Rebirth of Chinese Entertainment from the Oscars

Richard did not answer immediately after listening. He leaned back in his chair, tapped his fingers lightly on the table again, and then turned to the two lawyers.

What do you think?

The lawyer in the deep red tie opened his notebook: "The third point, the final cut veto, is extremely rare in standard Hollywood contracts, especially for directors working with Warner Bros. for the first time. Normally, the final cut rights belong to the studio; the director can offer suggestions, but not veto power—"

"I understand industry practice," Su Chen interrupted the lawyer, but his tone was calm, not a rebuttal, but a statement. "But I also ask everyone to understand one thing—this is an IP I created. I have a solid understanding of it, and I know better than anyone else what this film should look like. The veto power is not a tool to fight Warner Bros., but an insurance policy to ensure the film isn't ruined. If Warner Bros. and I don't disagree on the creative direction, the veto power will never be triggered. It's not a weapon; it's a seatbelt."

These words were crafted by Su Chen using over twenty years of experience from his previous life. He knew that what Hollywood studios feared most wasn't directors setting conditions, but directors not knowing what they wanted and how to justify those "wants." When he said he "wouldn't use it easily," the lawyer's expression remained unchanged, but Richard's eyebrows twitched slightly. He was assessing the weight of those words—was it youthful bravado, or the bottom line of a professional director?

"You just said 'guarantee the movie won't be ruined,'" Richard leaned forward, placing his hands on the project proposal, his gaze fixed directly on Su Chen's face.

"I think any production company could potentially ruin a good project without even realizing it." Su Chen met his gaze, his tone calm. "I've seen too many examples of this in my past life—a good concept, a good team, but ultimately, because some decision-maker makes a decision on a certain detail that doesn't understand the core of the story, the whole film goes astray. I won't let that happen to my work. That's why Light & Shadow Era is involved as a co-producer—we're willing to invest real money and take the risk, rather than just selling the IP and sitting on the sidelines watching."

Richard remained silent for a long while. Outside the window, the palm trees swayed gently in the breeze from the air conditioner's outdoor unit. Inside the office, only the low hum of the air conditioner and the occasional footsteps from the corridor could be heard.

“I appreciate your honesty,” Richard finally spoke, pushing the project proposal towards Su Chen. “I also admire your willingness to invest your own funds. This shows you have confidence in yourself and in this project. To be honest, we’ve seen too many creators who, when negotiating terms, want to lock all rights in their own hands, but when it comes to getting them to put their own money in, they start to back down. You’re not like that.”

He paused, picked up the phone, and dialed an internal number: "Get Claudia over here—the head of the copyright group in the legal department. Yes, now."

While waiting for Claudia, Jason conveniently placed a credit reference document for the film company on Richard's desk. The document contained the company's registration information in Delaware, a description of the asset restructuring held by Eric on behalf of the company, and a credit reference for Su Chen's US bank account—documents that Eric and the legal team had prepared in advance via overseas email during their time in Cannes. Each page bore a notarized seal, the smooth paper reflecting slightly under the light. Richard flipped through the pages, and when he reached the credit reference page, his eyebrows twitched slightly. He knew what he was talking about—a starting capital of twenty million dollars, and the visible ability to make further investments, was enough to qualify an independent production company to sit at Warner Bros.' negotiating table. Not as a creator being given a handout, but as an equal partner.

Claudia entered, a woman in her fifties with short gray hair and narrow-rimmed glasses, carrying a black folder. Richard quickly recounted the four core demands Su Chen had just raised, and Claudia listened and nodded, clearly more familiar with these clauses than the two legal counsel present. She didn't immediately express her opinion, but instead sat down in the chair next to Richard, flipped through a few pages of the folder, and occasionally drew a small circle in the margin with her pen.

  

For the next three hours, Su Chen, Jason, Eric, Richard, Claudia, and two legal counsel discussed and revised every detail of the contract in Warner's office on the fourth floor, which overlooked the photography studio.

The revenue-sharing ratio for co-production partners was negotiated from the initial 15% to 20%—Jason convinced Warner's financial analysis team by demonstrating the actual investment and risk-bearing proportion of Light & Shadow Era in the budget model. The final cut veto clause, after repeated negotiations, was finally settled with additional conditions: Su Chen had veto power, but if the final cut budget was within the agreed-upon reasonable range and the test screening rating reached the pre-agreed benchmark, any disagreements between the parties must be resolved through a third-party professional opinion, and unilateral indefinite delays were not permitted. The 30% investment in the sequel was locked in the contract; Warner could decide whether to proceed with the sequel, but if it was, Light & Shadow Era's investment rights would automatically activate without renegotiation. The IP licensing fee calculation method referenced the highest standards for similar IP licensing in Hollywood at the time, and Warner didn't argue much on this point—they understood that the IP was Su Chen's original asset, not free material picked up from the public domain.

Su Chen's performance in the negotiations increasingly surprised Richard. This wasn't some teenager who had just won the Palme d'Or at Cannes and was rushing to Hollywood to cash in. He understood cost structure, risk allocation, and how to use restraint in the early stages to gain long-term initiative. When Claudia proposed a one-time buyout of the IP instead of a copyright fee plus investment rights, Su Chen politely refused, explaining, "I believe in the film's future value and am willing to take the risk with my investment rights." When the legal department's lawyers tried to make the triggering conditions for the sequel investment rights more vague, Su Chen personally drew a clear red line on the draft: "The first film's global box office exceeds four hundred million US dollars, or Warner Bros. decides to develop a sequel, whichever comes first." Claudia looked at the red line, took off her narrow-rimmed glasses, wiped the lenses, and didn't continue arguing.

As the final clause was finalized, the Hollywood Hills outside the window were bathed in the golden-red hues of the setting sun. Richard rose from his chair, stretched his stiff shoulders, and then extended his hand.

"The official version of the contract will be available in a week, and it will be signed and effective. Welcome to Hollywood, Director Su Chen."

Su Chen grasped his hand. This handshake was longer and firmer than the one in Cannes; it was no longer a test, but a signing of a shared commitment.

"Thank you. I will finish all the storyboards before filming begins, and the casting and set design will be submitted to Warner Bros. for confirmation within a month."

As Richard escorted them to the elevator, he suddenly patted Su Chen on the shoulder. This gesture was uncommon among Warner executives, who typically used handshakes and eye contact to express their attitudes; a pat on the shoulder signified a more personal form of approval.

“You know what,” Richard said, lowering his voice slightly, “I’ve been in this business for almost twenty years and have negotiated with countless directors and producers. This is the first director I’ve ever met who’s not even eighteen. And the first one who’s managed to force the legal department to change the terms at the negotiating table.”

The elevator doors opened. Su Chen stepped into the elevator and turned to face Richard. Before the elevator doors closed, Richard said again, "It's going to be released during the Christmas season. This is the kind of movie we've been waiting for. Make it well."

The elevator doors closed. Jason leaned against the elevator wall, let out a long breath, and quietly clenched his fist at his waist.

"We did it," he said.

Su Chen watched the elevator numbers descend, not answering immediately. The elevator would only take a dozen seconds to descend from the fourth floor to the lobby, but in those seconds, he mentally reviewed the entire negotiation from beginning to end. Nothing was overlooked. Every clause fell within his pre-set bottom line, some even exceeding expectations. But he also knew—the contract terms were merely theoretical. The real challenge lay ahead. He needed to prove that a Chinese director could establish himself in the mainstream Hollywood market with a $150 million family-friendly film during the Christmas season, the most competitive period of the year. And Christmas audiences voted with their wallets; no one would buy a ticket just because you were a Palme d'Or winner.

The elevator reached the lobby. The crystal chandelier still cast a warm yellow light, and Humphrey Bogart was still in that poster, his face turned to the side. Su Chen stepped out of the elevator, walked through the lobby, and pushed open the glass doors. The Los Angeles evening sun was intense, casting long shadows of palm trees on the ground. He took out his phone from his pocket and dialed Hou Keming's number. It should have been early morning in BJ when the call connected, but he knew his professor was still awake—Hou Keming had a habit of staying up all night grading student papers every summer, a routine he had maintained for decades.

"Teacher Hou."

"Su Chen? Where are you?"

"Los Angeles. Just signed a contract with Warner Bros. for 'Night at the Museum,' releasing during the Christmas season."

There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone. Then Hou Keming's voice rang out, hoarse yet carrying a familiar pride in his tone: "Every time you call me, it's with this kind of heart-wrenching news. Tell me, what are the terms?"

"20% joint investment, 30% investment right for sequels, and a final veto right. IP licensing fees are separate."

Hou Keming was silent for two seconds. This time, it wasn't out of pride, but because he was digesting the significance of these clauses in Hollywood. He was using decades of experience to weigh the weight of these words.

"Okay. Very good." His voice suddenly became extremely serious. "Listen—you don't need to worry about things at the Beijing Film Academy. I've already spoken to the president about the graduate school recommendation program, a special training program where we can use our work instead of a thesis. You can focus on filming there. But there's one thing you must promise me—make a good film. Not for Warner Bros., not for the box office, but to prove that Chinese directors can make good films in Hollywood."

"I know."

After hanging up the phone, Su Chen stood on the steps outside the Warner Bros. headquarters building, looking at the palm trees in the distance and the Hollywood sign further away. The California evening sky was a deep blue, as if it had been soaked in some kind of dye. The white lettering on the Hollywood sign was tinged with a pale gold by the setting sun.

He recalled those nights when he was sixteen, writing novels at his desk in the Beijing Film Studio compound, submitting them under the pen name Daniel. Those novels were the first seeds he planted in this world. Now those seeds had grown into a tree nurtured by Warner Bros., and in the coming months, he would make that tree bloom with flowers that would make children all over the world laugh out loud in movie theaters.

The streetlights came on. Night fell quickly in Burbank. Su Chen zipped up his coat and walked down the steps. Jason and Eric were already waiting for him in the Lincoln Town Car ahead. Jason's excited voice could be heard from inside the car as he discussed the next production schedule with Eric.

Su Chen opened the car door, sat in the back seat, and straightened the seat.

"Let's go eat. Then go back to the hotel. I'm going to start drawing storyboards tomorrow."

The car pulled out of Warner Bros.' parking lot and merged into the evening traffic of Los Angeles. Su Chen leaned back in his seat, watching the city lights stream past the window. He silently laid out his schedule: the storyboards and casting for *Night at the Museum* had to be completed within a month so that filming could begin in time for the Christmas post-production season. The initial funding for Light & Shadow Era needed to be secured this month. Jason needed to scout out his first project in the American independent film industry that fit the Blumhouse model—those low-budget, innovative horror film scripts that hadn't been picked up by major studios. And he also needed to go back to Beijing—not for rest, but to settle some things back home before starting his graduate studies.

He closed his eyes, his mind already sketching out the first set of scenes for the museum lobby. The Tyrannosaurus Rex skeleton trembled slightly in the moonlight, Roosevelt's wax figure adjusted his tie on his pedestal, and the unfortunate night security guard was fast asleep behind the service desk, completely unaware of everything.