Pianhua and Trailers

The Spring Festival slot had been ceded to The Shaolin Temple. As for this film that had achieved glorious success in real history, its fate was hard to predict now. The two continued their deliberations. Tai Chi 2 needed ample time for post-production, and so did Orphan. If they aimed for the Berlin International Film Festival again next year, the schedule would be far too tight... Suddenly, both blurted out in unison: "Let's go to Cannes!" "Let's go to Cannes!" "Kan Cheng" was the Hong Kong rendering of Cannes. "The Cannes Film Festival is held every May, which gives us plenty of time. We can bring Tai Chi 2, Orphan, Wrong Turn 2, and The Descent Part 2 to hawk to buyers." "Wow, four pictures all at once! Talk about visible growth in muscle." Chen Qi nodded, then added, "Still, dragging things out until May slows down my cash recovery. I want to keep shooting new projects, and the company's funds are tight." "If you run into difficulties, Great Wall can—" "No, no, I have a method. Tai Chi was sold to so many territories—they should all have screened it by now, right?" "Most likely." "How did it perform?" "I've received scattered feedback saying the box office was quite strong everywhere. What are you planning?" "To tell the truth, I brought a film print with me this time. I edited a five-minute preview reel. Uncle Fu, could you invite the distributors from Japan, South Korea, and Southeast Asia over? Let's give them an early look." "Are you..." Fu Chi stared blankly, asking with a strange look, "You want to sell pianhua?!!" "No, no, mine is called a trailer—far more conscientious than selling pianhua!" Chen Qi laughed. The Hong Kong film industry's practice of selling pianhua dated back to the 1950s. Back then, with World War II freshly ended, overseas Chinese across Southeast Asia were gripped by deep homesickness, driving a soaring demand for films rich in traditional Chinese flavor. Hong Kong's major studios could not churn out pictures fast enough to meet demand, giving birth to the practice of selling pianhua—pre-selling distribution rights before a film was even completed. Later on, political instability in Southeast Asia and shifting regional policies caused the pianhua business to grind to a halt for a time. Entering the 1980s, Hong Kong cinema boomed anew. First, Southeast Asian distributors staged a comeback; by the late 1980s, restrictions on Taiwan cinema loosened, and Taiwanese distributors poured in waving thick wads of cash, breathing furious new life into the pianhua trade. Pianhua was not the same thing as a trailer—a distinction worth making! A more respectable pianhua might involve printing a poster featuring photographs of the leads. The sloppier ones amounted to nothing more than a slip of paper scribbled with the title and the leading actors—typically big stars—and nothing else. Armed with just that slip of paper, producers could rake in money from distributors in Taiwan and Southeast Asia. Take Wong Kar-wai making Ashes of Time. Buyers took one look: Holy crap, an all-star wuxia epic! Pay up! We must pay! And then... there was no "and then." And what was the absolute worst of it? Listing a slate of ten films all at once to swindle buyers into coughing up money, taking a twenty to forty percent deposit on each title. That netted an immense sum upfront. Then came the endless delays. Who knew which year or month those ten movies would ever be finished? In the end, only three or four were ever delivered, screwing the distributors over completely. The upside of selling pianhua was that it kept capital circulating; the downside was that it fostered complacency, shoddy craftsmanship, and total loss of credibility—one of the prime causes of Hong Kong cinema's eventual decline. So to return to the old refrain: Hong Kong filmmakers blamed the mainland, but did that blame really hold water? Hong Kong cinema played itself to death! What Chen Qi was offering, on the other hand, was genuine, filmed footage. This was called a trailer—utterly conscientious by comparison. ... "Ah~ Hong Kong truly radiates an aura where tradition and modernity blend together!" Several days later, Shinji Nakamura of Japan's Toho Company touched down in Hong Kong, spouting poetic nonsense in that characteristically theatrical Japanese exclamation tone. He was dressed in the quintessential look of a contemporary Japanese salaryman: a respectable suit, leather shoes, a genuine leather briefcase, and an immaculate tie, radiating sharpness and competence from head to toe. Small wonder—Japan's economy was riding insanely high at the moment, high enough that it was starting to challenge its "father." Only to be rubbed into the dirt by Daddy America later on... Never mind America's domestic turmoil and foreign troubles; slapping around its junior partner was never an issue. It was nothing like in later years, where the venerable old Biden's vitality was anyone's guess and Harris was rumored to be tampering with imperial edicts, carrying on like some third-rate palace drama. Back then, Tai Chi 1 had been negotiated by Shinji Nakamura himself at a price of one million US dollars. Upon returning home, he had been chewed out furiously. And the outcome? An unprecedented sensation. After selling out, numerous theaters even introduced standing-room tickets on the fly. The Kitano Theater in Umeda, Osaka, set an all-Japan single-day record of over twelve thousand admissions. The final box office reached 3.6 billion yen. Under the profit distribution of the Japanese industry, the distributor took fifty to sixty percent. Toho cleared two billion yen—roughly nine million US dollars! So the moment he caught wind of Tai Chi 2, Nakamura rushed over without stopping. After a brief rest at his hotel, he hurried straight to Clear Water Bay Studio. Yet before he could even lay eyes on his host, he spotted an obnoxious character. He didn't know the man, but the fellow's face alone was thoroughly irritating. Kim Min-yong glared back at him, finding him equally repulsive. China, Japan, and South Korea—perpetually annoyed with one another, yet always pairing up in twos to mock the third. It was standard practice. "Hmph!" Kim Min-yong looked down his nose at him with disdain and took the stairs first. Tai Chi had been enormously popular in South Korea as well, drawing 290,000 admissions in Seoul and muscling into the year's top ten at the national box office. The two went upstairs. After waiting a little while longer, buyers from Singapore-Malaysia and Thailand arrived as well. Fu Chi hadn't invited a crowd; these four were plenty. After trading pleasantries, they moved into one of the studio's screening rooms. The film print Chen Qi had brought along finally proved its worth as they screened a five-minute reel. Historically, the Japanese rarely bought Hong Kong films on pianhua because the concept was far too bogus. Moreover, the Japanese market was peculiar: apart from Jackie Chan, Yuen Biao, and a few others, virtually everything else fell flat on its face. Yes, the Japanese adored Yuen Biao, for reasons no one could quite explain. Now, what Chen Qi offered was a proper trailer. And so, the buyers witnessed Li Lianjie battling Zhen Zidan's cloth staff, the eerie, bewitching Two-Faced Bodhisattva, the Holy Mother of the Yellow Lotus, and Li Lianjie fighting, fighting, fighting... Li's footage took up half the reel. The buyers had come for him, so you had to give them what they wanted! "Clap, clap, clap!" The brief five minutes passed in a flash, and the buyers praised it in chorus: "Twisting cloth into a staff—what a brilliant idea! I can't wait to see the full movie!" "You've added so many fresh elements! I love it!" Everyone conversed in English. Chen Qi dropped all pretenses in front of Fu Chi and spoke fluent English: "First, thank you all for traveling such a long way. I believe everyone understands the purpose of this meeting, so I won't waste words. Tai Chi 2 has just wrapped and entered post-production. "We are now selling pre-purchase options for Tai Chi 2. You are all industry veterans. Hong Kong films typically ask for twenty to forty percent upfront while offering nothing more than a title and a cast list. To show our sincerity, we are asking for only fifteen percent. "If you are willing to negotiate further, please stay. If you prefer to watch the finished film at Cannes, you are more than welcome to do that as well." "..." After a brief silence, Shinji Nakamura asked, "Mr. Chen Qi, we rarely pay deposits for a film in advance. Why not hold discussions at Cannes?" "We have our own considerations. I can only say that if you pass now, we won't rule out approaching another Japanese distributor—or going directly to an American distributor to discuss global rights." "..." Another stretch of silence fell. Not a single person moved to leave. "Good. It seems we've reached an initial consensus. Now, we can discuss the specific price!"