Rebirth of Chinese Entertainment from the Oscars

Berlin, February 2002.

The Potsdamer Platz cinema palace shone with warm yellow lights in the chilly winter night, and the media areas on both sides of the red carpet were already packed with photographers from around the world. The Berlin Film Festival is the coldest of the three major European film festivals, not because of the weather—although February in Berlin is indeed bitterly cold—but because of Berlin's character. Unlike the glamour of Cannes or the romance of Venice, Berlin is more like a serious art museum; its red carpet doesn't pursue extravagance, and its jury favors works that directly confront political realities and the depths of human nature.

As Su Chen walked the red carpet, the Berlin wind blew from the direction of the Spree River, gently lifting the hem of his coat. He was wearing the gray wool coat his mother had bought for him at the Xidan Department Store; the frayed cuffs had been patched up by Wu Qingfang with matching thread, the stitches so fine they were almost invisible. He had originally wanted to wear the newly made suit, but after hesitating for a few seconds in his hotel room before leaving, he chose this one instead. Berlin was where his first feature film had won an award, and he wanted to return wearing the same clothes he had worn then.

Ryan Reynolds walked beside him, wearing a dark blue overcoat and a slightly tight tie. He had already stopped halfway down the red carpet to sign three autographs for fans. This was his first time in Berlin, and also his first time walking the red carpet at an international film festival as the lead actor in a feature film. He hid his nervousness well, but Su Chen could sense it from the rhythm of his steps—Ryan usually walked with a leisurely gait, taking long, slow strides, but tonight his strides were almost a third shorter than usual.

"Nervous?" Su Chen asked.

"A little. No, very nervous." After signing his fourth signature, Ryan handed the pen back to a German fan and, turning to Su Chen, added in his characteristic self-deprecating tone, "I used to walk the red carpet for comedy premieres, and the audience would laugh when they saw me. Tonight I'm walking the red carpet for an competition film, and when the audience sees me—I don't think they'll recognize me."

"That's good. They don't recognize Ryan Reynolds, but they remember the person in the coffin. That means you've succeeded."

The premiere of *Buried* was held in the main hall of the Cinematheque, which could accommodate 1,600 people. As Su Chen entered the screening room, he noticed a detail: three rows of folding chairs had been added to the aisle, and a circle of people stood against the wall. Unlike Cannes, audiences in Berlin didn't queue for hours before a premiere, but once seated, they maintained an almost academic, focused concentration throughout the entire screening. Su Chen and Ryan sat down in the third row near the aisle. The lights dimmed, and the screen lit up.

The film *Buried* opens with a black screen. Nine seconds. In those nine seconds, there is only one sound—the rustling of sand seeping through the cracks in the wooden planks. The sound is faint, but in the completely dark theater, it is amplified infinitely. The breathing of all 1,600 people in the theater becomes cautious in that instant.

Then the lighter lit up. The Zippo's flame flickered and danced on the screen, illuminating the rough interior of a wooden coffin and a man bound hand and foot, blood trickling from his mouth. He awoke, taking a full minute to realize where he was. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket—sixty percent battery, but no signal. He typed three numbers into the screen, then realized he was in the Iraqi desert, and there was no 911.

The entire narrative space of the film is strictly confined to the interior of the wooden coffin. There are no flashbacks, no external rescue team perspectives, and no information beyond the protagonist's immediate perception. This restrictive narrative style is extremely rare in commercial films. It requires the audience to abandon the comfort of an omniscient perspective and be trapped in that confined space with the protagonist from beginning to end, experiencing the jagged emotional fluctuations of his hopes rising and falling in a suffocating atmosphere. The pacing is entirely controlled by the minute changes in the distance between the camera and the coffin wall—Su Chen had Doug design a set of retractable coffin panels that gradually tightened inward as Ryan's emotions progressed during filming. At the beginning of the film, the coffin wall was about forty centimeters away from the camera, but by the end, this distance had shrunk to less than fifteen centimeters, allowing the audience to clearly hear the sound of Ryan's shoulders rubbing against the wooden planks each time.

Ryan's performance left the entire audience breathless. Using only the flame of a lighter, the blue light of a cell phone, and the green light of a glow stick as his sole sources of light, he pushed a man's emotions from fear to anger, from anger to despair, and then squeezed out a twisted, desperate will to survive from that despair. When his phone battery dropped to one percent, he shouted the most heartbreaking line in the entire film into the microphone—"I'm not begging you to save me, I'm begging you to tell me that my location has been pinpointed." The entire audience of 1,600 was so quiet that you could hear the faint ticking of the radiators.

As sand poured down from the crack in the wooden coffin lid, covered the phone screen with quicksand, and the image went completely black, a girl in the back row let out a suppressed sob, very softly. Then the lights came on, and the subtitles began to scroll.

The first round of applause rang out from the third row, slightly to the left. It was from a German film critic with graying hair. Su Chen didn't recognize him, but his clapping was slow and deliberate, each beat like a tapping on the silent heartbeats of everyone present. Then came the second round of applause. Then the entire theater seemed to awaken; applause surged from all directions. Sixteen hundred people stood up simultaneously, and the applause lasted longer and was louder than when Su Chen first won the Silver Bear in Berlin.

The evening's festival publication ratings showed *Buried* topping the list with a 9.4, leaving several heavyweight films competing in the same section far behind. The German newspaper *Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung* titled its review "A Whole World in a Coffin," while the French magazine *Cahiers du Cinéma* described Suchon's narrative strategy as "the ultimate shock of minimalism." *Variety* magazine's on-site review in Berlin stated: "Suchon has made this year's most suffocating thriller with a coffin and an actor. This eighteen-year-old Palme d'Or winner is now in Berlin aiming for his second of the three major awards."

The awards ceremony was held at the Potsdamer Platz cinema palace, and on the night of the closing ceremony, fine snow fell from the Berlin night sky.

Su Chen sat in the third row, near the aisle, with Ryan to his left. His seating arrangement was different from when he came to Berlin two years ago for the premiere of "Black Coal, Thin Ice"—back then, he sat in a seat away from the aisle, with Liao Fan next to him, and they were both waiting for an uncertain outcome. Tonight, he sat in the center of the main competition nomination area, and the German film critics and Italian distributors in front and behind him all shook hands with him.

The Silver Bear for Best Actress was awarded to a middle-aged actress in the German film "Badr," the Grand Jury Prize went to the French director "The Other Side," the Alfred Bauer Silver Bear was awarded to a Turkish independent film, and the Silver Bear for Best Director was awarded to the Polish director "The Last Temptation of the Priest."

Silver Bear for Best Actor.

The presenter was Patrice Schauer, last year's Golden Bear winner, who read the jury's comments in English with a French accent: "This actor presents the fear, anger, and fragile will to survive of humanity in an extremely confined space through the most subtle body language and facial expressions, creating a captivating one-man show." He opened the envelope, a slight smile playing on his lips, "Ryan Reynolds, Buried."

Ryan's shoulders relaxed slightly, as if something had been drained from him. He turned to Su Chen, opened his mouth but couldn't speak, and Su Chen stood up and hugged him tightly. "You deserve this," Su Chen whispered in his ear. He had said similar things to Liao Fan in Berlin, to You Benchang in Cannes, and to Matt Damon in Venice. Each time it was a different actor, each trophy a different role, but each time he said those words in the same tone—calm, firm, like a director's complete trust in an actor.

Ryan walked onto the podium, his hand holding the Silver Bear trophy trembling slightly. He stood in front of the microphone for a few seconds, then spoke in a slightly hoarse voice.

"I want to thank director Su Chen. When I auditioned, he told me that this film didn't need stars; it needed someone willing to be locked in a coffin for months. I agreed. The day I finished filming the last scene, I felt like I had used up all the fear I had in my life. But standing here today, I realize that wasn't enough—I need more fear. Because only fear can make one understand the meaning of life anew. Thank you Berlin, thank you jury. Thank you, director Su Chen—remember to look me up again if there's a similar role next time."

Thunderous applause erupted from the audience. As Ryan walked off the stage amidst the applause, he casually wiped his eye.

  

Best Film - Golden Bear Award.

The lights in the theater were turned up to their brightest. Jury president Mira Nair, the Indian director and director of last year's *Monsoon Wedding*, walked onto the stage, holding an envelope bearing the Berlin Film Festival's Golden Bear logo. She delivered a brief address in English with an Indian accent: "The Berlin Film Festival has always been committed to addressing political realities and the depths of humanity. This year, a film, in an unprecedented way, condenses the deepest fears of our time—being forgotten, buried, abandoned by the system—into the confined space of a coffin. It compels us to look away, and we cannot escape its influence. The jury unanimously decided to award this year's Golden Bear to this film."

She opened the envelope. The entire room held its breath.

"Buried Alive," by Su Chen, China.

Applause erupted like thunder beneath the dome of the Potsdamer Pérignon. Su Chen rose from his seat, first embracing Ryan, then turning to Jason beside him. Jason's eyes were red, but he didn't cry—he simply patted Su Chen's back forcefully and said in a flattened voice, "Golden Bear."

Su Chen walked onto the stage. Unlike two years ago when he stood on the same stage, when he was sixteen and held the Silver Bear for Best Director—his first truly significant award in the world—he stood there and declared to the world, "Short films are just the prologue. My first feature film is on its way." That was the youthful exuberance, his declaration to himself. Tonight, he stood on the same stage, about to receive the Golden Bear.

Mira Nair handed him the Golden Bear trophy. The golden Berlin Bear gleamed serenely under the spotlight, heavier than the Silver Bear, colder than the Palme d'Or. Su Chen placed it on the podium, looking up at the densely packed faces below. He saw Ryan clapping frantically, his eyes red-rimmed; he saw several white-haired European film critics whispering among themselves in the front row—their expressions not of scrutiny, but of respect. He saw the lighting and prop masters from the *Buried* crew sitting in the back row—the twelve of them, crammed into a row, each with red-rimmed eyes.

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

His voice was steady and clear, each syllable falling into the silence of the Potsdamer Platz cinema.

"Four years ago, I stood on this stage and won the Silver Bear for Best Director. At that time, I said that short films were just the prologue, and my first feature film was already on its way. Tonight, I return to Berlin with my fifth feature film. Berlin is where my film career began, and it's a place I want to do better every time I come back."

He paused, his gaze sweeping across a certain direction in the audience.

"Buried is a film about those who are buried alive. It was filmed last September, during a time shrouded in fear and uncertainty. At that time, my crew and I locked ourselves in a small studio, using a coffin, a lighter, and a cell phone with almost no battery, to shoot a story about hope. Yes—hope. Many people will remember the suffocation and despair after watching this film, but what I want to say is that a person repeatedly dialing a phone with no signal while in a coffin is itself an action full of hope. Hope is not the result; hope is the process."

He paused, then raised the trophy to his chest.

"Thank you, Ryan Reynolds. You locked yourself in a coffin for four whole weeks, performing the most heartbreaking one-man show of the year with the flame of a lighter and the light of a cell phone screen. Thank you to every colleague at Light & Shadow Pictures, you made me believe that independent films can have the greatest power with the least budget and the smallest space. Thank you to my parents, thank you to the Beijing Film Academy. Thank you to every audience member who searched for light with me in the darkness."

He took a deep breath and finished speaking in Chinese.

"Finally, I want to thank everyone who watched this movie in the theater. You spent ninety minutes in the dark with the person in the coffin—during that time, you weren't watching a movie, you were breathing with him."

He bowed. Applause surged from all directions like a tidal wave. The entire audience rose to their feet. Not just a perfunctory stand, but a standing ovation that lasted nearly a minute, from the front row to the back. Ryan clapped vigorously from below the stage, his expression a mixture of pride and a more personal, emotional feeling. As Su Chen carried the Golden Bear off the stage and sat back down, Ryan reached out and took the bear, weighing it in his hand. He muttered in a hoarse voice, "Heavier than the Silver Bear." Su Chen didn't answer, only nodded.

After the awards ceremony, Su Chen called Zhang Yimou from the backstage corridor. Berlin and Beijing have a seven-hour time difference; it was already past midnight in Beijing. The phone rang for a long time, and Su Chen was almost ready to hang up when the call was answered.

"Director Zhang. The Golden Bear. We got it."

There was a silence of about three seconds on the other end of the phone. Then Zhang Yimou's voice rang out, hoarse from being woken up, but each word stood firm: "Golden Bear."

"Golden Bear".

"The Palme d'Or, the Golden Bear." Zhang Yimou's voice gradually became clearer, as if he were weighing each word on his tongue. "The Golden Lion slipped away last time. You hold two of the highest awards in your hands; there's no other director in Chinese cinema like you. Do you still want the Golden Lion now?"

"Yes," Su Chen replied without hesitation.

"Okay." Zhang Yimou paused, and Su Chen heard a very soft sound from the other end of the phone—the sound of a pencil scratching across paper—he probably groped around in the dark to find paper and pen. "My next film starts shooting in September. Come to Beijing in July, let's have a drink. Also—I've been remembering what you said in Venice last time. Thank you."

Su Chen put his phone in his pocket, stood on the stone steps outside the Berlin Film Palace, and looked at the snow falling in the Berlin night. The snowflakes were small, falling finely and densely from the deep blue night sky, landing on his coat, and on the Golden Bear trophy in his arms. Four years ago, he won the Silver Bear in this city. Back then, he was a young man just starting out in the industry, his mind filled with how to make his next film a success. Four years later, he stood in the same place, holding the Golden Bear. He had already made five feature films, won the Palme d'Or and the Golden Bear, and the Golden Lion was still waiting for him. He placed the Golden Bear on the stone steps, took out the brown-covered notebook from his pocket—the transparent tape on the spine had been layered again, and the corners were completely rounded—turned to the latest page, and by the light of the streetlamp in front of the Berlin Film Palace, wrote a line on it with his slightly stiff fingers:

"Berlin. Golden Bear. Buried. Ryan Reynolds, Best Actor."

Then he closed his laptop, picked up the Golden Bear, and walked towards the black van waiting by the roadside. A thin layer of snow had already accumulated on the car windows. Ryan and Jason waved to him from inside the car, signaling him to get in quickly. As Su Chen opened the car door, he glanced back at the dome of the Potsdamer Platz cinema—the lights were still on, and the audience members leaving the theater hadn't completely departed. Some were taking photos in the snow with posters of "Buried," while others were excitedly making phone calls. He couldn't hear their voices through the car window, but he could see their white breaths mingling in the night air.

He closed the car door. Jason had already spread a schedule of Light & Shadow's first-quarter projects on his lap, while Ryan beside him wiped fingerprints off the Silver Bear trophy with a wet wipe. The car drove out of Potsdamer Platz; the snow in Berlin was still falling, and the streetlights turned into soft orange halos in the snow. Su Chen leaned back in his seat, opened the brown-covered notebook, flipped through the storyboard drafts and shooting notes for *Buried*, and turned to the page with the bookmark. There were four words he had written before coming to Berlin—"The Hunt. Autumn."

Liao Fan was still waiting for him. The script for "The Hunt" was still in the hands of the Beijing Film Academy's writing team, undergoing final localization. But now he wasn't in a hurry. Because he knew that when the first leaf of autumn fell, he would be standing in the Beijing Film Academy's studio, together with Liao Fan, to complete this long-delayed reunion.