Now that the script had been approved, Chen Qi was still allowed to stay at the guesthouse.
His duties had shifted from writing the script to assisting with production, still with a daily stipend of two yuan.
Beijing Film Studio would select a director, who would then cast the actors and oversee pre-production—a process that took a long time. There was no need to rush the schedule, no pressure from financial investors, and none of that messy traffic-driven influencer nonsense; everything centered solely on producing a good piece of art.
At the most basic level, if an actor played a peasant, they had to go to the countryside to experience daily life; if they played a factory worker, they had to go down to the shop floor; if they played a fisherman, they had to drift out at sea and find out firsthand what hauling nets felt like...
No one touted this as a badge of honor; it was taken completely for granted.
Some fine actors of later generations would still uphold this tradition, but modern idol actors couldn't be bothered. They spent their careers playing overbearing CEOs and pampered wives—what was there to experience?
Unless they were cast as poor people to "experience" poverty for the audience, leading to the spectacles people saw on screen: a supposedly broke character living on a monthly income of three thousand yuan in Shanghai, renting an apartment overlooking the Huangpu River, and eating gourmet Tang Daren instant noodles every day.
Back then, actors received no appearance fees.
Actors belonged to various cultural and artistic work units and drew a monthly wage. Shooting films was part of their regular job duties—or, on a grander scale, a national assignment. How could there be appearance fees? Still, there was a daily allowance, roughly fifty cents to one yuan.
Liu Xiaoqing, Pan Hong, Tang Guoqiang... no matter how big a star, that was the standard rate.
It wasn't until the 1980s that real performance fees emerged.
By comparison, within the entire film industry, screenwriters were an absolute high-income bracket. How high? "Three or four stories high!"
Back in the 1950s, for instance, state regulations stipulated that songwriters and lyricists were paid per song, receiving ten to twenty yuan apiece. Take "The Moon of the Fifteenth," a song sung across the length and breadth of the country—its creator had received fifteen yuan for it, which later even led to a lawsuit.
Poetry was calculated at twenty lines per thousand words, earning ten to twenty yuan per thousand words.
So,
now you know
why the poems
written by poets
were all
single lines.
Another figure who famously milked line-by-line pay was Gu Long. Since his royalties were calculated by the line, his prose style ended up like this:
Night.
A freezing night.
A lone lamp, faint as a bean.
Royalties for novels and folk arts were roughly similar, with film screenplays being the sole exception. At the time, the standard was three to eight thousand yuan per script—an astronomical sum!
By the 1960s, the rates had dropped somewhat, but they remained beyond the wildest imagination of ordinary folks.
Feature-length film scripts fetched two to six thousand yuan apiece, and short features one to three thousand yuan. A director's remuneration was five hundred to fifteen hundred yuan for a feature film, and three to seven hundred yuan for a short.
The most interesting part was music. If you wrote a standalone song, they gave you around ten-odd yuan.
Yet if you composed the score or wrote songs for a film, a composer could pull in three to eight hundred yuan, and a lyricist could get fifty to a hundred yuan.
It was safe to say that as long as a project was tied to cinema, you belonged firmly in the high-earning bracket.
The state had always attached great importance to cinema. The Chairman himself had personally critiqued The Life of Wu Xun. The underlying reason was simple enough: cinema possessed another crucial function as an ideological propaganda tool!
...
Knock, knock, knock!
Jiang Huaiyan knocked and opened the door to the studio director's office, handing over an application report. "This is our proposed script fee for Romance on Mount Lu. Everyone in the Literary Department is in unanimous agreement."
"Let me have a look!"
Wang Yang picked up the document, glanced over it, and chuckled. "Looks good. Neither too high nor too low, and it'll encourage the youngster."
"So it's approved?"
"Approved. Go coordinate with finance."
Jiang Huaiyan acknowledged the instruction and asked, "Who do you plan to have direct Romance on Mount Lu?"
"Ah, that's hard to say!"
Wang Yang was troubled by the question. "You folks categorized it as a lyrical landscape film. We've never done this genre before, and no one has any experience with it. If we bring in a veteran director, I'm afraid they'll make it too solemn. The overall tone ought to be youthful and lively."
"Exactly, that was our thinking as well. Handsome men and pretty women, stunning scenery, where beautiful romance and intense patriotism enhance each other."
"Let's deliberate a bit more. No need to rush."
Wang Yang paused, then asked with keen interest, "Xiao Jiang, what do you think of that young lad who wrote the script?"
"Talented, good-looking, modest in character, and his political background is clean—no black marks."
"The day we screened Drunken Master, I overheard him chatting with people, and he seemed to have some real insights into entertainment films. I've always wanted our studio to shoot more diverse genres rather than constantly dwelling on bitter grievances and deep-seated vendettas. Sadly, not many people understand that craft."
"Your eye for talent is acting up again?" Jiang Huaiyan asked with a smile.
"Of course I treasure talent. Still, the lad is remarkably young, which leaves me somewhat uncertain. Let's observe him a bit longer."
After a brief chat, Jiang Huaiyan returned to the Literary Department.
He sent Liang Xiaosheng to fetch Chen Qi. Before long, Chen Qi arrived and asked, "Director Jiang, did something else come up with the script?"
"No, don't be nervous. I called you over to discuss your script fee."
The script fee!
Chen Qi's eyes lit up. Hadn't he put all this effort into tinkering with that blasted script for two simple goals? One was to stay at the guesthouse, and the other was to make money.
Seeing his expression, Jiang Huaiyan teased, "I thought you'd tell me you were serving the people and didn't want any compensation!"
"I'm no saint. Since I put in the labor, naturally I'd like to be compensated. Besides, I want to show my parents and make them happy. If the day ever comes when I have no desires or needs left, maybe then I truly won't take a cent."
"Mm, honest words."
Jiang Huaiyan nodded. "Screenplay remuneration... well, how should I put it? It's always been widely envied. After being suspended for over a decade, it was only reinstated in recent years. The state hasn't set new standards for us yet, so we generally negotiate them internally.
"In the past, a script could earn as much as six thousand yuan. That's out of the question now, but after weighing all the factors, we've tried our best to give you the most generous treatment possible.
"For adapted scripts, we look at the influence of the author and the original work—the greater the influence, the higher the remuneration. It's similar for original screenplays, but since you're a young writer, the amount usually isn't very high."
"I understand, I understand!"
Chen Qi nodded repeatedly, wondering inwardly: Five hundred? Or four hundred? At the very, very least, it should be three hundred, right...?
"After much consideration, we've decided to award you eight hundred yuan in script fees!"
Hiss!
Chen Qi shuddered instantly. In his previous life, he had been a business owner, yet hearing the figure of eight hundred yuan right now made him almost beside himself with joy.
Regarding script fees, it wouldn't be until 1984 that the state issued a new standard: 1,500 to 4,000 yuan per feature film, and 750 to 2,000 yuan for short films.
Back then, that truly was high pay. Unfortunately, the 1990s and the tide of commercialization arrived soon after; novelists went on to make fortunes, while film screenwriters were still stuck scraping by on those outdated standards.
"Director Jiang, when can I collect it?"
"Finance has already processed the paperwork. You can head over in a moment."
"Great, wonderful!"
Watching him beam from ear to ear, Jiang Huaiyan understood completely. This was eight hundred yuan!
In 1979, the average monthly income for an urban worker in Beijing was 61.8 yuan—and mind you, that was urban, not including rural peasants. A peasant was doing well to make thirty yuan a month, and in impoverished areas, it was merely ten-odd yuan.
"For now, keep staying at the guesthouse. The studio will gradually get pre-production underway, and we'll call on you if anything comes up."
"So free time for me, then!"
"Haha, you have no assignments for the moment. Aren't you going home to visit?"
"Of course I am. Oh, right, Director Jiang, can Romance on Mount Lu be published in next month's issue of Film Creation? I'd like to take a copy home for my parents to see."
"Sure, no problem."
"That's great!"
Chen Qi's mind was at ease. It was May right now, and next month would be June, meaning he wouldn't clash with the original author's timeline.
He stepped out of the office and dashed straight to finance to collect the money.
The currency in circulation was the third series of the Renminbi, whose highest denomination was just ten yuan. The front depicted deputies of the National People's Congress walking out of the Great Hall of the People, earning it the popular nickname "Great Unity."
Speaking of "Great Unity," back when Chen Qi was only a teenager, he had stumbled across a certain adult fiction website where the stories were exceptionally thrilling, every protagonist unforgettable:
There were naive high school boys struggling with their grades, pitiful female schoolteachers bullied by men, young heirs of the Tung Sing triad mingling between the underworld and the business world, and even Western knights, beauties from the Grand View Garden, Huang Rong after giving birth, and Luo Bing newly widowed...
Eight hundred yuan made for a thick envelope.
Chen Qi returned to the guesthouse, and before long, Liang Xiaosheng and Ge You arrived. Liang Xiaosheng was even carrying a small hammer, leaving Chen Qi thoroughly bewildered.
"What did you bring that thing for?"
"To escort you to deposit the money! Aren't you going to deposit this much cash? I brought a weapon so I can back you up if anything happens."
"..."
Chen Qi rubbed his nose. Why was this older fellow acting so heartfelt and earnest? Truth be told, it was almost touching.
Ge You, on the other hand, hesitated as if wanting to speak, before finally blurting out, "Um, can I take a look?"
"At what? The cash?"
Nonchalantly, Chen Qi pulled out the envelope, revealing the thick stack of banknotes.
"Oh boy, oh boy!"
Ge You's eyes turned green with envy. As thrilled as if he had earned it himself, he rubbed his hands and paced in circles. "So much money... I've never seen this much cash in my life!"
Chapter 23