Rebirth of Chinese Entertainment from the Oscars

Cannes, France, May 2000.

The Mediterranean breeze blew in from the sea, carrying the scent of salt and sunscreen. Palm tree shadows fell along the seaside promenade, fragmented by the sunlight. Film festival posters were everywhere, and street-side cafes were filled with filmmakers sporting badges; every few steps, you could hear a different language. This city usually had only 70,000 inhabitants, but every May it swallowed up over 40,000 directors, actors, producers, journalists, and distributors from all over the world. Standing on the balcony of his Carlton Hotel room, Su Chen felt that Cannes was more like a temporary country occupied by film.

Xie Fei was organizing media materials in the room behind him, arranging the bilingual (Chinese and French) plot synopsis and director's statement in order, his movements unhurried and deliberate, exactly like the pace he used to maintain when organizing papers in his office at the Beijing Film Academy. You Benchang and Wu Yanshu lived in the next room. When Su Chen knocked on the door, he heard You Benchang's voice inside, discussing the red carpet positioning with Wu Yanshu—"You walk on the left, the lighting is better on the left, the photos will make you look younger." Wu Yanshu laughed, saying, "We're already this old, what's the point of looking young?" You Benchang didn't reply, but when he opened the door, Su Chen saw he was holding a comb—the same comb he used to comb Wang Xiulan's hair every day on set.

The premiere of *Amour* was scheduled for the afternoon of May 17th in the Lumière Theatre. The main screening room, which can accommodate 5 people, is the largest screen in the Palais des Festivals in Cannes. When Su Chen and his crew walked the red carpet, the photographers on both sides didn't call out his name—they called him "Le jeune réalisateur chinois" (The Young Chinese Director). The flashes were so intense it was blinding. Su Chen was wearing the black suit he brought from Beijing—the same one from Berlin. He had changed the tie his mother had picked out for him, opting for a dark gray one, because *Amour* didn't need bright colors. You Benchang wore a dark blue Zhongshan suit, and Wu Yanshu wore a dark green cheongsam. The two walked slowly side by side on the red carpet; it wasn't a staged photo, it was their natural walking pace. Su Chen walked behind them, deliberately keeping a two-step distance. The red carpet belonged to Liu Jianguo and Wang Xiulan; he was just the one who pressed play.

As the Lumière Theatre dimmed, Su Chen sat in the third row by the aisle, just as he had at the Berlin premiere. The screen lit up. The first image—the greyish-white winter sky of Beijing, frost forming on the fourth-floor windows. The twelve-second static shot that had been waited for in the minus ten-degree outdoor temperature was now magnified dozens of times, filling the entire screen. Two thousand three hundred strangers silently watched the melting ice crystals.

Su Chen didn't look at the screen. He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds in the theater. Not the background music, but the breathing of the audience. It was the most honest feedback—a more accurate measuring instrument than any film review. When Liu Jianguo first fed Wang Xiulan, he could hear the faint rustling of clothes in the row in front of him; someone was adjusting their posture, their body involuntarily leaning forward. When Wang Xiulan lost control of her bladder, the entire theater paused for a moment. When the slap landed, he heard someone gasp. The quietest moment was at the end—after the pillow slammed down, there was no breathing, no rustling of clothes, even the hum of the air conditioner seemed suppressed by some force. Su Chen opened his eyes; on the screen, Liu Jianguo lay beside his wife with his eyes closed. The image faded, the screen went black for three seconds, and then the subtitles began to scroll slowly.

The first round of applause came from the back rows. Then came the second, the third. By the time the lights came on, all 2,300 people were on their feet. It wasn't a standing ovation, but a standing salute—something quieter, more powerful. You Benchang and Wu Yanshu stood side by side, the two elderly men's hands clasped tightly together, their knuckles white, but their faces beaming with smiles. Those smiles weren't of excitement, but something closer to tranquility. Their work was finished. Regardless of the jury's final decision, the film had found its audience.

The post-screening Q&A lasted nearly an hour. Journalists from around the world asked many questions—about the film's aesthetic style, the living conditions of the elderly, and the position of Chinese films on the international stage. You Benchang said "Merci" in French, the only French phrase he had specifically learned for this Cannes Film Festival. When a French journalist asked about the creative process behind the slap scene, You Benchang didn't explain in detail, only saying, "That was Liu Jianguo's slap, not mine." The journalist pressed him on why Liu Jianguo hit her, and You Benchang paused for a few seconds before saying, "He wasn't hitting her. He was hitting himself." This statement was included in a report by an Italian journalist, titled "A Slap Shatters the Hearts of a Thousand People."

After the screening, Su Chen was surrounded by a group of people in the lobby of the cinema. There were reporters, film critics, and distributors. He shook hands with everyone, answered questions, and switched between English and Chinese constantly. Xie Fei stood next to him, helping to keep some overly enthusiastic fans at bay, while discreetly slipping several business cards into his suit pocket—these were from the heads of several major European distribution companies.

A tall man with gray hair walked through the crowd to Su Chen. Su Chen recognized him—Klaus Meier, the selection director of the Berlin Film Festival, the one who had come to greet him after the Berlin premiere last time. Meier grasped his hand, his grip as firm and strong as before.

“Your progress is even faster than I expected,” Mel said, his German-accented English still easily recognizable in the noisy hall. “Black Coal, Thin Ice is a good crime film. But Amour—it’s not just ‘good.’ It’s a film that reminds me of my parents. You’re not making films with talent, you’re making films with compassion. These are two completely different things. I’ll go back and talk to the people at Cannes about this again.”

Before Su Chen could reply, another hand reached out. The owner was an American man in his forties, wearing a well-made dark blue linen suit, no tie, and the top two buttons of his shirt undone. His curly brown hair was slightly dry from the Mediterranean sun. Standing next to him was someone Su Chen recognized from a photograph—his agent, Eric Thompson, the WME junior agent who had contacted him via fax and helped him secure his first copyright advance payment. Several years had passed; Eric's hairline had receded somewhat, but the sharpness in his eyes remained, now tinged with a newfound certainty—the confidence that came with handling star clients.

"Mr. Su Chen," Eric stepped forward, letting the American stand in front of him, "this is Richard Perkins, Vice President of Production at Warner Bros. Pictures."

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Richard Perkins's hand was broad and thick, with meticulously manicured nails, but thin calluses on the base of his thumb—not the kind of hand one develops from office work, but rather the kind that requires a strong grip from someone younger. His handshake was crisp and decisive, releasing after a couple of shakes, clearly the mark of someone accustomed to such situations, knowing when to apply pressure and when to loosen it. He was half a head taller than Su Chen, looking down slightly at the seventeen-year-old Chinese director, his blue eyes holding both scrutiny and curiosity.

"Mr. Su Chen, I've seen both of your works from Berlin and Cannes. 'Black Coal, Thin Ice' is cold, and 'Love' is heavy. To be honest, I prefer 'Love'—although it's not as commercially viable as 'Black Coal, Thin Ice.' But your technique impressed me." He spoke quickly, typical of a Los Angeles executive, each word seemingly squeezed out of his throat. "However, I'm more interested in those IPs you registered with WME a few years ago. Eric showed me the concept art for the 'Future World' series, and that book, 'Night at the Museum.'"

Su Chen glanced at Eric. Eric nodded slightly, indicating that he had already laid the groundwork for this conversation.

“Night at the Museum.” Richard repeated the name, as if savoring each syllable of the word. “The story—the exhibits in the museum coming to life at night—the concept is so interesting. Warner Bros. has been looking for a family-friendly fantasy comedy project for the past few years. You know, Disney dominates the market for these kinds of films right now, and we need something fresh. Your novel concept is great, but we need to turn it into a movie. And I think—” He looked at Su Chen, pausing with a precision as if it had been edited, “you should direct it yourself.”

This was exactly what Su Chen had expected. He had witnessed this scene far too many times in his past life—Hollywood studio executives at film festivals offering the promise that "you should direct it yourself" in exchange for control of an intellectual property. They would talk about directing, but when signing the contract, they would take away the final cut, casting rights, and music rights one by one, ultimately turning the director into a tool remotely controlled by the producer. He himself had been that tool in his past life.

But he showed no sign of wariness. He simply nodded slightly, his expression as calm as if he were listening to a weather forecast.

"I'm very willing to cooperate," Su Chen said, "but for the 'Night at the Museum' project, I hope to retain some control over the production. Not the final cut—I know the rules of Hollywood—but I need to be involved in the entire process of screenwriting, casting, and post-production. In addition, if there is a sequel to 'Night at the Museum,' I hope to retain the right of first refusal to invest."

Richard raised an eyebrow. He clearly hadn't expected a seventeen-year-old Chinese director to lay out his own conditions before Richard could even state them. He turned to look at Eric, as if asking, "Did you teach him this?" Eric shook his head almost imperceptibly, a helpless smile on his face saying, "This kid knows how to negotiate on his own; there's nothing I can do about it."

"Preferred investment rights?" Richard turned his attention back to Su Chen. "This is an unusual condition. Especially for a director who has never made any commercial films in Hollywood."

"I wrote the story for 'Night at the Museum'," Su Chen said. "I have confidence in it. If the first one is successful, I won't give up my participation in the second one. That's the only condition I won't compromise on."

The two men stared at each other for a few seconds. Richard was assessing how firm this young man's principles were. Su Chen's expression remained unchanged, as if stating a fact already confirmed.

"Interesting." Richard finally smiled—not a polite smile, but the expression of a seasoned producer at the negotiating table when faced with a serious opponent. "Alright, we can discuss the priority investment rights later. I came to see you today not to discuss contract details. I just wanted to tell you in person—I have faith in you. Not in your novel, but in you as a person. You possess something very rare. I've been in this industry for almost twenty years and have seen many young people. Some are talented but lack resolve, some have resolve but lack talent. You have both."

He glanced at the crowd behind Su Chen and lowered his voice.

"After Cannes, let's schedule a specific time to talk. Eric will arrange it. I'd like you to come to Los Angeles, see our studio, and discuss your thoughts on this project. When would be a convenient time for you?"

"Anything is fine after Cannes," Su Chen said.

Richard extended his hand, offering another crisp handshake. He then whispered a few words to Eric before turning and disappearing into the crowd at the Palais des Festivals in Cannes. Su Chen watched his retreating figure, his hands tucked into his pockets, his fingers lightly clenching into fists. In his past life, it had taken him ten years to secure his first interview with a Hollywood producer. This time, at seventeen, Warner Bros.' vice president of production was offering him an olive branch in the lobby of the Palais des Festivals in Cannes. But he felt no excitement. His past experiences had trained him into a sophisticated filter—he knew that Hollywood's olive branches were fraught with barbs. He had memorized every word Richard had said today, and he would analyze them word for word, breaking down all the terms with Eric and negotiating them one by one. Warner Bros. was one of the Big Six; collaboration was the key to unlocking Hollywood's doors, but the key and lock had to be perfectly matched. His bottom line was simple: no relinquishing creative control, no one-time buyout contracts, and all IP licensing agreements must retain the option for sequels.

The crowd gradually dispersed. The excitement of the premiere had subsided, and the flow of people in the cinema began to move towards the exit. Actors said goodbye to each other in the corridor, and reporters put away their recorders and rushed back to their hotels to write their articles. Su Chen was just about to go back to the hotel with Xie Fei to discuss the arrangements for several industry exchanges over the next two days when Eric turned back, accompanied by another person.

The man was in his early thirties, wearing a wrinkled light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His dark brown hair was a bit messy, as if he had just gotten off a plane and hadn't had time to tidy it up. He didn't have the meticulous producer's air of Richard Perkins—he looked more like an executive producer who had been overwhelmed by various trivial matters on set but had managed to stay upright. But his eyes were bright, not with the vigor of youth, but with the focused concentration of a hunter locking onto his prey.

"Mr. Su Chen, this is Jason Brun," Eric introduced. "An independent producer. He worked at Miramax for a few years and now works independently. He's very interested in your work and has been following you since Berlin."

Jason Brunn.