Rebirth of Chinese Entertainment from the Oscars

November 7, 1999, the Beginning of Winter.

Harbin, Heilongjiang Province, has a temperature of minus seventeen degrees Celsius.

Su Chen zipped his coat all the way up and wrapped his scarf around his neck again. His breath condensed into a cloud of mist in front of him, and tiny ice crystals formed on his eyelashes. Behind him stood a drab four-story old building, its white exterior tiles peeling away to reveal the dark gray cement underneath. A faded sign hung at the entrance—"Riverside Laundry Shop, Daowai District, HEB City."

This is the main setting for "Black Coal, Thin Ice".

The film crew had been stationed in Harbin for five days. When scouting locations, Su Chen traveled all over the three northeastern provinces, from Changchun to Shenyang and then to Dalian, finally finding this relatively well-preserved old industrial area in Daowai District of Harbin. The factory buildings left over from the Soviet era, the staff dormitories from the 1980s, and the bare old elm trees on both sides of the street all naturally possess a kind of old and rough texture, as if they had been forgotten by time.

That's exactly the feeling of being forgotten that he wanted.

Zhang Zili is a forgotten person.

"All departments, take your positions!" Zhou Qing's voice rang out over the walkie-talkie. Zhou Qing was Su Chen's best friend from the Beijing Film Academy, and he had brought him in to be the executive director, responsible for on-site coordination and management. This easygoing BJ boy was unusually serious on set, never letting go of the walkie-talkie, shuttling between departments like a diligent worker bee.

Today is the first day of filming. Su Chen chose a relatively simple scene to help the team get used to each other—Zhang Zili riding a motorcycle through the streets of the industrial area.

The camera crew mounted their camera on the back of a modified pickup truck and laid out a 15-meter-long track. Next to the track were piles of old machine parts borrowed from a nearby factory, which the art department sprayed with a layer of fake frost. Although the snow falling from the sky was real, Su Chen felt it wasn't enough—in a Northeast winter, frost should be trapped in every crevice, that kind of dark, greasy frost that can't be wiped off.

"Make the lighting a bit harsher," Su Chen said into the walkie-talkie while standing in front of the monitor. "Turn the main light on the left, don't add any fill light, and make the right side completely dark."

The lighting technician, Lao Ma, was a seasoned veteran whom Hou Keming had hired from the Beijing Film Studio. He had worked on film sets for twenty years. Upon hearing this, he paused for a moment: "Director Su, if the right side is completely dark, we won't be able to see the face clearly."

"I don't need to see clearly. I just need an outline."

Old Ma opened his mouth, but said nothing more. He had been in this industry long enough to know when to listen to the director. He directed the lighting crew to push all three red lights to the left, leaving only a black reflector on the right to absorb light.

Liao Fan, wearing a faded old military overcoat, straddled his motorcycle. His hair was a messy cut by the stylist, and a layer of dark foundation made his skin look even rougher; his lips were chapped and peeling. He didn't look like an actor; he looked more like a security guard who had just finished get off work at a factory.

"Liao Fan, you come from the other end of the street, don't go fast, about 20 miles per hour. Stop briefly when you're halfway there, glance at that chimney on the side of the road, and then continue. Don't act, don't show any expression. You're just riding your motorcycle to work alone, that's all."

Liao Fan nodded.

"Recording on, camera on, silence throughout—Action!"

The motorcycle started, its sputtering exhaust note particularly jarring in the cold air. Liao Fan huddled slightly inside his coat, one hand gripping the handlebars, the other in his pocket. The motorcycle slowly entered the frame, the background a row of drab factory buildings and a smoking chimney.

He paused briefly beside the chimney.

It wasn't a deliberate pause, but more like a conditioned reflex from the body at a habitual point—like someone who walks this road every day, subconsciously slowing down at a certain spot. He glanced up at the chimney, a quick movement almost imperceptible. Then he twisted the throttle again, and the motorcycle continued forward, disappearing on the right side of the frame.

"Cut!"

Su Chen glanced back at the monitor. The scene was cold, the only bright spot in the gray-blue tones was the white smoke billowing from the distant chimneys. Liao Fan's figure appeared tiny against the backdrop of the massive industrial buildings, like an ant scurrying through a steel forest.

"This shot is good." Su Chen stood up. "Let's move on to the next camera position."

Old Ma breathed a sigh of relief. He had been worried that the image was too dark, but the effect on the monitor was unexpected—the completely black silhouette of the face on the right side actually amplified the character's loneliness several times over. This young director certainly had a knack for judging visuals.

Zhou Qing ran over and whispered in Su Chen's ear, "The lunchbox has arrived. Do you want to eat first?"

"Let's finish filming this scene first. The lighting won't wait."

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Zhou Qing nodded and turned to relay the message. He had been working alongside Su Chen for almost two years and had grown accustomed to his work rhythm—when it came to filming, this sixteen-year-old was even more ruthless than a forty-year-old director.

The afternoon's performance was indoors.

The interior of the laundromat was built in an abandoned factory building in Harbin. The art department recreated the furnishings of a laundromat from the 1990s—cement floors, white tiled walls, fluorescent light tubes hanging overhead, and several old-fashioned front-loading washing machines. The washing machines were actually functional; Su Chen specifically asked the props department to find them at a flea market.

This scene depicts Wu Zhizhen's daily work at the shop.

Yu Nan stood in front of the washing machine, wearing a dark blue work uniform with the sleeves rolled up above her elbows. Her hair was casually tied back, with a few stray strands sticking to her forehead. Her hands were covered in soap suds, and white foam was stuck under her fingernails.

The three-week laundry experience had definitely worked. Yu Nan's movements showed no trace of acting—she opened the washing machine lid, pulled out the sheets, shook them out, folded them in half, folded them again, and put them in the basket next to her. Every movement was smooth and mechanical, as if she were repeating something she had been doing for ten years.

But Su Chen wanted more than just machinery.

"Yu Nan, when you're doing the movements, don't keep staring at your hands," he said into the walkie-talkie. "Occasionally, look up at the window. It's an unconscious look—you're thinking about something, but what you're thinking about isn't important; you're just daydreaming."

Yu Nan nodded slightly.

Article .

She looked up twice while folding the sheets. The first time was to look out the window, her eyes vacant, as if she were looking at something but not really seeing anything. The second time was to look at the clock on the wall, her gaze lingering for two seconds before she continued working.

Su Chen stared at the monitor. He noticed that when Yu Nan looked at the clock for the second time, her fingers paused for a moment—less than a second, but enough for the audience to sense what that clock meant to her.

This detail wasn't in the script; Yu Nan added it herself.

"Cut. This one is approved."

Su Chen walked over to Yu Nan. She was wiping her hands with a towel when she saw the director coming over, and she stood up straight nervously.

"You paused when you looked at the clock just now. What were you thinking about?"

Yu Nan hesitated for a moment: "I'm thinking... what is Wu Zhizhen waiting for? Or what is she afraid of? She's not looking at the clock out of boredom, but because time is very important to her. I haven't figured out exactly what it is yet."

Su Chen looked at her for a while and nodded: "Keep thinking. Don't think too clearly. The character's subconscious is more important than their conscious mind. If you think too clearly, your performance will sound fake."

As he turned to leave, he added, "That one was very good."

Yu Nan watched his retreating figure, and her clenched fist quietly loosened.

The director wasn't much older than her, but his eyes, when he looked at acting, were sharper than any teacher she'd ever had in school. He didn't teach you how to act; instead, he told you what kind of person the character was, and then let you find her yourself.

The third day of filming encountered problems.

The script included a scene where Zhang Zili, drunk, falls in the snow. Liao Fan needed to lie in the snow for at least thirty seconds, letting the snowflakes slowly cover him. This scene was very demanding on the actor's physical condition—in temperatures below -10 degrees Celsius, lying motionless in the snow would be unbearable for most people, even for a minute.

"Liao Fan, are you sure you don't want to use a stunt double?" Su Chen asked him.

"No need." Liao Fan had already started putting on his down jacket liner. "I can manage."

"Thirty seconds, no shorter. It takes time for snowflakes to fall on you."

"I know."

Filming begins.

Liao Fan's character, Zhang Zili, stumbles out of the tavern, walks to a snowdrift by the roadside, slips, and falls into the snow. He struggles for a moment, then gives up, lying there with his limbs outstretched and his eyes half-open, staring at the sky.

Snowflakes fell, landing on his face, chest, and outstretched palms.

On the monitor, Su Chen saw Liao Fan's lips trembling. It wasn't acting; it was a genuine physiological reaction—the sub-zero temperatures were slowly drawing heat from his body. But his eyes remained vacant and numb, like someone who no longer cared whether he lived or died.

ten seconds.

Fifteen seconds.

Twenty seconds.

Zhou Qing clenched his fists beside him. He saw Liao Fan's face begin to turn pale.

Twenty-five seconds.

"That's it! Cut!" Su Chen shouted.

Staff rushed over and pulled Liao Fan up from the snow, wrapped him in a military overcoat, and handed him a cup of hot water. Liao Fan was trembling all over, his teeth chattering, but he still managed a smile: "Did we pass?"

Su Chen did not answer. He was reviewing the monitor footage.

At the thirtieth second, a single tear appeared in Liao Fan's eye. It wasn't a tear from crying, but a physiological tear stimulated by the cold wind, sliding down his cheek and into his ear. On camera, the scene looked like a numb person unconsciously shedding tears.

"Passed," Su Chen said.

Liao Fan nodded and took a sip of hot water. He didn't ask Su Chen why the filming took so long, nor did he complain. He knew the answer—that single tear brought the entire shot to life.

After finishing work that evening, Su Chen called Liao Fan to his room.

"You've had a tough day." Su Chen handed him a box of cold medicine he had brought from Beijing. "I prepared this in advance in case you caught a cold."

Liao Fan took the medicine and smiled, "Director Su, you're only sixteen, how come you're more thoughtful than a sixty-year-old?"

"You'll get used to it after being scolded a lot," Su Chen replied vaguely, referring to his past life experiences of being verbally abused by producers.

Liao Fan, of course, didn't understand and took it as mere modesty. He put the medicine in his pocket and suddenly asked a question that had been weighing on his mind for days: "Director Su, what were you thinking when you wrote this script? Zhang Zili, you could say he's alive, but he's actually already dead. But you could also say he's dead, yet he's solving cases. What is he after?"

Su Chen remained silent for a while.

"I'm just looking for a glimmer of light," he said.

"Light?"

"When a person stays in the dark for a long time, their eyes will gradually adapt. But adapting to the dark doesn't mean you don't need light anymore. Zhang Zili solved this case not for justice, not for atonement, and not even for that woman named Wu Zhizhen. He just wanted to confirm one thing—that his heart wasn't completely dead."

Liao Fan listened and slowly nodded. He had been playing Zhang Zili for several days, but he still couldn't grasp the character's core motivation. Su Chen's words suddenly made him understand. It wasn't about justice, nor redemption, but about confirming that he was still alive.

"I understand," he said.

Su Chen glanced at him: "You'll use this understanding in tomorrow's scene where body parts are found in the bathhouse."

Liao Fan smiled. His teeth, stained yellow from smoking, combined with his face—not exactly handsome but full of stories—to create a wild, dangerous beauty.

"I see."