Rebirth of Chinese Entertainment from the Oscars

Su Chen's pupils contracted slightly. That name, that face much younger than he remembered—Bruno Pictures. The future Bruno Pictures, Hollywood's most successful low-budget horror film production company, the producer of the *Insidious*, *The Conjuring*, and *Paranormal Activity* series, the pioneer and ultimate winner of the low-budget, high-return model, the genius operator who turned millions of dollars into billions at the box office. But that was many years later. The current Jason Bruno was just an independent producer, his shirt wrinkled, searching for opportunities at film festivals, fresh off quitting Miramax to work independently.

Su Chen extended his hand: "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Brun."

"Call me Jason." His handshake was quick, his palm slightly damp from the Cannes summer heat. He didn't back away after releasing my hand, but stood still, leaning slightly forward. "I've seen two of your films. *Black Coal, Thin Ice* had a beautiful pacing, but *Amour*—to be honest, I cried while watching it. The last time I cried in a movie theater was ten years ago. My mother became paralyzed the year before last, and my father is taking care of her. Every detail you filmed was right—feeding, turning her over, wiping her hands, that quiet. It wasn't quiet written in a script; it was real quiet. Only someone who has truly seen it could film it."

He spoke quickly, but not in the executive-like speed of Richard Perkins—Jason's speed was excited speed, a speed that squeezed a whole string of thoughts into a very short sentence. Before Su Chen could answer, he continued speaking.

"But I'm not here to talk to you about 'Love' today. That film is too unique; I can't think of anything I can do to help it right now." He paused, as if organizing his thoughts. "I want to talk to you about something else. Eric told me you have a bunch of genre film IP concepts."

Su Chen nodded.

“I’ve been looking for a business model,” Jason said. “Low cost, high concept, genre films. Horror, suspense, fantasy—anything goes, but it has to be a project with manageable production costs and a sufficiently novel concept. I worked at Miramax for a few years and learned a lot, but the biggest lesson was: Hollywood is too expensive. Independent productions have to cut costs to the bare minimum to survive. My theory is—if a film costs more than five million dollars, it’s not worth making it as an independent production. Below five million, you don’t need to please everyone; you only need to please your core audience. Horror, thriller, dark comedy—these genres have extremely loyal audiences; as long as you make a good enough film, they will go to the theater.”

When he mentioned "five million dollars," Su Chen's heart skipped a beat. The Blumhouse model—Jason Blum in his previous life had used this model to build Blumhouse into one of Hollywood's most valuable independent production brands. Low-budget horror films, fixed budgets, giving directors creative freedom, using revenue-sharing incentives instead of high upfront salaries, controlling risk but never controlling creativity. This model had been studied countless times by Hollywood twenty years later, but in this era—the summer of 2000—no one had yet systematically proposed it.

"Interesting." Su Chen said these three words very seriously, not perfunctorily, but genuinely. He took out a notebook and pen from his pocket, turned to a new page, and said, "Tell me your specific thoughts."

Jason's eyes lit up. He clearly hadn't expected the other person to be willing to listen—most people at film festivals would politely nod and walk away upon hearing the term "low-budget horror film." He pulled up a chair next to him, took a crumpled stack of documents from his briefcase, and spread them on his lap.

"I've studied a model. Let's say we keep the budget for a single film under five million dollars. Production and marketing total no more than ten million. If the box office exceeds thirty million—which isn't difficult in the horror genre, as long as the concept is novel and the execution is good, the core audience will buy it—you've already made a profit. If the box office exceeds fifty million or even higher, the return on investment is ten or even dozens of times. Of course, the premise is that you have a batch of IPs that can be enhanced by a low budget, not IPs that require a high budget to succeed. Horror and thriller films are best suited for this model because their core selling point is not visual effects, but psychological effects. A scary enough concept, plus a smart enough script, plus a director willing to cooperate, can keep the cost below five million. The key is that you must consider the cost at the script stage—you can't write a scene that requires blowing up an entire street and then think about how to save money. Saving money must start with creativity."

Su Chen listened and slowly nodded. This was completely consistent with the Bren Room model he had studied in his previous life, and this version of Jason Bren seemed to have started thinking about this issue earlier than his predecessor. Perhaps it was because history had already begun to shift due to Su Chen's appearance—or perhaps Jason was simply more precocious than anyone imagined.

"Do you have any specific projects in hand?" Su Chen asked.

"I had ideas, but no intellectual property." Jason's frankness was surprising. "After leaving Miramax, I was looking for an original concept that would fit this model. But good horror concepts are so rare—either they're remakes of old movies, or they're truly new and memorable concepts. I searched for six months, read a ton of scripts, and most of them were imitations of Scream or The Blair Witch Project."

As he said this, he seemed to suddenly remember something and looked up at Su Chen: "Have you ever thought about this? Haven't you written a lot of novels of various genres—horror films, thrillers—you should have a lot of ideas in your head."

Su Chen thought for a moment, then didn't answer directly. He looked at the crumpled stack of documents on Jason Brun's lap—covered in pencil, filled with budget models, market analyses, and risk control plans, some parts circled, others marked with question marks. This man had spent several years at one of Hollywood's mainstream production companies, but instead of chasing big-budget, big-star blockbusters, he chose the narrowest path—making the smartest films with the least amount of money. Su Chen had read Brun's case study in his previous life and knew what it looked like once this path was successful, but at this moment, on this Cannes afternoon, Jason Brun was just an independent producer with a crumpled shirt, clutching a stack of business plans no one had ever read, bumping into walls in the Palais des Festivals lobby.

"Jason," Su Chen closed his notebook, pen clipped to the cover, "would you like to come to China?"

Jason was taken aback.

"I have some early drafts of genre films, including horror and thrillers. These projects are suitable for a low-budget model. If you'd like, we can sit down in Beijing and pick out a few of the most likely to be successful, and try one out first. If it works out, we might be able to start a company together."

Jason Brun's expression shifted from confusion to seriousness. He rested one hand on his knee, while the other pressed the stack of documents against his lap, as if afraid they would fall to the ground. Su Chen recognized this body language—it was the way a producer involuntarily tensed his back when he heard a proposal he had a vague premonition would change his career.

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"You mean—we should start an independent production company together?"

"That's one way to understand it," Su Chen said, "but this requires a more detailed discussion and isn't suitable to be discussed standing in the corridor of the cinema palace."

Jason stood up, quickly and forcefully stuffing the scattered documents back into his briefcase, as if he had suddenly found a goal worth pursuing with all his might. He pulled a business card from the side pocket of his briefcase and handed it to Su Chen with both hands. The card was thin, with slightly worn edges, clearly having been stored in his bag for a long time after printing. It only contained his name, phone number, and email address; no company name, no title, and no gold foil embossing. In Hollywood, someone without a title is either just starting out or preparing to start. Jason Brund belonged to the latter.

Su Chen took the business card and wrote down his contact information on a torn page from his notebook.

"We'll stay in touch after Cannes," he said. "Once my schedule is finalized, I'll have Eric schedule a time to meet with you."

After Jason left, Eric stood there for a while before finally speaking: "What you just said to him about a new independent production company—are you serious?"

"Eric, trust me." Su Chen tucked the notebook into his pocket, watching Jason's retreating figure disappear into the crowd—the man was unaware that he was chasing a future that could rewrite the entire industry. "What Hollywood lacks right now isn't blockbusters. Anyone can make blockbusters, as long as they have a sufficient budget. What it lacks is a low-cost, high-return independent production model. This guy has thought about so many things that no one has been willing to listen to. Give him a chance, and he'll do a better job than any producer I've ever met."

When Su Chen walked out of the Palais des Festivals, it was already dark in Cannes. The Mediterranean sunset painted the palm trees golden-red, and the crowds on the promenade were still bustling; some were rushing to their next screening, while others chatted with wine glasses in front of cafes. He saw Jiang Wen walking towards him from another direction, wearing a white shirt with the collar open, his hair shorter than in the promotional photos. The two nodded to each other from a short distance away, then went their separate ways. The jury for the main competition had witnessed all of this.

In the hotel room, Xie Fei had already organized all the documents for him, dividing them into three stacks according to date and priority, securing each stack with a different colored paperclip, and arranging them neatly on the table. The old man sat in a chair by the window, holding a half-read novel, the lamplight casting a warm glow on his gray hair. Seeing Su Chen return, he put down the book and asked, "How did it go?" Su Chen briefly explained Warner's intentions and Jason Brun's proposal. Xie Fei nodded after listening, only saying, "You're much more clear-headed than I was when I was young," before picking up the book again.

Su Chen sat on the bed, opening his notebook. The orange light of dusk streamed in through the window, falling on his lap. He wrote three words on a new page of the notebook—

"Love, Cannes, Waiting."

"Warner, negotiate, hold the line."

"Jason Buren, the Buren House model, let's discuss this in detail back home."

Then he closed his laptop, stretched his legs, and leaned against the headboard. The Mediterranean Sea in the distance turned a deep blue in the night, and the lights of a ship on the horizon moved slowly, flashing like an invisible signal. He had been in this world for four years. Four years ago, he woke up in his room in the Beijing Film Studio compound, the same moon shining through his window. Now he lay in a hotel room by the Mediterranean, holding an olive branch from Warner Bros. and a business card of the future founder of Bren House. Everything was just beginning.

He closed his eyes. The sea breeze from Cannes blew in through the cracks in the balcony, carrying a salty smell and the faint strains of jazz music from a restaurant in the distance. He could hear You Benchang and Wu Yanshu laughing in the next room—he didn't know what they were talking about, perhaps rehearsing tomorrow's interview, or maybe just chatting. The sounds came through the thin hotel walls, carrying a reassuring calmness.

Su Chen turned over and pulled the blanket up over his shoulder.

There will be more meetings tomorrow, and the awards ceremony the day after. The battle in Cannes is not over yet. But he knows that no matter what the jury decides, *Amour* has completed its journey. The rest is up to tomorrow.