Rebirth of Chinese Entertainment from the Oscars

Summer vacation in 1999, Bashang Grassland in Hebei.

The July wind swept across the boundless grasslands, carrying the scent of earth and wildflowers. The sky was an unreal blue, with large, fluffy white clouds hanging low as if you could reach out and touch them. In the distance, the birch forest rustled in the wind, and golden sunlight filtered through the leaves, scattering across the ground.

This is the location Zhang Yimou chose for his new film, "The Road Home." The story is about a village girl named Zhaodi who falls in love with a rural teacher—simple, pure, and like a richly colored oil painting. This is exactly the kind of color Zhang Yimou wanted—a color so full it almost overflows, a color belonging to the land, a color belonging to youth.

On his first day reporting to the film crew, Su Chen was woken up before dawn.

"Xiao Su, Director Zhang gets up at 4:30 every morning to scout locations. You'll stay with me today, don't make a sound, just watch." Assistant Director Xie Hong led him to the edge of the set and handed him a folding chair. "Just sit here. I'll call you if I need any help."

Su Chen nodded, propped up a chair in a corner where it wouldn't get in the way, sat down, and opened the notebook he carried with him.

At 4:30 a.m., the sky over the grassland was just beginning to lighten, with a pale, fish-belly white tinge on the eastern horizon. The film crew was already busy—the lighting crew was setting up reflectors, the camera crew was laying out tracks, and the props crew was checking every item to be used that day. Zhang Yimou stood behind the monitor, wrapped in a military overcoat, holding a storyboard, silently gazing at the distant horizon.

He is waiting for the light.

Su Chen knew this habit. Countless documentaries and interviews about Zhang Yimou in later generations have mentioned it—Zhang Yimou is always waiting for the light when he's filming. He can wait for three hours on a mountain for a backlit shot at dusk; he can also wake the actors up at three in the morning to do their makeup for a run in the morning mist.

Knowing something is one thing, seeing it with your own eyes is another.

As the first rays of sunlight finally pierced the distant mountain ridge, casting golden light that flowed like liquid across the grassland, Zhang Yimou suddenly moved. He strode to the camera, peered through the viewfinder, and then shouted behind him, "Actors, get in position! Quickly!"

The entire production crew started up like a sophisticated machine.

Su Chen saw Zhang Ziyi run out of the tent wearing a red cotton-padded jacket. She was only nineteen years old then, her face showing the unique naivety and stubbornness of a young girl. Zhang Yimou called her to the monitor, pointed to a birch tree on the screen, and said in a low but firm voice, "See that tree? Run towards it. When you're halfway there, stop, look back, and then keep running."

"Director, why do we need to stop?" Zhang Ziyi asked.

"Because she is Zhao Di, she wanted to know if the master was watching her back." After saying this, Zhang Yimou turned around and went back behind the monitor.

Su Chen wrote four words in his notebook: Character Motivation.

This seemingly simple instruction contains Zhang Yimou's precise grasp of the character's psychology. That pause wasn't necessary for the visuals, but for the character. All of Zhao Di's actions—running, stopping, turning back, and running again—are driven by an emotional thread.

As a director who had studied thousands of films in his previous life, he certainly understood this principle. But between understanding and doing, there is a chasm that needs to be crossed repeatedly.

After the first run, Zhang Yimou was not satisfied.

"Not enough," he said, uttering only two words.

Zhang Ziyi ran it again. He was still not satisfied.

"You stopped in the wrong spot. Let's try again."

I ran it again.

"Turning back too quickly. You're looking back at him, not at whether anyone is chasing you. Let's start over."

Su Chen counted; Zhang Ziyi had run eleven times for this less than twenty-second shot. By the last take, her calves were trembling, and her red cotton-padded jacket was soaked with sweat. Zhang Yimou finally nodded: "That's good. One take, then one more, run with a relaxed pace."

It was already 10 a.m. when we finished shooting this set of shots.

The sun rose higher, and the light became harsh. Zhang Yimou looked up at the sky, frowned, and said to the director of photography, Hou Yong, "The lighting isn't good enough. We'll shoot the exterior scenes this afternoon. We'll use the rest of the morning for interior scenes, specifically the classroom scene."

  

The crew's stagehands began frantically moving equipment. Su Chen put away his laptop, helped the lighting crew carry a red-headed lamp, and followed the main group towards the newly erected interior set.

"Are you the student recommended by Teacher Hou?" a voice came from behind.

Su Chen turned around and found Zhang Yimou looking at him, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. Zhang Yimou, in his forties, was much leaner than in later media photos, with high cheekbones and sharp eyes that seemed to see right through him.

"Yes, Director Zhang." Su Chen put down the light, straightened up, and said, "Su Chen, Class of '98, Directing Department, Beijing Film Academy."

"Teacher Hou told me about you. Winning short film awards at Venice and Cannes is no small feat." Zhang Yimou stuffed his cigarette back into his pocket, gave him a once-over, and said, "But what you learned in school might not be applicable to me. Filmmaking isn't just theory; it's something you do in action."

"I know. That's why I'm here to learn."

Zhang Yimou seemed satisfied with the answer and nodded: "I've been following you all day, what did you figure out?"

Su Chen thought for a moment and replied seriously, "Lighting. You're waiting for specific lighting; you're not taking pictures at just any time."

"Anything else?"

"The actor's motivation. You don't preach grand principles, you just tell her what to do and why to do it."

Zhang Yimou raised an eyebrow slightly and gave the young man in front of him a second look. This didn't seem like perfunctory talk, nor did it seem like flattery; it was more like... a colleague analyzing another colleague's work. This realization surprised him somewhat.

"Stand next to me and watch the interior shots this afternoon." After saying this, Zhang Yimou turned and left.

Su Chen stood still and gently exhaled.

He knew he had passed Zhang Yimou's test.

The afternoon's interior scene was an important segment in the film.

Zhao Di sneaked into the classroom, sat on the teacher's podium, picked up the chalk he had used, and wrote her name crookedly on the blackboard.

The classroom was meticulously constructed by the art group. The wooden window frames, the mottled blackboard, and the crooked desks and chairs—every detail exuded the atmosphere of a rural primary school in the 1990s. Zhang Yimou arrived at the venue half an hour early and checked the opening angles of all the windows.

"Open it up five degrees more over here," he said, pointing to a window. "The light isn't soft enough."

Standing behind him, Su Chen saw a ray of sunlight slant in through the window, falling on the podium and creating a soft, bright area. The edge of this bright area then cut a sharp line of light directly across where Zhang Ziyi was about to stand.

This is a textbook example of zone exposure. Zhang Yimou's control over light is so precise it borders on obsessive.

Filming begins.

Zhang Ziyi entered the classroom, her steps light, as if afraid of disturbing anyone. She glanced around, her gaze lingering on each desk for a moment, before slowly walking towards the podium. Sunlight shone on her, making her red cotton-padded jacket appear like a dancing flame in the dimly lit classroom.

Zhang Yimou stared at the monitor, his brows furrowed.

"Stop!" he suddenly shouted.

The whole place fell silent.

"Your walking rhythm is off." Zhang Yimou walked up to Zhang Ziyi. "You sneaked in here, you're afraid of being discovered, but you're also eager to get closer to his things. You need to have both of these feelings simultaneously—external fear and internal desire. Let's do it again."

Zhang Ziyi bit her lip, nodded, and retreated to the doorway.

Su Chen watched this scene and silently made a mental note of it. Zhang Yimou's teaching method was completely different from some of the acting theories he had learned in his previous life—he didn't use academic language or complicated terminology, but directly described the character's inner state, using the simplest language to clearly explain complex emotions.

This ability stems from an extremely deep understanding of the script and the characters. Zhang Yimou may not use Stanislavski's theories to analyze characters, but he understands his roles better than anyone else.

This scene took seven takes to get right.

It was already dark when they finished work. The grasslands were free from city light pollution, and the Milky Way stretched across the sky like a luminous river. As Su Chen packed up to return to their base, he found Zhang Yimou sitting alone in front of the monitor, reviewing all the footage shot that day.

He hesitated for a moment, then walked over quietly.

"Director Zhang, aren't you going to take a break?"

Zhang Yimou didn't look up: "I have to review it every day, that's the rule. I also have to mentally go over the shots I'm going to film the next day, otherwise I can't sleep."

Su Chen stopped talking and sat down next to him to watch with him.

On the monitor, Zhang Ziyi was running on the grass, her red cotton-padded jacket blazing like a burning flag in the golden sunlight. The scene was truly beautiful—every shot was like a meticulously composed oil painting, the colors, lighting, and composition all reaching the pinnacle of the technology available at the time.

But after watching it, Zhang Yimou sighed softly.

"I always feel like something's missing," he said. "What's missing? I can't quite put my finger on it right now. Maybe it's a certain atmosphere, the kind of atmosphere this film should have."

Su Chen thought for a moment, then said softly, "The smell of soil."

Zhang Yimou suddenly turned to look at him: "What did you say?"

"The visuals are too clean, every frame is like a painting." Su Chen carefully considered his words. "But this story takes place on the land. Zhao Di's feet are in the mud, and her red cotton-padded jacket should be covered in dust. Clean visuals are your style, but if it's too clean, it loses the texture of life itself."

Zhang Yimou remained silent for a long time.

So much time passed that Su Chen thought he had said the wrong thing and began to regret behaving presumptuously in front of a famous and accomplished director. But the words were already spoken and couldn't be taken back.

"Interesting." Zhang Yimou finally spoke, a hint of amusement in his voice. "That doesn't sound like something a sixteen-year-old would say. Who taught you that?"

Su Chen couldn't say that this was a common assessment of Zhang Yimou's early works by film critics more than twenty years later—that the visuals were exquisite but occasionally detached from reality, especially after *Hero*. He could only vaguely say, "It was just my own guesswork."

Zhang Yimou stared at him for a while, but ultimately didn't press the matter. He stood up, dusted off his clothes, and said, "Let's go back to sleep. We'll get up at four tomorrow morning. If you want, you can come back to watch some more."

"Thank you, Director Zhang."

"Don't thank me." Zhang Yimou's silhouette stretched long in the moonlight as he walked back to the camp. "What you just said is more valuable than anything you could have learned in a month. Teacher Hou was right about you."

Su Chen didn't follow immediately. He stood there, watching Zhang Yimou's figure disappear into the night, a complex mix of emotions welling up inside him.

In his past life, he was a director docilely trained by the Hollywood system. He could make any type of film demanded by producers flawlessly, but he had no voice of his own. Oscar nominations were merely a gilded plating, devoid of substance. He knew all the rules, yet never truly became the master of them.

Zhang Yimou, a man from the Loess Plateau in Northwest China, possesses an almost wild, unrestrained desire to express himself in every frame of his films. His later films may have had their ups and downs, but his stubborn insistence on shooting the visuals to their extreme and pushing emotions to their peak has never changed.

This is what a director is. Not a tool to carry out orders, but a creator of the world.

Su Chen spent a full forty days on the set of "My Father and Mother," from the start of filming in early July to the wrap-up in mid-August.

For those forty days, he got up at four in the morning every day to follow Zhang Yimou to check the lighting, scenery, and choreography. When the crew changed scenes, he helped move equipment; when actors needed to move around, he acted as a stand-in; and when there weren't enough stagehands, he helped lay tracks. He did almost every job on the crew.

This made him increasingly important to Zhang Yimou. After all, a young genius who won the Venice and Cannes Short Film Awards could humble himself and work on set, moving lighting rigs and laying tracks. This humility and down-to-earth attitude is even more precious than talent.

One day, during a night shoot, they wrapped up at 2 a.m. Zhang Yimou, unusually, lit a cigarette and offered one to Su Chen. Su Chen didn't smoke, but he took it anyway, though he didn't light it.

"How's the preparation for your feature film going?" Zhang Yimou asked.

"The script is finished. It's called 'Black Coal, Thin Ice,' an art film with a crime theme."

"An art film?" Zhang Yimou exhaled a puff of smoke. "You've got guts. But your two short films use genre film techniques, so why choose an art film for your feature film?"

"Because I wanted to give it a try," Su Chen said. "Short films can win with structure and concept, telling a clever story in fifteen minutes, and the audience doesn't even have time to lose focus before it's over. But feature films need something more substantial, they need characters, they need emotions. I want to use this film to see if I can tell a good story about a person."

Zhang Yimou glanced at him, this time with a complex emotion in his eyes, like someone who had been there looking at someone who came after.

"Difficult," he said, uttering only one word.

Su Chen nodded: "I know."

Berlin or Cannes?

"Berlin."

Zhang Yimou was silent for a moment, then stubbed out his cigarette: "Berlin likes cold things. Those Eastern Europeans just love that. You've chosen the right subject. Send it over after you're done, and I'll take a look."

Su Chen understood the weight of those words. Zhang Yimou never easily helped people watch films, much less made recommendations. His offer to "take a look for you" was already a huge promise.

"Thank you, Director Zhang."

"Don't say that." Zhang Yimou stood up, patted the grass clippings off his backside, and suddenly smiled. "When you get the Silver Bear, don't forget to treat me to a drink."

Su Chen smiled too. This was the first time he had seen Zhang Yimou smile since joining the crew.

Under the moonlight, the shadows of the two people were cast side by side on the grass, stretched very long.

One is a veteran who is just beginning to make a name for himself on the international film scene, and the other is a young man who is about to embark on his own journey.

That night, there were no more words.

But Su Chen knew that for the first time on his film journey, he had a true companion he could look up to, catch up with, and perhaps even one day stand shoulder to shoulder with.

In late August, Su Chen returned to Beijing and began preparing for "Black Coal, Thin Ice".

He reorganized his notes from Zhang Yimou's 40 days on set, filling an entire notebook. Lighting, directing, acting, on-set management, and even how to communicate with different departments and handle emergencies—every experience was meticulously recorded and categorized.

This will become one of the most valuable assets in his entire directing career.

It wasn't those theories, nor those awards, but the forty days spent on-site, exposed to the wind, the sun, and the sweat.

Next, he was finally going to shoot his first feature film.

Black Coal, Thin Ice – a story about how broken people find a glimmer of warmth in a cold world.