Rebirth of Chinese Entertainment from the Oscars

April 15, 2000, the Dean's Office of the Beijing Film Academy. A fax machine dispensed a sheet of paper bearing the official letterhead of the Cannes Film Festival, written in French. President Wang Fengsheng put on his reading glasses, read the text word by word, removed his glasses and placed them on the table, tapping the edge of the fax paper three times with his finger—a habitual gesture before making important decisions. Hou Keming and Xie Fei, sitting opposite him, exchanged a glance, neither speaking.

"We've made it into the main competition." Wang Fengsheng picked up the phone on the table and dialed an internal number. "Connect me to the dormitory reception room for Su Chen, a student from the Directing Department, Class of '98. Yes, have him come to my office immediately."

The news spread faster than the fax paper cooled. In the corridor of the Beijing Film Academy's main building, students moving props were gossiping—"I heard our school's genius director's film is going to Cannes?" People reading magazines in the library looked up, several acting students practicing their lines on the playground stopped rehearsing, and even the cafeteria cooks were asking, "That sixteen-year-old who won the Silver Bear has won another award?" A crowd had already gathered outside the dormitories—students, teachers, and a few quick-witted reporters from the school magazine. The dorm supervisor stood guard at the entrance, hands on her hips, her voice eight octaves louder than usual: "Those looking for Su Chen, step back—he's not back yet, what are you all doing blocking the door? He can't fly down from upstairs."

Su Chen wasn't in his dorm. He was in the editing room at the Beijing Film Academy, making final tweaks to the audio track of "Love"—Han Sanping had mentioned at the last preview screening that "the length of the end credits' silence might affect theatrical scheduling," and Su Chen had kept that in mind. Today, he shortened the black screen at the end of the film a little, not much, just changing it from pure black to an extremely slow fading, maintaining the lingering resonance, but technically making it easier to integrate with the projection system. Then he packed up his tools, slung his bag over his shoulder, and rode his secondhand bicycle out of the school gate.

When he returned, just as his bicycle turned into the school gate, the gatekeeper, Old Zhang, shouted at him, "Su Chen! The principal is looking for you! Go quickly!" Old Zhang waved his hand several times towards the main building, with such a large gesture that it looked like he was directing an airplane to land.

Su Chen locked his car and learned the news from the guardhouse. He stood there for a few seconds, took the keys out and put them in his pocket, then started walking towards the main building. Along the way, acquaintances congratulated him, and he nodded in response, his pace neither slowing nor quickening. It wasn't that he wasn't excited; he just hadn't found the right way to express it. As he passed through the main building's lobby, he saw his own expression reflected in the glass doors—his lips were pursed, his brows slightly furrowed, looking more like he was solving a difficult math problem.

In the office, Wang Fengsheng pushed the fax paper in front of him, his expression composed, but the smile in his eyes was barely concealed. Hou Keming stood up, pressed him into a chair, and patted him on the shoulder—a light touch, yet his hand carried a weighty warmth. Xie Fei pushed his reading glasses up to his forehead, looked at him, nodded, and said nothing.

Su Chen looked down at the French text on the fax paper. He wasn't fluent in French, but he had seen the standard wording of the confirmation letter of nomination too many times in various film festival documents in his previous life: "Nous avons le plaisir de vous informer"—"We are pleased to inform you"—this sentence structure is a key in any language; with a gentle turn, a door opens.

He looked up and found all three teachers staring at him, but no one spoke first. The only sound in the office was the low hum of the window air conditioner.

"Thank you," he said. His throat was a little dry.

The news that *Amour* had been selected for the main competition at the 53rd Cannes International Film Festival made headlines in the culture sections of major media outlets the following afternoon. CCTV's movie channel broadcast a 45-second segment in its evening news, flashing footage of Su Chen receiving his award in Berlin, stills from the ice rink of *Black Coal, Thin Ice*, and two official posters for *Amour*—one showing Liu Jianguo pushing a wheelchair, the other showing melting frost on a windowsill. The narration was carefully chosen: "Following his Silver Bear win at Berlin, young Chinese director Su Chen's new film *Amour* has once again garnered attention at a top international film festival, being selected for the main competition at Cannes. This marks the first time in many years that a mainland Chinese film has been vying for the Palme d'Or."

The People's Daily headline was "Seventeen-Year-Old Director Su Chen Selected for Cannes: A Youthful Storm in Chinese Cinema," with the lead stating that he "conquered the selection committee with an artistic maturity beyond his years." When Su Chen read the report, he noticed the author's name—Yin Xue, a veteran cultural journalist he had heard of in his previous life, known for her sharp writing. In the latter half of the article, she wrote a passage that Su Chen read several times: "Several industry professionals who saw 'Love' at an internal screening at the Beijing Film Academy unanimously used the same word—'dignity.' This film doesn't explore death itself, but rather how one maintains dignity in the face of death."

Meanwhile, the Beijing Youth Daily's headline was even more direct: "From Silver Bear to Palme d'Or? Su Chen's Cannes Journey at Seventeen." The article traced Su Chen's timeline from winning two awards for a short film to his feature film debut and then his second film, concluding with the statement: "If Su Chen achieves success at Cannes, he will become one of the youngest directors in the history of world cinema to have won awards at all three major European film festivals." As Su Chen folded the newspaper and put it in his drawer, he noticed his hand trembling slightly. It wasn't nervousness, but something that preemptively realized the gravity of the situation.

The phone in the dormitory started ringing at six in the morning. Su Chen unplugged the phone line. But he couldn't unplug his cell phone—it was a Nokia that his mother had forced on him before he went to Berlin. The casing was dark gray, and the screen could only display two lines of text, but every name in the contacts knew this number.

Liao Fan made four phone calls. Su Chen missed the first three while in the editing room. When Su Chen answered the fourth, Liao Fan's first words were, "Director, you finally answered!" His second was, "When is the trailer for your new film coming out?" His third was, "Never mind the trailer, just tell me if I can crash the Cannes red carpet." Su Chen replied, "You get to walk the red carpet because of your work, not by crashing it." Liao Fan was silent for two seconds on the other end of the line, then laughed—"Then I need to go buy a new suit."

Yu Nan made two phone calls. The first time, she said "Congratulations" and then fell silent. Su Chen waited a few seconds, then heard her take a soft breath on the other end of the line. "That scene," she finally said, "you had them add that slap themselves. I saw it in the newspaper." Su Chen said, "Yes." Yu Nan was silent again for a moment, then said, "Director Su, remember to call me next time there's a suitable role for me." Her voice was calm, but Su Chen detected an emotion only actors who had worked side-by-side on set could possess.

You Benchang and Wu Yanshu did not call. Su Chen knew they had seen the news, but he still decided to wait until after Cannes ended, bring the results, and visit them in person.

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Su Chen returned home for dinner that evening. His mother had prepared a table full of dishes: braised pork ribs, stir-fried cabbage with vinegar, scrambled eggs with tomatoes, and a bowl of seaweed and egg drop soup. The chopsticks were neatly arranged. His father sat on the sofa reading the newspaper, drawing a small checkmark next to the headline of the People's Daily article with a ballpoint pen. He then folded the newspaper and placed it on the corner of the coffee table, exactly where Su Chen had placed his report cards after every parent-teacher meeting when he was a child. His mother barely touched her chopsticks throughout the meal. She kept talking—about how Aunt Zhang's daughter next door had been admitted to Beijing Foreign Studies University, how the factory might be undergoing restructuring in the second half of the year, and how the Cannes Film Festival red carpet on TV looked really lively, with people walking for miles along the road. Su Chen listened, occasionally nodding, and neatly arranged the bones of the braised pork ribs on the edge of the plate. He knew that after all this rambling, what his mother really wanted to say was, "I'm proud of you." But Wu Qingfang never said that. She would only push the food closer to her son and say, "Have another piece."

After finishing his meal, Su Chen returned to his room, closed the door, and turned on only the desk lamp, without turning on the main light. The lampshade was an old-fashioned green glass shade, and the light shining through the glass turned into a cool, pale green hue, making his notebook, which was spread out on the table, appear like a patch of light water. He turned to the page with the bookmark, where he had written two lines a few months ago—"Love. 2000.2.16." The ink had begun to fade slightly. He added another line below—"2000.6.15, shortlisted for the Cannes main competition."

Then he leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and mentally replayed "Love" from beginning to end. Not as a director checking for technical flaws, but as a person, returning to that dark screening room to spend those frozen 110 minutes with the two elderly people. When he opened his eyes, the streetlights outside were already on, and the chimney of the boiler room stood quietly as a silhouette against the deep blue night sky. He suddenly remembered something—Zhang Yimou had mentioned at the Berlin airport that his next film would be a period drama, an immature idea. At that time, Su Chen said his next film wanted to be about two elderly people, and Zhang Yimou glanced at him. Now that film about two elderly people was going to Cannes. And Zhang Yimou's period drama should be nearing completion.

On the afternoon of April 20th, Hou Keming called Su Chen to his office. Several stacks of student papers were piled up in the office, a fan whirred in the corner, and a half-dead pothos plant sat on the windowsill, its leaves yellowed at the edges, but the vines stubbornly sprouting new buds. Hou Keming moved a stack of documents from his chair to the desk, making room for Su Chen, and then took a manila envelope from his drawer and placed it in front of Su Chen.

"The college has already approved your recommendation for graduate school," Hou Keming said bluntly. "You can directly pursue your master's degree at this university, and you can choose any advisor you like—either Professor Xie Fei or me. Tuition is completely waived, and the college will also give you a creative grant. It's not a large amount, but it'll be enough for the early development of your next film."

Su Chen opened the envelope; inside was a recommendation form for graduate school admission. The recommender's name was already signed by Hou Keming and Xie Fei. Their signature styles were completely different—Hou Keming's was square and powerful, while Xie Fei's was delicate and flowing. He read the form from beginning to end, then put it back in the envelope.

"Thank you, Teacher Hou. Please also thank Teacher Xie Fei for me." He held the envelope in his hand, not immediately putting it into his bag. "But I have a thought of my own. I want to explain it clearly, and I would appreciate your help in making a decision."

Hou Keming leaned back in his chair, took off his reading glasses, and slowly wiped the lenses with the corner of his shirt—a habitual gesture he made when thinking, one that Su Chen had witnessed many times. After wiping for a while, Hou Keming finally spoke: "Go on."

"I will spend my whole life digesting what the film academy taught me. But I'm not sure if continuing to attend classes is the best way forward. You said before that I learned more from you than you taught me. Actually, that's not true—you taught me one thing, which is that 'filmmaking isn't something you learn in a classroom, it's something you make.' You put me in Director Zhang's film crew, you sent me to Berlin, you made me squat in hospital corridors. These things have nothing to do with the classroom, but they are all about film."

He paused.

"So I'd like to apply for exemption from graduate courses, retain my student status, and take the exams when I return. Or to put it more directly—can I replace classes with filmmaking? I'll spend my three years of graduate school making films. The films will be my dissertation. If the academy finds this option acceptable, I'll stay. If the system doesn't allow this, I hope the academy can understand—it's not that I don't want a degree, but for me, filmmaking can only be learned on the film set."

Hou Keming put his glasses back on his nose and looked at Su Chen through the lenses for several seconds. Then he stood up, walked to the window, and slowly removed a withered leaf from the potted green ivy, as if giving himself time to think.

"I've been teaching for thirty years, and not a single student has ever said what you just said to me." He turned around and looked at Su Chen. "Other students who want to be recommended for graduate school are begging the school for a spot. But you, on the other hand, are negotiating with the school."

Su Chen lowered his head slightly, waiting for criticism. But Hou Keming's tone didn't show any anger.

"However, you have a point. Making you sit in class and listen to lectures is indeed a waste of your time. I'll report this to the principal and try to get you a special training program—keeping your student status, exempting you from courses, and allowing you to submit a project instead of a thesis. But you have to agree to one condition."

"Please speak."

"Go back to the school at least once a year and give a lecture to your juniors. I don't expect you to talk about theory, just talk about what you learned on set. What did you learn on Zhang Yimou's film crew, what did you learn in Berlin, what did you learn while filming 'Love'? These are things that are not in books."

Su Chen stood up: "I promise you."

Hou Keming waved for him to sit down. He took an apple from his drawer, wiped it on his shirt, and took a bite. The apple was crisp, and the sound of the flesh breaking was particularly clear in the quiet office.

"There's one more thing. Jiang Wen's film has also been nominated at Cannes. It's called 'Devils on the Doorstep.' It's in the main competition, in the same section as yours. You need to know this."

Su Chen nodded. The name Jiang Wen carried more weight for him than any media reports he'd heard in his previous life. He'd analyzed *In the Heat of the Sun* no less than ten times in his past life, each time speechless with awe at the sheer volume of raw energy and talent it exuded. Now, he was to stand on the same stage as Jiang Wen—not as a junior paying homage to a senior, but as a direct competitor. When he wrote the script for *Love*, he originally intended for You Benchang and Wu Yanshu to play an elderly couple nearing the end of their lives, while Jiang Wen's *Devils on the Doorstep* depicted war, massacre, and the dark side of humanity. The two works had almost no aesthetic overlap, but the jury would place them side-by-side for comparison at the same discussion table.

"I've seen the rough cut of Jiang Wen's film," Hou Keming said. "It's powerful, as powerful as he is. Putting your two films together will give the jury a real headache—one is a quiet, deep-seated emotion, the other is an explosive outburst. In the end, who wins depends on the jury's taste. This year, the jury president is Luc Besson, a Frenchman who likes stylistic things but also respects humanistic depth. It's hard to say."

"I know," Su Chen said. "Being able to share the stage with him is already an honor in itself."

Hou Keming threw the apple core into the trash can and wiped his mouth. "You have a good attitude. Since that's the case, I won't give you any more advice. You've been to Cannes before, so you're familiar with the process. I'd like to change the person who accompanies you this time—Last time in Berlin, Director Zhang accompanied you, but this time I'd like to ask Professor Xie Fei to go with you. He's more familiar with the judging style and media environment at Cannes than I am."

When Su Chen came out of Hou Keming's office, it was already dark. A few students were running on the playground, the red track shimmering in the afterglow of the setting sun. One student's shoelace came undone as he ran around a bend, and he squatted down to tie it, almost tripping over the person behind him. Laughter drifted over from the other side of the track, carried far by the evening breeze.

He sat down on the steps by the playground, opened the manila envelope, and looked at the graduate school recommendation form again by the dim light of the streetlights. In the recommender section, Hou Keming and Xie Fei's names stood quietly side by side, their handwriting one firm and one gentle, like two different forces achieving a kind of balance on the paper.

He put the form away, took out his phone from his pocket, found a number, and dialed it.

"Dad," he said into the microphone, his voice unconsciously a little softer than usual, "I've been shortlisted for Cannes."

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone, then Su Zhigao's voice rang out, as deep as ever, so deep that no emotion could suppress the calm on his surface: "I know. I saw it in the newspaper."

A few more seconds of silence followed. Then Su Zhigao added, "What about the postgraduate recommendation?"

"The college has approved it. It's possible that I don't need to attend classes; I can have X-rays taken instead."

A very soft, almost imperceptible hum came from the other end of the phone. Su Chen knew it was his father's way of expressing satisfaction. Su Zhigao had never said "I love you" or "I'm proud of you" to his son in his life, but he would put a checkmark next to newspaper headlines, talk about his son to everyone he met until people avoided him, and let out that very soft hum after learning that his son had been accepted into graduate school. For Su Zhigao, this was already the limit.

"Go to Cannes and do your best," Su Zhigao said.

"Um."

The call ended. Su Chen put his phone back in his pocket, stood up, and walked towards his dormitory. The streetlights cast a long shadow of his, exactly the same as the shadow he cast a year ago when he stood alone outside the editing room at the Beijing Film Academy.

The clock on the main building of the Beijing Film Academy struck eight in the distance. Cannes was less than a month away. You Benchang and Wu Yanshu needed to apply for visas in advance, Xie Fei needed to confirm his travel arrangements, and the Cannes media materials needed to be prepared with a bilingual (Chinese and French) synopsis and director's statement. He also had to compile the feedback Han Sanping had given at the test screening and coordinate the subsequent distribution plan with the production company. These tasks were arranged in a clear line in his mind, each with a specific deadline and priority, like multiple tracks in editing software, independent yet interconnected.

He looked up, and a corner of the cloud above parted, revealing a few stars. Just as bright and serene as the stars he saw that night in Berlin when he received his award. He remembered the words that echoed in his mind as he raised the trophy under the Berlin streetlights—"Filmmaking is a group of people searching for light together in the darkness." Now, that group has grown even larger. You Benchang, Wu Yanshu, Hou Keming, Xie Fei, Zhang Yimou, Chen Kaige, Han Sanping, and Jiang Wen, who will soon be competing against him at Cannes. He is no longer alone; he has never been alone.