Weinstein

"China's first competition entry makes its debut: Return of the Swallows proves a bitter disappointment, heavily laden with Chinese political tones and didactic preaching. I found myself unable to comprehend the characters' motives... though the authentic, exotic flavor of the East is admittedly worth seeing." "China claims it has opened up, but judging from the screen, they are still steeped in the past." "The remarks by the director of Return of the Swallows were laughable. He comes across like an old man frozen in time, utterly ignorant of the outside world." "A thoroughly socialist picture—mediocre, devoid of surprises. It appears China's Berlin debut is bound to come away empty-handed." Early the next morning. Fang Yurong sat in the dining hall, frantically flipping through festival dailies and newspapers, her face cycling between flushed red and pale white. The press had mocked their showing without mercy; the gentlest review merely offered phrases like "Chinese cinema still has a long way to go." Return of the Swallows had been her selection. Coming away empty-handed wouldn't draw any official reprimand, but it was deeply humiliating for her. Nor could she mention any of this to Fu Jingong—he was an honest, gentle man and wouldn't be able to bear it. "Huh?" As Fang Yurong turned another page, she suddenly froze, almost thinking her eyes were playing tricks on her. This was a publication dedicated to market commercial screenings. On the front page was a massive photograph, with Tai Chi printed so huge even a blind man couldn't miss it, beneath an even more striking headline: "The Best Commercial Film at Berlin This Year!" The article did not hold back in its praise. Feeling her pulse race, Fang Yurong hurriedly searched for other coverage—and there was quite a lot. "Chinese cinema has contributed little to the world, but kung fu is certainly one of those things!" "A record-breaking nine rounds of applause! Frenzied moviegoers rush outside to shout at passersby!" "Underpromoted and limited to a single screening sparks outrage among cinephiles! Following yesterday's screening of Tai Chi, word of mouth spread like wildfire through the venue, and audiences who missed out demand additional screenings!" "Return of the Swallows and Tai Chi come from the same country and arrived in Berlin at the same time—the most fascinating contrast of the year." Hiss! For some reason, Fang Yurong didn't feel pure delight; instead, an unsettling chill crept up her spine. Is Tai Chi really that popular? How much did it make at the Hong Kong box office anyway? Chen Qi still hasn't told me! If foreigners love it that much, what if China Film exports it... Fang Yurong's spirits lifted. China Film handled all distribution for domestic productions—whether domestic or overseas, everything had to pass through China Film's hands, with the sole exception of Hong Kong. Return of the Swallows was visibly flopping, but if she could maneuver Tai Chi, that would still count as a major achievement! With that thought, she abandoned her breakfast and stood up to go find Chen Qi and Li Wenhua. Just as she rose to her feet, Hadeln hurried in, asking the moment he opened his mouth, "Where are the creators of Tai Chi? I want to see them!" "What is the matter, Mr. President?" "Word of mouth for Tai Chi is extraordinary! Several moviegoers are pressing us to add more screenings. Where are they?" "They should be upstairs. I'll take you there!" The two hurried upstairs, but there was no sign of them—only Gong Xue was in the room. "Xiao Gong, where are they?" "Li Lianjie was clamoring to go shopping, so Xiao Chen took him and Director Li out." "Do you know where they went?" "I have no idea. I'm not familiar with Berlin either." Gong Xue was also an honest soul. "Good grief, what terrible timing!!" Fang Yurong paced in frantic circles, a faint, nagging premonition rising in her gut. . . . "Five thousand dollars! Mr. Chen, I really cannot offer any more!" Inside a discreet private room at Fu Chi's lodgings, a film distributor from Burma practically pleaded. Though Burma was small, poor, and chaotic, it had maintained a film industry of its own, producing around seventy films a year with four hundred cinemas nationwide. They also imported foreign titles, favoring family melodramas, stories of ghosts and spirits, and martial arts flicks. "All right, let's sign the contract!" Chen Qi sighed. There was no squeezing fat out of a country like this—it wasn't like northern Myanmar in later decades. "Thank you! Thank you!" "Next!" Li Wenhua sat dumbly off to the side like a stunned fool, while Great Wall's interpreter sat on the other side. Li Lianjie stood by the door keeping watch and ushering guests in and out, watching with his own eyes as Chen Qi conducted business. The South Korean distributor walked in. By this time, Park Chung-hee was dead, and Chun Doo-hwan had taken the presidency. South Korean cinema was entering the 1980s era of gradual liberalization and opening up to international exchange. At Berlin this year, for instance, director Im Kwon-taek had brought Mandala into competition, vying for the Golden Bear. "Three hundred thousand US dollars!" Chen Qi knew just how much Koreans adored Li Lianjie. Even though Tai Chi was the inaugural offering, he had no intention of letting it go cheap, quoting a figure quite steep for this era. "Too much, that is far too much! We cannot accept that!" "You saw for yourself how popular Tai Chi is here in Berlin. We are not short on buyers. Three hundred thousand, firm. You have one day to consider." "Next!" The Japanese distributor came in. The Japanese had real money now, so they couldn't be treated like South Korea. Chen Qi opened his mouth and demanded one million dollars. The Japanese buyer started in shock: "Absolutely impossible! We have never paid such an exorbitant price to import a film. We cannot afford the risk of such a loss." "You can afford it. One million is a bargain, if anything." "Are you joking? I see no sincerity in this. With Sino-Japanese relations warming, we genuinely hope to build a cinematic bridge, but your asking price may harm this friendship." Chen Qi rolled his eyes. "Don't play dumb with me. Times are changing, and so are film distribution models. For example..." He laid out an explanation. The man's expression shifted uncertainly between dark and light, staring at Chen Qi in shocked suspicion, flustered at having his thoughts laid bare. He could only say, "We need to consider this!" "You have one day!" "Next!" Weinstein walked in, wearing a suit and sporting an unkempt beard, rumpled all over. Taking in the room, he chuckled. "Chen, we meet again! Why talk business in a hole-in-the-wall like this? How about we go grab a drink?" "Not interested right now. Are you here to discuss the overseas rights to Tai Chi? Let's cut straight to the chase." "Oh, all right, all right!" Weinstein rested his hands on the table, completely relaxed. Though he ran merely a minor outfit, he carried himself like the mogul of a major studio. "While my distribution channels in the US may not rival the traditional Hollywood majors, I'm well renowned in the independent film scene. I also have solid ties with theater chains in the UK, France, and Australia... If you entrust all overseas rights to me, I guarantee you a price that will satisfy you." "Sorry, but the only thing on the table for you is North American rights." "What a pity. Tai Chi really is a fantastic picture—I believe it has the potential to surpass Enter the Dragon. Since you'll only negotiate North America..." Weinstein put on a theatrical show of pondering, bowing his head in thought for a moment before looking up. "How about two million dollars?" Two million dollars?! Li Wenhua, Li Lianjie, and the interpreter all shuddered violently. Their eyes locked onto Chen Qi in unison, burning with urgency, wishing they could accept on his behalf. "..." Chen Qi offered the fat bastard a mirthless smile, feigning a look of mild shock. "Are you sure? Two million?" "Of course!" "We can sign the contract right now!" "Haha, Chen! You're in too much of a rush. Two million isn't chump change; we need to prepare carefully on our end too... How about this: give me two days. The moment the paperwork is ready, I'll contact you." "Uh, fine by me. But make it quick. We might be heading back home in a couple of days." "Rest assured!" Hearing they were heading home soon, Weinstein's smile grew even warmer. Before leaving, he pulled Chen Qi into an exuberant bear hug—anyone watching would have thought they were sworn blood brothers. Once outside the hotel, his assistant asked in confusion, "Boss, are we really going to give him two million dollars? That puts us at immense risk." "Did you see the look on those Chinese guys? The only thing missing is a queue dangling down the back of their heads! What do they know about the world?" Weinstein showed unvarnished contempt. "I throw out an offer he can't refuse so we can drive off the competition. Tomorrow I'll hand him a small deposit to show our 'good faith,' and then stall on signing the actual contract until the festival is practically over. "By then, the other buyers will have packed up and left. With only us remaining, I'll slash the price to the bone. It's nearly impossible for those Chinese folks to travel abroad—he won't have any choice but to sell!" With that, he couldn't help smirking smugly, immensely proud of his brilliant scheme, untroubled by even the slightest moral scruple. Yes, indeed—he was Jewish.