Rebirth of Chinese Entertainment from the Oscars

"And the Oscar goes to..."

The French actress opened the envelope, glanced down at the name, and a clear smile spread across her face. She leaned forward slightly, brought her mouth close to the microphone, and as she pronounced the name in her French accent, the last syllable rose slightly.

"Love, Dan Su."

The entire venue fell silent for a moment, then burst into applause like a tsunami.

Su Chen's arm was grabbed by Wu Yanshu's hand—the old woman's fingers were clenched tightly, tears were already sliding down her cheeks, but she didn't wipe them away, just held onto Su Chen's arm tightly, as if afraid he would disappear. You Benchang stood up from his seat, turned to face Su Chen, and placed his hands on Su Chen's shoulders. The old man's eyes were red-rimmed, but he was smiling—the same look Liu Jianguo had given her when he reached out to touch her face after slapping her on set. "Director Su. Palme d'Or, Golden Globe, now the Oscars." He pulled Su Chen into his arms forcefully, the strength of the hug making Su Chen's shoulders ache slightly, but he didn't let go.

Su Chen stood up and buttoned his suit jacket back up. He turned to You Benchang and Wu Yanshu, his voice steady, but each word seemed to be pushed out of his throat with great effort: "Teacher You, Teacher Wu, come up with me. This award belongs to all three of us."

You Benchang shook his head: "You're the director, you go up there."

"This award wouldn't be complete without Liu Jianguo and Wang Xiulan." Su Chen held out his hand—a hand that hovered steadily between the two elderly people. "Come on."

You Benchang lowered his head and wiped his eye with his thumb. Then he took Wu Yanshu's hand, and the two of them walked side by side behind Su Chen up the steps of the temple's grand hall. Their pace was neither fast nor slow, the same speed they walked on the Cannes red carpet, the same speed they walked from the bedroom to the living room on set. Every step was firm, as if they had trodden a lifetime's worth of paths into those few steps.

Su Chen accepted the Oscar from the French actress. The little golden statuette gleamed heavily under the spotlight. He glanced down at it—not at the statuette, but at his own hand. That hand had held a pencil four years ago, writing "Your Name"; three years ago, it had held a 16mm film camera, shooting "The Black Hole"; two years ago, it had held a walkie-talkie in the snow of Harbin; a year ago, it had held the hands of You Benchang and Wu Yanshu. Now it held an Oscar trophy.

He placed the trophy on the podium and leaned forward slightly. His gaze swept over the densely packed faces of the world's top filmmakers below the stage.

"Thank you to the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. Thank you to the jury for their recognition."

His English was steady and clear, each syllable falling into the silence of the temple's great hall.

Seven years ago, Chinese filmmakers received an Oscar nomination for Best Foreign Language Film for "Farewell My Concubine." That film showed us that Chinese stories can be heard on any stage in the world. Tonight, we stand here with another Chinese story—a story about how two elderly people maintain their dignity at the end of their lives.

He paused. Someone in the front row was rubbing the corner of their eye with a handkerchief.

"This film was shot in an old residential building in Beijing. We had a very small budget, a small team, two actors whose combined age was over 130, and a 17-year-old director. But in that tiny room, we captured what we believed was most important."

  

He turned to You Benchang and Wu Yanshu. The two elderly people stood a step behind him, shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand. Tears streamed down Wu Yanshu's chin, but she stood ramrod straight, just as she had said on set—"I will not desecrate her with my performance." You Benchang's jaw trembled slightly, but his eyes shone with an astonishing light, like someone who had finally been seen by the world, someone who had stood on the stage for forty years, being illuminated by the world's spotlight for the first time.

"Teacher You Benchang, Teacher Wu Yanshu—this film belongs to you. Liu Jianguo and Wang Xiulan belong to you. This award also belongs to you. Thank you for dedicating your lives to helping me complete this 90-minute film."

He paused, then added the last paragraph in Chinese.

"Thank you to my parents. Thank you to the Beijing Film Academy. Thank you to every member of the crew who waited with me for the frost to melt in the minus ten-degree morning. Thank you for making me believe that filmmaking is about a group of people finding light together in the darkness."

He bowed. Applause surged from all directions, flooding the entire temple hall like a tide. The entire audience rose to their feet—not just a perfunctory stand, but a standing ovation that lasted a full thirty seconds, from the front row to the back, from the judges' seats to the actors' seats.

You Benchang and Wu Yanshu stepped forward and stood side by side with Su Chen on the stage. Three filmmakers, a small golden statuette, and a huge Oscar backdrop behind them. You Benchang reached out and gently touched the base of the trophy, as if confirming its reality—not a prop, not a dream, but a real golden statuette, the name "Love" engraved on the base. Wu Yanshu wiped away tears with a handkerchief, but she was also smiling. That smile wasn't excitement, but peace—exactly the same look in her eyes that night in Cannes when she sat in her wheelchair, looking up at You Benchang and saying, "She's waiting for him to come and let her go."

A thunderous applause erupted from the audience. Amidst the deafening roar, Su Chen turned and grasped You Benchang and Wu Yanshu's hands once more. The three hands intertwined under the Oscars spotlight, exactly as Su Chen had held theirs when he knelt by their bedside after filming his final scene. Sunlight streamed through the unwashed window, illuminating the wrinkles—the hands of Liu Jianguo, Wang Xiulan, You Benchang, and Wu Yanshu. Now they were under the gaze of the world's cameras, but they were still just hands—hands that had been soaked in soapy water for ten years, and hands that had once slapped her and then touched her face.

The backstage press area on Oscar night was even more crowded than the red carpet. Winners were led to the media area in turn, where hundreds of reporters from around the world crowded behind the barriers, their flashes almost non-stop. When Su Chen was led to the designated spot for the Best Foreign Language Film winner, a Chinese female reporter was already waiting by the barrier.

Yin Xue. Yin Xue from the Beijing Youth Daily—the reporter who first interviewed him in Cannes, the reporter who sent an email after his Golden Globe nomination saying "I will come to Los Angeles." She was wearing a dark blue suit, holding a recorder, her eyes as red as You Benchang's.

"Director," she called out, her voice a little hoarse, not quite the calm of a professional journalist, then she took a deep breath, "This is the first time a mainland Chinese film has won the Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film. What would you like to say to the audience in China?"

Su Chen remained silent for a moment in front of the camera. Then he spoke, in Chinese.

"I want to say to the audience in China—this award is not the achievement of one person. Teachers You Benchang and Wu Yanshu, with their lifetime of experience on set, taught me that good acting is never 'acted' out, but 'lived' out. And there's also Teacher Hou Keming from Beijing Film Academy, Director Zhang Yimou, Director Chen Kaige, and Mr. Han Sanping. I have learned different things from each of them. Without the help of these seniors, I would not be standing here."

He paused, the Oscar trophy in his hand spinning slightly under the lights, the golden reflection flashing gently on his face.

"A few days ago, I bought a roasted sweet potato in Beijing. The old man selling the sweet potatoes had a radio on his stall, and it was broadcasting news about the Oscar nominations from a movie channel. The old man didn't know who I was, but he told me that Chinese films were winning awards abroad, and that more people would respect Chinese films in the future. I wanted to tell him then—films aren't made to impress anyone, but to allow every ordinary person to see themselves on the big screen. This can't be left to others. We have to do it ourselves. Our films have to be made by ourselves."

Yin Xue's hand holding the recorder trembled slightly, but she didn't lower her head. An Italian journalist next to her took off his headphones and asked the translator beside him in accented English what she had said. The translator whispered a few words, and the Italian journalist remained silent for a few seconds before starting to write rapidly in his notebook.

After finishing his speech, Su Chen gave a slight bow and turned to leave the media area amidst the continuous flashes of camera lights. Jason was already waiting for him in the corridor, holding two bottles of water and a stack of freshly printed, still-warm, follow-up schedules.

"I just saw the live ratings on the backstage screen," Jason said, handing Su Chen a glass of water. "The global viewership peak for the Best Foreign Language Film awards segment was almost six percentage points higher than last year. The broadcasters said that means hundreds of millions of people were watching that minute tonight."

Su Chen took the water bottle without speaking. He recalled the nights he spent at sixteen, writing novels at his desk in the Beijing Film Studio compound, submitting them under the pen name Daniel; the late nights he spent in the editing room at the Beijing Film Studio, staring at the Steenbeck flatbed editing console; the white puff of breath Liao Fan exhaled as he crawled out of the snow on the Harbin film set in minus ten degrees Celsius; and You Benchang's trembling shoulders after that slap on set. Now, hundreds of millions of people around the world saw that slap, saw those hands soaked in soapy water, and saw the frost melting on the windowsill.

"Professor You is still giving an exclusive interview backstage, and CCTV and ABC are all lining up. Professor Wu has already gone to the dressing room." Jason turned to the next page of the schedule. "The domestic media's phones have been ringing off the hook—not since the awards ceremony ended, but while you were speaking on stage. Han Sanping was the first, then Hou Keming, then director Zhang Yimou, and then your father."

"My dad?"

"Your father said he just cut out all the newspaper articles about you and pasted them on the wall of your living room. From the small news item about you when your first book was published four years ago to tonight's front-page headline. He wants you to come home and see them when you return to China."

Su Chen held the Oscar trophy in his hand, the base of the little golden statuette still slightly cool from the stage. He was silent for a few seconds, then turned on the water bottle and took a sip. "Several studios have contacted us after Sundance, wanting to understand the specifics of how the Blumhouse model works. The next step for the cinematic era—didn't you already have it figured out?"

Jason nodded. "Wait until tonight's ceremony concludes."

Su Chen placed the film on the table beside him, buttoned his suit jacket, and the two walked into the corridor together. A row of black-and-white photographs of every Oscar winner for Best Foreign Language Film from the past few decades hung on the corridor wall. He paused at the corner of the corridor, walking past those photos—Rashomon (1951), 8½ (1963), Farewell My Concubine (1993), All About My Mother (2000), and the latest addition: his name.