Rebirth of Chinese Entertainment from the Oscars

May 24, 2000, evening. Lumière Hall, Palais des Festivals, Cannes.

Su Chen sat in the third row, near the aisle, the same row and seat he'd sat in at the premiere. The lights weren't dimmed yet, and the 2,300 seats were gradually being filled. He heard people whispering in Italian behind him, and several ladies in evening gowns in the front row adjusting their shawls. The clinking of champagne glasses echoed from somewhere. The air was filled with a mixed scent only found at film festival closing ceremonies—the lingering aromas of perfume, hairspray, and red wine, along with varying degrees of tension emanating from everyone.

You Benchang sat to his left, wearing the same dark blue Zhongshan suit he wore on the premiere's red carpet. Wu Yanshu sat to You Benchang's left as well, her dark green cheongsam perfectly pressed without a single wrinkle. Her hands were clasped together on her knees, her knuckles slightly white from the pressure. Su Chen reached out and gently placed his hand on the back of Wu Yanshu's hand. That hand was cool, just as cool as the hand You Benchang had held on set.

"Teacher You, Teacher Wu," Su Chen said in a low voice, "no matter the outcome, this film has already done what it was supposed to do."

You Benchang turned and glanced at him, his eyes filled with a tacit understanding that could only be cultivated after a whole month spent together on set. "Director Su, at my age, winning awards isn't important anymore. But I want to see you win one."

The lights dimmed. The entire room fell silent.

The closing ceremony was hosted by renowned French actress Isabelle Huppert, who stood center stage in a simply tailored black dress, delivering her opening remarks in French. Su Chen could understand most of it—he had taught himself French in his previous life to study European films, and although his spoken French had a noticeable English accent, his listening comprehension was sufficient for this occasion. Huppert's voice echoed through the Lumière Hall, carrying the unique elegance and rhythm of French, with each syllable pronounced perfectly.

The short film awards were presented first. Su Chen recalled receiving awards in the short film sections of Venice and Cannes a year ago—back then, he stood on the stage, and the whole world was amazed that a sixteen-year-old boy could make such things. Now he sat in his seat in the main competition, waiting for the Palme d'Or.

The Jury Prize was awarded to an Iranian film. The Best Screenplay Award went to an American independent film directed by an African American director. The Special Jury Prize was won by a Finnish director.

Then comes the Best Actress award.

Su Chen felt Wu Yanshu's hand tremble slightly in his palm. He gently squeezed her hand. The presenter announced the name of a French actress, and applause erupted throughout the hall. Wu Yanshu's hand slowly relaxed amidst the applause, her face showing no disappointment, only a gentle sense of relief. She turned to Su Chen with a slight smile and gently patted the back of his hand, as if to say, "It's okay."

Best Actor Award.

The presenter had changed—this year's jury member, a tall, thin British actor with graying hair, greeted the audience in French before switching to English. He opened the envelope slowly, as if deliberately stalling for time. The entire audience held their breath. Then he looked down at the name inside the envelope, a barely perceptible smile playing on his lips.

"You Benchang, Love".

You Benchang seemed frozen in his seat. His body stiffened for half a second, then he turned to look at Su Chen, his eyes, which had been used to acting his entire life, now devoid of any finesse. Wu Yanshu had already started crying, covering her mouth with her hands, her shoulders trembling slightly. Su Chen stood up and hugged You Benchang.

"Teacher You, let's go up," he said, almost exactly the same thing Berlin said to Liao Fan, but this time his voice was even hoarser.

You Benchang walked slowly onto the stage, as if measuring the path he had walked in his life. He accepted the Best Actor trophy from the presenter and stood silently in front of the microphone for nearly ten seconds. Then he spoke, his voice hoarse but powerful, each word like water drawn from a deep well.

"I'm sixty-seven years old this year. I've been on stage for over forty years. I've played Ji Gong, Zhou Puyuan, and Qin Erye. But no one has ever asked me to play the male lead in a movie. Until a sixteen-year-old director came knocking on my door with a script." He paused, his gaze finding Su Chen in the audience. "Director Su Chen, you gave me Liu Jianguo. Thank you."

He paused, raised the trophy to his chest, and his voice suddenly became more steady: "I'll take this trophy back to show my wife. She's taken care of me for forty years; she knows who Liu Jianguo is."

Thunderous applause erupted from the audience. Wu Yanshu's makeup was ruined from crying, but she didn't wipe it away, just clapping vigorously. Xie Fei gently patted her shoulder beside her, his own eyes red-rimmed. Su Chen lowered his head, pressing his thumb to the corner of his eye. He hadn't cried in Berlin, hadn't cried in the editing room at the Beijing Film Academy, hadn't cried on set when he saw You Benchang slap him. But now his eyes stung—not because of the award, but because of the words You Benchang spoke on the Cannes stage.

"I've played Ji Gong, but no one has ever asked me to play the male lead in a movie."

Best Director Award.

Su Chen leaned back in his chair and exhaled. He had been so excited about You Benchang that he had lost his composure, and now he needed to calm himself down. The award presenter was the Italian director on the jury. He read out a jury comment in heavily accented English, then opened the envelope—"Jiang Wen, *Devils on the Doorstep*."

Su Chen was the first to applaud. Not just a polite clapping, but a genuine, forceful clapping. Jiang Wen stood up from the back row, his tall figure appearing particularly imposing under the lights, his white shirt trembling slightly from the applause. He paused as he passed Su Chen, their eyes meeting for a fleeting moment. Jiang Wen said nothing, only nodded, but that nod contained something Su Chen immediately understood—respect between colleagues. Su Chen had heard about Jiang Wen's *Devils on the Doorstep* before coming to Cannes; it was a film that struck at humanity in a completely different way. Watching Jiang Wen accept the Best Director award from jury president Luc Besson, he suddenly wondered—if Jiang Wen won Best Director, where would the Palme d'Or go?

The Jury Prize.

This award is often considered the second best in the Palme d'Or, sometimes even closer in prestige than the Best Director award. The presenter opened the envelope and read out a name that stirred something within Su Chen—"Devils on the Doorstep, Jiang Wen."

The audience erupted in applause once again. Jiang Wen, who had just stepped down from the Best Director stage, hadn't even settled in before standing up again. He walked onto the stage, accepted the trophy, faced the microphone, remained silent for a long while, and then said in Chinese a sentence that silenced the entire Chinese film industry: "This award is for the film itself. It carries more weight than Best Director."

Watching Jiang Wen's retreating figure, Su Chen felt a chord being plucked in his heart. "Devils on the Doorstep" won both Best Director and the Jury Prize, a rare double affirmation in Cannes history. This meant the jury's recognition of "Devils on the Doorstep" had been fully expressed. Only two films still had a chance at the Palme d'Or—Wong Kar-wai's "In the Mood for Love" and his "Amour."

He turned and glanced at the man in a dark suit and sunglasses sitting not far away. Wong Kar-wai. His face was expressionless, the sunglasses concealing any possible emotion in his eyes. His film *In the Mood for Love* caused a huge sensation at its Cannes premiere; its extreme expression of Eastern aesthetics and Christopher Doyle's psychedelic cinematography captivated European film critics. But Su Chen had a feeling that *Amour* might be closer to the jury's core aesthetic this year than *In the Mood for Love*—Luc Besson likes stylization, but he values ​​even more a film's examination of the essence of life.

The Palme d'Or.

  

The lights in the entire venue were turned up to their brightest. Luc Besson himself walked onto the stage, holding a dark blue envelope. The French director, who made films such as "Léon: The Professional" and "The Fifth Element," stood in front of the microphone, but instead of opening the envelope, he spoke first.

"This year's jury spent a long time deliberating. There were two films, and it would be a pity if either of them didn't win the Palme d'Or. They represent two completely different kinds of cinematic beauty—one is visual, sensual, and overwhelming; the other is restrained, profound, and ingrained. We needed to make a choice between these two kinds of beauty."

He paused.

"Our choice is—'Love,' by Su Chen."

The Lumière Hall was split in two in that instant. One half erupted in thunderous applause, the other a fleeting silence born of sheer shock. Then, the silence was swallowed up by the applause. Su Chen was pulled to his feet by Xie Fei, then tightly embraced by You Benchang's hands—the same hands that had slapped him on set. Wu Yanshu, no longer caring about her composure, clung to Su Chen's arm, tears soaking the shoulder of his suit jacket. Su Chen turned to look at the back row and saw Jiang Wen in the crowd—he was also clapping, his smile genuine, the kind of smile that says, "I lost to you, but I accept it." Then Su Chen saw Wong Kar-wai sitting on the other side, the corners of his mouth slightly upturned behind his sunglasses, also clapping politely.

Xie Fei whispered something in his ear, but the applause was too loud for him to hear. He only saw Xie Fei's gray hair trembling slightly under the lights, the old professor's lips quivering, and tears streaming down his deep wrinkles. This was the first time Su Chen had ever seen Xie Fei cry—he had taught at the Beijing Film Academy for decades, read countless student works, and never shed a tear in front of his students. But today he cried.

Su Chen walked up the steps to the podium. Each step was firm, as if he were pressing these steps into the deepest part of his memory. He remembered many things—the room in the Beijing Film Studio compound filled with film reels, the lonely moment under the streetlights in a Berlin winter night holding the Silver Bear, Liao Fan lying in the snow at minus twenty degrees Celsius for thirty seconds on the Harbin film set, You Benchang holding his hand on the film set one morning and saying, "Liu Jianguo doesn't want to hit her," and Wu Yanshu looking up from her wheelchair and saying, "She's waiting for him to come and let her go."

Luc Besson handed him the Palme d'Or trophy. The golden palm leaf shimmered under the spotlight, heavier than the Silver Bear, heavier than any trophy he had ever won in his previous life. Luc Besson whispered in French, "Félicitations, jeune homme. (Congratulations, young man.)"

Su Chen stood in front of the microphone, silent for five seconds. It wasn't that he didn't know what to say; it was that his throat was full of words, and he needed time to clear them. Then he spoke. Not in French, not in English, but in Chinese.

"Thank you to the jury. Thank you, Cannes."

His voice was amplified by the Lumière Hall's sound system, and every word clearly reached the ears of the 2,300 audience members.

"This film was inspired by a question—when a person loses all ability to express herself, where does her dignity remain? It took me a long time to understand that the answer is not in the director's lens, nor in the script's lines, but in the actor's body."

He turned towards where You Benchang and Wu Yanshu were sitting.

"Teacher You Benchang, Teacher Wu Yanshu, you taught me what acting is. You put the weight of your lives into this 90-minute film. This Palme d'Or does not belong to me alone; it belongs to Liu Jianguo, to Wang Xiulan, and to everyone who strives to maintain dignity at the end of their lives."

He paused again, raised the trophy to his chest, and looked at the densely packed faces below the stage. There were many Chinese faces and many foreign faces. Jiang Wen was wiping his eyes with his sleeve, while Wong Kar-wai took off his sunglasses and was quietly clapping. Han Sanping sat in the back row, his palms red from clapping, his face filled with barely suppressed pride.

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

He bowed. Applause surged from all directions, engulfing the entire Lumière Hall. Flashbulbs lit up the room, turning it into a white ocean, and cameras focused on the seventeen-year-old Palme d'Or winner on stage.

Su Chen straightened up and walked down the steps amidst applause and flashing lights. He didn't cry, but something was burning in his chest, a burning that wasn't painful, but rather warm, like the sunlight that shone through the window on that morning on the film set and fell on the backs of You Benchang and Wu Yanshu's hands.

After the awards ceremony, Su Chen was surrounded by a group of people backstage. There were reporters, film critics, and directors from other countries. He shook hands with everyone, answered questions, and exchanged business cards. A French reporter asked him in French, "Do you think you will be the next Chen Kaige?" He replied, "I am Su Chen." An American reporter asked him in English, "Will you go to Hollywood next?" He replied, "I will go to all the places with good stories."

Chen Kaige appeared before him at some point. This Chinese director, who won the Palme d'Or in 1993 for "Farewell My Concubine"—the only Chinese director to have received this honor before—stood before Su Chen and looked at him for several seconds. Then he extended his hand and shook hands firmly with Su Chen.

"I knew you'd get it sooner or later," Chen Kaige said, his voice so low that only Su Chen could hear it. "I just didn't expect it to be so soon. Come on, let me show you around."

Chen Kaige led Su Chen through the backstage corridor of the Cannes Film Festival. He walked slowly, but each step exuded the composure of a veteran director. Su Chen walked beside him, still processing everything that had happened in the past few minutes.

"Do you remember what I said to you at the Beijing Film Academy screening?" Chen Kaige said as he walked, his voice calm and unhurried. "Film is the art of time. You are in a dark space, with a group of strangers, sharing a frozen moment in time. The two thousand three hundred people in the Lumière Hall today will always remember this day. They spent one hundred and ten minutes with you in the darkness—during that time, they weren't just watching a movie; they were living out the lives of Liu Jianguo and Wang Xiulan. This is the most remarkable thing that film can do."

He paused for a moment and turned to Su Chen.

"Do you know what I'm most worried about about you?"

Su Chen shook his head.

"What I'm most worried about is that you won the award too quickly. Seventeen years old, the Palme d'Or. Anyone else might have gotten carried away—went to Hollywood, made blockbusters, made money, and forgot why they made movies in the first place. But you don't seem to have."

Su Chen didn't answer. He recalled his past life—he had spent his entire life just to get an Oscar nomination, without any other awards. Back then, he thought what he wanted was recognition. But in this life, he understood that what he wanted had nothing to do with trophies. What he wanted was to light a fire in the darkness, so that others could see it.

"Teacher Chen, I don't know how," he said. His voice was soft, but steady.

Chen Kaige looked at him and nodded.

"After this film is finished, you need to think about what you're going to do next." Chen Kaige's tone was both admonishing and expectant. "You'll keep making films, right? Whether in China or abroad. You already have two films that have proven yourself. Next, go and make some bigger, more different films. Let the world see that Chinese directors can make anything."

It was already past midnight when he returned to the hotel. Su Chen placed the Palme d'Or trophy on the table, next to the Silver Bear. The silver bear and the golden palm leaf shimmered differently under the lamplight—one cold, the other warm. Between the two trophies lay the dark brown-covered notebook he had brought from Beijing. He opened the notebook, flipping through the densely packed biographical sketches, scene analyses, and shooting notes, until he reached the page with the bookmark. There, he had written the first line—"Love. February 16, 2000."

He added two more lines below that line—

"May 24, 2000, Cannes. You Benchang, Best Actor."

"May 24, 2000, Cannes. Amour, Palme d'Or."

Then he closed his notebook and went out onto the balcony. The Mediterranean night breeze carried the scent of salt and the cries of seabirds flying away, and the moonlight laid a silvery path across the sea. He remembered what he had said in Berlin—that filmmaking is a group of people searching for light together in the darkness. Today, in the magnificent Lumière Hall of the Cannes Film Palace, they had found it.

The light was still on in the next room. You Benchang and Wu Yanshu were still awake; their hushed conversation, punctuated by occasional laughter, could be heard through the wall. Su Chen leaned against the balcony railing, closing his eyes. There was still much to do tomorrow—the Warner negotiations needed to continue, he needed to contact Jason Brun, he needed to go back and confirm his graduate school application, and preparations were underway for a film in the second half of the year that would make audiences laugh out loud in theaters. But tonight, he wanted to savor this moment a little longer. The weight of the Palme d'Or, the Mediterranean night breeze, the laughter from the next room.

In Cannes, he won the Palme d'Or. The road ahead is long, but he is no longer the boy walking alone in the dark.