Rebirth of Chinese Entertainment from the Oscars

September 8, 2001, Lido Island, Venice.

A breeze from the Adriatic Sea blew in from the canals west of the Palais des Festivals, carrying the salty, fishy scent and the fragrance of freshly unloaded flowers from the distant docks. It was evening, the closing ceremony of the Venice Film Festival. The sky was painted a gradient from orange to purple by the setting sun, and the streetlights along the Lido promenade had come on early, forming a shimmering chain along the coastline. Su Chen stood on the stone steps in front of the Palais des Festivals, adjusting his tie. His suit was dark gray, and his tie was dark blue—he had originally wanted black, but Jason said it was too somber; dark blue at least had a touch of Mediterranean brightness. Su Chen didn't dwell on this for long, because he also felt that Venice needed a bit more color than Berlin or Cannes.

Matt Damon stood beside him, dressed in a black tuxedo, the buttons on his cuffs fastened three times before he finally got them on. He was noticeably thinner than he was at the Oscars—not from dieting, but because after filming *Manchester by the Sea*, he had been immersed in the role of Lee Chandler for so long that he hadn't slept well for days after leaving the set, and his appetite hadn't fully returned. Su Chen noticed that his thinner frame made him resemble Damon's silhouette when he was alone on the Manchester seawall, facing the grey horizon, but tonight his eyes were much more relaxed—tonight he wasn't Lee Chandler, he was Matt Damon, sitting with a project he considered worthwhile, and a group of people he trusted.

"Which makes you more nervous, Venice or the Oscars?" Damon asked.

"Not at all nervous," Su Chen said. Then he paused, a slight smile playing on his lips, "Liar. We're all nervous."

Damon chuckled. The two walked side by side up the steps and into the cinema.

The awards hall at the Palazzo Cinema in Venice is smaller and more private than the Lumière Theatre in Cannes, with fewer than a thousand seats. The walls are covered in deep red velvet, the lighting is warm amber, and the Venice Film Festival's winged lion logo hangs above the stage. The air is filled with a solemnity unique to historic European film festivals—not the glitz and glamour of Hollywood fueled by flashing lights and ratings, but a quieter, more understated sense of ceremony. Su Chen's seat was in the "Manchester by the Sea" section; Damon sat to his left, and Jason to his right. On the small round table in front of them were the program and a cup of espresso that had gone cold.

The awards ceremony, as is customary, began with the short film category. The Golden Lion for Best Short Film was awarded to a French animated short film. Then came the awards for Best New Actor and Best Screenplay. Su Chen's fingers were interlaced on his knees; he occasionally picked up the program to glance at it before putting it down again. Damon adjusted his posture twice beside him—his back was so straight that the chair creaked twice.

The Best Actor award was presented midway through the ceremony. The presenter was a veteran Italian actress who read out the names of the five nominees in heavily accented Italian English. When "Matt Damon, *Manchester by the Sea*" was announced, Damon's hand, resting on his knee, clenched slightly. Su Chen didn't turn to look at him, but he caught the gesture out of the corner of his eye—a muscle contraction typical of a professional actor struggling to maintain a composed demeanor.

"Volpi Cup for Best Actor..." The Italian actress opened the envelope, a graceful smile playing on her lips. "Matt Damon, Manchester by the Sea."

Applause erupted from all directions. Damon seemed frozen in his seat, then turned to look at Su Chen, his eyes holding an expression Su Chen was very familiar with, one he had seen on Liao Fan and You Benchang before—not ecstasy, but the quiet stillness an actor feels when they confirm their performance has been understood.

"Let's go up," Su Chen said, exactly the same words he had said to Liao Fan in Berlin, and also exactly the same words he had said to You Benchang in Cannes.

Damon walked onto the stage and accepted the Volpi Trophy from the presenter. The silver trophy gleamed coldly under the spotlight. He stood before the microphone, paused for a moment, and then spoke, his voice lower than usual.

"I want to thank Director Su Chen." He paused, as if carefully choosing his words, "I've played many roles, but Lee Chandler is the only one that made me wake up in the middle of the night after filming wrapped. I remember on the first day on set, the director told me—sadness doesn't need to be acted out on your face; sadness exists in every moment when you're not moving. I repeated that sentence to myself every day during filming. Today, I pass that sentence on to everyone who is experiencing sadness—every moment when you're not moving has been seen."

Applause erupted again from the audience. Su Chen clapped at a measured pace, but when his right hand struck his left palm, the force was a beat stronger than usual. He knew he had accomplished the most important task of the night—to gain recognition for Matt Damon's performance in Venice. Lee Chandler deserved a Volpi Cup, and so did Damon.

The Silver Lion for Best Director was awarded to Italian director Nanni Moretti for *The Son's Room*. The Jury Special Prize was given to an Austrian documentary. The Best Actress award went to an Indian actress for *Monsoon Wedding*. The awards ceremony was drawing to a close, with the final climax approaching.

Best Film - Golden Lion Award

The lights were turned up to their brightest. The jury president—an elderly French director—walked onto the stage, holding an envelope bearing the winged lion logo. He first gave a brief address in French, which, when translated into English, essentially said: "This year's main competition has brought together outstanding works from around the world, and the jury made its final decision after a long period of discussion."

Su Chen placed his hands on his knees, his fingertips lightly touching. His heart was beating slightly faster than usual, but his breathing was steady. He was only missing the Golden Lion at the three major film festivals. He had won the Silver Bear at Berlin and the Palme d'Or at Cannes. If he could lift the Golden Lion in Venice tonight, he would achieve a grand slam of the three major European film festivals at the age of nineteen—a record never before seen in the world of cinema. But he also knew that the competition for *Manchester by the Sea* was fierce. The Iranian director's *Kandahar* had received the highest score in the critics' daily publication; the Italian film *The Son's Room* had the advantage of being the host country and had just won the Best Director award; and the Indian director's *Monsoon Wedding* was predicted by several international media outlets to be a dark horse. *Manchester by the Sea*'s strength lay in its acting and script, but he had already won the Best Actor award, which, in the Venice awards system, usually meant the jury wouldn't award the Golden Lion to the same film again. He had prepared himself for the possibility of missing out on the Golden Lion before he set off, but when the chairman of the jury actually started opening the envelope, he still subconsciously pressed his fingertips even tighter.

"And the Golden Lion goes to..."

The jury chairman looked down at the name in the envelope and read out the decisive name—

""Monsoon Wedding", Mira Nair."

"Monsoon Wedding." A round of enthusiastic applause erupted throughout the hall. Indian director Mira Nair rose from her seat, covered her face with her hands, and then hugged each member of the crew around her. Su Chen's fingers loosened. In less than a second, he transformed an unspoken sigh into a polite smile, and then began to applaud. His applause was no slower or quieter than anyone else's. It wasn't just polite applause; it was genuine recognition—he knew that a film that could win the Golden Lion must have something special.

  

Damon glanced at him sideways and gently patted him on the shoulder. It was a silent exchange between actor and director—they both understood that the most important award of the night hadn't gone to them, but Matt Damon's Best Actor win at Venice had already left a significant mark on Italy. Jason sighed softly beside him, took a pen from his pocket, wrote a line on the blank space of the program, and pushed it in front of Su Chen: "Volpi Cup in hand. Golden Lion next time."

Su Chen took the pen and wrote a word under Jason's words: "Of course." After the show, Su Chen called Zhang Yimou from the backstage corridor of the cinema. He leaned against the wall, listening to the familiar, deep voice on the other end of the phone, and the faint sound of pencils scratching paper in the background—Zhang Yimou was drawing storyboards.

"Just a little bit more," Su Chen said into the microphone. "The Golden Lion went to the Indian director."

"It's not your fault if it's lacking in any particular area." Zhang Yimou paused, and the sound of his pencil clicking stopped. "Manchester by the Sea is a good film. Damon winning the Volpi Trophy is recognition of your directing ability. You won one Best Director at Berlin, one Palme d'Or at Cannes, and one Best Actor at the Three Greats. Few Chinese directors can achieve that. Moreover, I saw the trailer for that film—it's cold, somber, and restrained. This kind of film needs more time to develop. Look back at Amour now. When you just won the Palme d'Or at Cannes, weren't you also being adored by the French? Just because Venice didn't give it to you this year doesn't mean they won't in the future."

Su Chen remained silent. Zhang Yimou didn't offer any further comfort. The two were silent for about five seconds on the phone, then Zhang Yimou changed the subject, his tone a little lighter than before.

"You mentioned last time that you wanted to go back to China to film a new movie. Has the script been written yet?"

"It's finished. 'The Hunt.' A story about lies and trust. Starring Liao Fan."

"Liao Fan," Zhang Yimou repeated the name on the other end of the phone. The pencil clattered again. "You haven't collaborated since the Berlin Silver Bear. He's been waiting for your call for years. When are you coming back?"

"I'll finish up in Venice and then fly to Beijing. I'll come find you for a drink when I get back," Su Chen said. "Also, there's something I'd like to discuss with you in person. If there's anything I can do to help you with your collaboration with New Pictures, please let me know, no matter how."

Zhang Yimou was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was deeper and his speech was slower than usual: "It's enough that you have the intention."

After hanging up the phone, Su Chen stood on the stone steps outside the cinema, gazing at the sea off Lido Island in the dead of night. The Adriatic Sea shimmered under the moonlight, unlike the Mediterranean or the Songhua River. In the distance, several fishing boats, their lights on, moved slowly across the black water, like a few sleepless people strolling through the streets at night with lanterns. He had originally intended to complete the puzzle of the three great European cinemas here, but a gap remained. That gap could be filled later. Venice was still there, the Golden Lion was still there, and one day he would return with an even better work.

He didn't stay long. He returned to the hotel, where Jason had already placed a stack of faxes and emails on his desk. On top were documents from China—Liao Fan's schedule confirmation, Hou Keming's approval of the filming permit, and a note from Han Sanping of China Film Group, which read: "Welcome home. China Film Group has reserved your studio for you."

Su Chen sat down on the edge of the bed and opened the brown-covered notebook. The bookmark was still tucked inside the page for "The Hunt"—his initial storyboard draft written in Los Angeles, a pencil sketch of a man standing in profile at a kindergarten gate, with the words "Lies and Trust. An Autumn Story" written in red above his head. He picked up his pen and added a few strokes to the blank space on that page—not a storyboard, but a few lines of text.

"Venice. Matt Damon, Volpi Cup Best Actor. Golden Lion unfinished."

"Next stop, Beijing. 'The Hunt.' Liao Fan."

After finishing writing, he capped his pen, put the notebook in his backpack, and zipped it up. Next, preparations for filming *The Hunt* needed to be completed by the end of the year—casting, location scouting, and crew formation. Liao Fan was already waiting for his script; he also needed a kindergarten teacher to play, whose life had been ruined by lies, and a newcomer to play a six-year-old girl. Tomorrow, he flew to Beijing. He could continue drawing storyboards on the plane—the light in the kindergarten classroom should be a cool autumn morning light, streaming through the semi-transparent curtains, illuminating the entire room in an unreal, overly bright white. He closed his eyes. The night on Lido Island was quiet. The sea breeze outside the window gently stirred the curtains. Tomorrow morning, he flew to Beijing.