Mental Case

"Knock, knock, knock!" "Come in!" Chen Qi pushed open the door to Wang Yang's office. Inside, the old man was puffing away, enveloped in clouds of smoke from a cigarette of his own making—a pinch of loose tobacco rolled up in white paper and lit. "Finished the script for CCTV?" "Wrote one about Justice Bao. They took it back to study. Let them study it all they want; either way, I made the sale." "Haha, you've really fallen into a pit of money lately! Buying that courtyard—just a few years ago, that alone would've gotten you branded with a bad class background." Wang Yang stubbed out what was left of his cigarette and sighed. "I've been thinking for days about how we can bypass China Film and get *Tai Chi* out there. In the end, there's only one way: act first and report later!" "Agreed!" Chen Qi nodded with a grin. "That's what I was thinking too. Someone has to break new ground, so it might as well start with us." First, a concept had to be made clear: *Tai Chi* needed to earn foreign exchange, and that foreign exchange had to be turned over to the state. Neither Beijing Film Studio, China Film, the Film Bureau, nor even the Ministry of Culture could keep a cent of it. The crux, therefore, was making sure everyone knew that *they* were the ones who had earned this money! Otherwise, making the film would all be for nothing. Yet distribution rights happened to rest in China Film's hands. So the problem became: how could they bypass China Film and earn that money themselves? "Fortunately, under the new policy, we hold the copyright to *Tai Chi*," Wang Yang said cheerily, thoroughly relishing the fight with their rivals. "As long as we can get it out of the country, we can negotiate with overseas distributors directly. If China Film comes looking for trouble, I'll go scream at them myself! "My idea is to sell it to Hong Kong first. The leftists there have a great deal of independence. We'll let Great Wall buy it and screen it in Hong Kong, and we can apply to travel there under the pretext of participating in promotional events." "You mean selling it to other overseas markets from Hong Kong?" "Right!" "Hong Kong's reach probably isn't broad enough, though. I think it'd be best to go straight to Europe and America." "Europe and America will be tough. Got any ideas?" "I hear there are lots of film festivals in Europe. Could we enter those?" Chen Qi suggested. "Film festivals..." Wang Yang paused, pondering. "There's no precedent for that! Besides, the Film Bureau handles those matters. If we want to go abroad, we have to get their approval first, and then approval from the foreign affairs department. Without that, we can't even leave the country. "I'll ask around and see what the situation looks like. For now, the main priority is still finishing *Tai Chi* properly." After discussing things a bit longer, Chen Qi took his leave. He returned to the guesthouse to fetch a bag of foodstuffs he had bought at the Overseas Chinese Store, then headed over to the editing room. In the rather cramped room, an old editor in his fifties was hard at work. Li Wenhua sat beside him, exchanging a few words now and then. Turning his head, Li Wenhua said, "Xiao Chen, you're here!" "Yeah. Brought a little something for Teacher Fu!" "Why did you bring things again? I'm not falling for your tricks. Take it away, quick!" "You just had a new grandson. These are all nutritional supplements for the baby. If you don't want them, I've got nowhere else to put them, so I'll just have to toss them out." Chen Qi set the goods at the veteran master's feet with a grin. The old editor snorted and grumbled, "A weasel wishing a happy new year to the chicken—I saw right through you long ago. Every time you bring gifts, you start bossing me around. Am I the editor, or are you?" "You are, of course. But I'm the screenwriter, and I've got some ideas stirring in me, too!" Editing accounted for half the success of a martial arts film. With good editing, an actor who knew zero kung fu could look like a grandmaster of the martial world. Furthermore, shot transitions, rhythm, and crisp impact all required meticulous precision. The old veterans at Beijing Film Studio generally found Chen Qi annoying, but he possessed the superpower of cash, and who could hold a grudge against that? "Could we do this scene like this?" Right on cue, he started offering his directions again. "When Chen Shaomei teaches Yang Yugan how to practice and hurls pebbles at him, let's not use one long take. Lots of quick cuts, like *bam-bam-bam*." "What on earth is *bam-bam-bam*?" the old editor asked helplessly. "'Horse stance!' "'Waist relaxed on the outside, firm on the inside!' "'Raise your arms!' "'Wrists two inches higher!' "'Hold the center as one, keep your mind tranquil and undisturbed!' "With every line she speaks, cut to a pebble striking that corresponding part of Yang Yugan's body. One line, one cut; one line, one cut. Fast, sharp, paired with the smack of pebbles landing. That's what I mean by *bam-bam-bam-bam*!" "..." The old editor felt like arguing back, but then he glanced at the imported health products. Fine, forget it—do whatever you want. *** "Another parcel of letters for you!" "Thank you, Uncle, I'll pick them up on my way back!" At the same time, Gong Xue pedaled out of the Beijing Film Studio gate on a certain someone's 28-inch bicycle. She didn't own a bike herself. The area around Beijing Film Studio was quite out of the way, with few businesses nearby. Since arriving at the studio, she had made a few friends, but her daily routine was basically just bouncing back and forth between the guesthouse and the canteen. Unless strictly necessary, she didn't care to go out. Today, she was heading into town to buy a birthday present for her mother. She went over to Wangfujing and bought a silk scarf, naturally getting mobbed and chased by an enthusiastic crowd along the way. Returning in the afternoon, just as she rode near Beijing Film Studio, she suddenly heard someone shout from behind: "Zhou Yun!" Huh? She stopped the bike and looked back. An ordinary-looking middle-aged man was jogging after her, an unusual gleam in his eyes. "Zhou Yun! It really is you! I've been waiting for you for so long!" "Comrade, do we know each other?" "I wrote you so many letters! I told you I'd wait for you at the Beijing Film Studio gate on Sundays. I've come every single week! You never showed up, so I thought you were ignoring me!" *Ah!* Gong Xue suddenly remembered that bizarre letter she had read back in Henan. It was this man. "I was away shooting a film on location. I only came back recently." "I know, I understand! I've already watched *Romance on Mount Lu* six times! I don't even know what to say—I've finally met you! You're even prettier in person than in the movie! You can't imagine how much I love you, Zhou Yun!" Gong Xue felt a chill of fear, noticing that he kept calling her by her character's name. "Thank you, but I... I have to go!" "No, no, don't leave!" She hopped back onto the bike, but the man ran alongside, babbling incoherently. "I don't know when I'll get to see you again! Talk with me a bit longer! Did you get the food coupons I mailed you? Look at me! Look at me!" He actually reached out to grab the rear rack of the bicycle! "Comrade, you've crossed the line!" Gong Xue shuddered in fright, nearly taking a spill. Looking up and spotting the gate, she broke into a sprint, shouting, "Uncle! Uncle!" "What's wrong?" "Someone's following me!" "Whoa!" The usually sluggish old guard at the gate sprang to life in an instant. He whipped out a gun—yes, an actual gun! "You little brat! Look where you are before you come causing trouble! "Speak! What unit are you from?" The old man brandished the dark muzzle of his gun. Turns out a dose of physical therapy worked wonders: the man froze instantly, spun around with practiced smoothness, and took off as fast as his legs could carry him. The old guard gave chase for a few steps before returning, panting. "I'm getting old. In my younger days, one flying kick would've dropped him—think he'd have gotten away?" "Thank you so much! That scared me half to death just now!" "Do you know him?" "No, he just sent me letters before." "Oh. We run into those kinds from time to time. Mental cases, thinking movie stars are their own wives. No need to ask—a fellow like that definitely doesn't have a wife!" Snorting disdainfully, the old guard retreated into the gatehouse, hiding his fame and merit behind closed doors. He belonged to the Beijing Film Studio security department. Anyone who knew the security departments of that era knew the drill: Type 56 assault rifles, semi-automatic rifles, anti-aircraft guns—they had whatever the hell you could name. The local militia was even wilder; they could take guns home, and kids played with them. Brimming with martial vigor!