Journalists and film critics from various countries asked many questions—about the film's aesthetic style, the character development of the protagonist, and the current state of industrial cities in northern China. Su Chen answered each question in English, his answers concise and precise, without the shyness or excessive flamboyance often seen in sixteen-year-olds; each answer hit the nail on the head.

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As the event concluded and people dispersed, a tall man with gray hair walked through the crowd to Su Chen. He wore a well-tailored dark gray suit, and the red medal pin on his lapel gleamed under the lights.

Klaus Mair, selection director for the main competition section of the Berlin Film Festival.

"Mr. Su Chen," he said in English with a German accent, "your film reminds me of early Polanski. That coldness isn't a coldness of temperature, but a coldness in an existential sense. A truly remarkable work."

Su Chen shook hands with him. Mel's palm was dry and strong, and the strength of his handshake conveyed sincerity.

"Thank you. Polanski is a director I greatly respect."

Mel released his grip, leaned forward slightly, and said in a low voice, "Some people on the jury are already discussing your film, especially the cinematography and acting. Good luck."

Su Chen nodded his thanks calmly, but after Mel turned and disappeared into the crowd, he quietly clenched his fist.

At the media conference and several industry exchange meetings on February 13th, Su Chen was practically surrounded by flashing lights and microphones. Western media were full of curiosity about this sixteen-year-old director from China, and all the questions kept asking the same core question: How did you do it?

Su Chen's answer remained consistent: "I just told a story I wanted to tell. The rest of the work was done by the actors and the team together."

This answer was included in a report by an Italian journalist, titled "The Humility of a Young Prodigy." But Su Chen knew in his heart that it wasn't humility, it was the truth. He did everything he was supposed to do—scriptwriting, casting, directing, editing. But what truly brought the film to life was Liao Fan lying in the snow for thirty seconds, and Yu Nan's strand of hair being blown about by the wind on the riverbank. Filmmaking is a team art; the director is merely the one who draws the blueprints. The ones who truly build the house are everyone on set who carries lights, lays tracks, and acts.

The closing ceremony and awards ceremony were held at the Berlin Film Palace on the evening of February 15.

Su Chen changed into a custom-made black suit. The overcoat his mother had chosen for him was still in the hotel closet—he needed to be more formal on the red carpet. As he stood in front of the mirror adjusting his bow tie, he noticed his fingers were trembling slightly. He rinsed his hands under the tap with cold water for ten seconds, then dried them and retied his bow tie.

Liao Fan wore a dark blue suit, and next to him, he looked as nervous as a student going on stage for the first time, constantly adjusting his cufflinks. Yu Nan changed into a simple black dress, her makeup so light it was almost invisible, but her cool and mysterious aura made her stand out among the blonde, blue-eyed Western actresses.

Before entering the cinema, Su Chen said to Liao Fan, "No matter the outcome, Zhang Zili is the best character in my heart."

Liao Fan paused for a moment, then grinned: "Director, let's save that for after the awards ceremony."

The atmosphere inside the cinema was even more tense than on the night of the premiere. Nearly two thousand people waited quietly for the jury's decision. Su Chen sat in his seat, his hands folded on his knees, his back straight. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest at an unhealthy pace.

The awards for the short film category were presented first. Then came the Jury Special Award, Best Actress, and Best Actor.

Silver Bear for Best Actor.

The award presenter was a veteran German actress who read aloud a citation in German: "He portrayed a broken soul in a heartbreaking way. His performance was not a display of technique, but a gaze into the abyss of humanity." Then she opened the envelope and read the name—"Liao Fan, Black Coal, Thin Ice."

Liao Fan sprang up from his seat as if electrocuted. He turned to Su Chen, his expression a mix of ecstasy and disbelief, unable to even finish uttering two "I"s. Su Chen stood up and gave him a tight hug.

"Go up, Zhang Zili," Su Chen whispered in his ear.

Liao Fan's steps were a little unsteady as he walked onto the podium. After receiving the Silver Bear trophy, he stood in front of the microphone and remained silent for nearly ten seconds.

"I want to thank someone." His English was heavily accented, but every word seemed to be pushed outwards with force, as if afraid his voice wasn't loud enough. "My director, Su Chen. He was only sixteen years old, but he taught me what acting is. He said—you're thinking about the character, not playing yourself. I'll remember that sentence for the rest of my life."

A round of enthusiastic applause erupted from the audience. Su Chen lowered his head amidst the applause and pressed his thumb to the corner of his eye.

The Silver Bear for Best Director was presented much faster than expected. Su Chen hadn't even had time to fully detach herself from the excitement of Liao Fan's win when she heard the presenter read out the jury's comments—"This director, with a maturity and restraint beyond his years, has constructed a cold yet burning world. He has captured the temperature of fire with the texture of ice."

He heard his own name called.

"Su Chen, Black Coal, Thin Ice".

The entire hall was silent for a second, then erupted in thunderous applause.

Su Chen stood up. He thought he would be very excited, but the moment he actually stood up, he was calm instead. Not a suppressed calm, but a peace enveloped by something greater. He turned and hugged Zhang Yimou beside him. Zhang Yimou didn't say anything, but the strength of the hug carried a silent "I'm proud of you," weighing heavily on Su Chen's shoulders. When he hugged Liao Fan, Liao Fan was still holding the silver bear trophy, the ridge of the trophy digging between them, but neither of them noticed. When he hugged Yu Nan, she finally couldn't hold back her tears, which smeared onto Su Chen's suit shoulder, leaving a small, dark, damp patch.

He walked onto the stage and accepted the heavy Silver Bear trophy. The warmth of the spotlight seeped through his suit and onto his skin. He placed the trophy on the podium and took a deep breath.

"Thank you to the jury for their recognition. Thank you to director Zhang Yimou, you taught me that filmmaking is not just theory, it's something that's fought. Thank you to teacher Hou Keming, you believed in me from the first day I enrolled. Thank you to my two lead actors, Liao Fan and Yu Nan, you brought Zhang Zili and Wu Zhizhen to life. Thank you to every member of the crew, you all worked with me to finish this film in Harbin at minus twenty degrees Celsius."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the crowd as if looking at a distant place.

"Finally, I want to thank my parents. Thank you for letting me try."

He stepped off the stage amidst applause, the trophy in his hand heavy, but something inside him felt lighter.

After the awards ceremony, Su Chen didn't return to the hotel. Instead, he took the trophy and walked alone to a quiet corner behind the Palais des Festivals. The winter night in Berlin was much quieter than in BJ, with a crisp, clean scent unique to snow. The streetlights cast long shadows on the sidewalk, illuminating his feet.

He raised the Silver Bear trophy towards the streetlamp. The silver bear gleamed coldly under the light, exactly the same color scheme as in his film.

Three years ago, when he first came to this world, he thought his only goal was to film the famous movies from his previous life ahead of time and make a fortune using his prophetic abilities. But now, standing on Berlin soil, holding this prestigious trophy, he realized he was wrong. Prophecy could only help him temporarily; what truly brought the films to life were those who worked tirelessly alongside him in the freezing cold. It was Liao Fan lying in the snow at minus fifteen degrees Celsius for thirty seconds, it was Yu Nan's calluses from washing clothes for three weeks, it was Lao Ma's hands trembling with cold at four in the morning, along with the camera.

Filmmaking is not a solitary endeavor. It's about a group of people searching for light together in the darkness.

Liao Fan's voice rang out from afar—"Director! The celebration party is about to start! Don't run off with the trophy!"

Su Chen smiled, stuffed the trophy into his coat pocket, and walked towards the sound. He had won the Silver Bear in Berlin. A long road lay ahead—the script for *Love* still needed polishing. But he didn't need to find his way alone. He already had a group of people willing to search with him.