Enlightenment at Longchang

The bank staff's attitude toward Chen Qi was by no means an exaggeration. In these days, whenever an ordinary citizen came to collect a remittance from relatives or friends abroad, the tellers would chat warmly and amiably: "Oh, be sure to write to your relatives often! Tell them you get preferential treatment, and encourage them to send more foreign exchange..." This was especially true along the southeastern coast, where the greatest concentration of overseas Chinese families lived. One shouldn't underestimate this practice; remittances sent home by overseas Chinese alone brought in tens of millions of US dollars each year. Chen Qi was working with a left-wing studio, which was unimpeachable in terms of political stance, but the material perks were indeed a bit lacking. Having missed out on overseas remittance certificates this time, he was genuinely considering writing a script for a local Hong Kong company, or submitting a novel to the United States to earn some real greenbacks. He deposited the converted renminbi straight into an account. On the little passbook, the figure 4,000 gleamed brightly—his total net worth. Enough to marry eight wives! ... That afternoon, Chen Qi returned to Beijing Film Studio. After a quick glance through the materials sent from Hong Kong, he headed to the main building to see Wang Yang and request access to the archives. As mentioned earlier, the main building of Beijing Film Studio was three and a half stories tall; that half-story was the archive room, which also housed a large collection of books and doubled as a reading room. Normally, hardly anyone went there. An old studio worker unlocked the door for him and said, "Put the books back where you found them when you're done. Don't smudge them or tear pages. If you want to take any back to the guesthouse, you have to register them." "Understood, don't worry!" Chen Qi stepped inside, surveyed the dozen-odd rows of bookshelves and a few tables and chairs, exhaled softly, and immediately got to work. He first picked out a selection of periodicals related to Soviet and Yugoslav cinema, found a random seat, and buried his head in reading. Relations between China and the Soviet Union were still strained at this time—they wouldn't normalize until the mid-1980s—but cinema served as an ambassador of goodwill and had already taken the lead. Following the launch of Reform and Opening-up, China lifted the ban on Soviet films and occasionally sent domestic productions for release in Eastern Europe. Relations with Yugoslavia were comparatively warm, with frequent exchanges. Together, these socialist nations encompassed nearly three hundred million people. Their cinematic tastes leaned heavily toward war films, works reflecting the working class, praises of laborers, and critiques of capitalism. "The Yugoslav market is quite active, and Romania is pretty lively too." Chen Qi jotted down notes and dug up materials on European cinema. In the blink of an eye, a thick stack covered the table. He needed to gauge how receptive these countries were to specific genres, so they wouldn't produce a film only to step on cultural or political landmines. He truly had no prior knowledge of those regions, having had no contact with them in his past life. The American market, however, he knew inside out. With the rise of New Hollywood, its three leading figures—Coppola, George Lucas, and Spielberg—had all already completed their breakthrough masterpieces. *Star Wars* in particular had single-handedly ushered Hollywood into the era of the industrial blockbuster. Next, America would enter a dazzling, bizarre golden age where films of every stripe could grab a piece of the box office. It would be the most entertaining era of American cinema—until superheroes eventually ran it into the ground. Back to martial arts films. The first Hong Kong martial arts film released in American theaters was Shaw Brothers' *Five Fingers of Death*, starring Lo Lieh. Lo Lieh would later seduce Le Yun from the *Dream of the Red Chamber* cast; she followed him to Hong Kong and eventually leaped to her death. That film raked in twenty million US dollars at the box office because Western audiences had never seen a martial arts flick before. A few months later, Bruce Lee's *The Big Boss* was released in the US as well, earning 2.8 million dollars. *Fist of Fury* took 3.4 million, while *Enter the Dragon* did phenomenally well, bringing in 25 million. *The Way of the Dragon* slumped, with a worldwide box office of just over a million dollars. "..." Chen Qi stared at the numbers as though trying to bore holes through them. *Five Fingers of Death* had enjoyed the first-mover advantage, whereas *The Big Boss* and *Fist of Fury* lagged because mainstream American audiences didn't care for that kind of story. So why did *Enter the Dragon* succeed? Because Bruce Lee had died just a month before its release, giving it massive hype, and the film featured him fighting Americans. Americans didn't mind being beaten up on screen at all. They knew they were powerful in reality, each bearing the face of someone who had never known oppression. What were they truly wary of? Did the film mobilize the working class? Was it anti-capitalist? Did it carry the shadow of the Chairman—including photographs, badges, songs, quotations, and the like? In short, so long as you didn't touch their core foundations, fight all you wanted—it was all just entertainment... Chen Qi summarized his thoughts, writing densely across several pages. He categorized the martial arts films that found popularity overseas into three types: First were blockbusters like *Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon*, *Hero*, and *Fearless*—big stars, high budgets, stunning visuals, and themes foreigners could easily grasp. Second were mid-to-low-budget actioners: pure martial arts, nonstop punch-ups from start to finish designed for sheer visceral satisfaction, epitomized by *Iron Monkey* and *Fist of Legend*, where action choreography was paramount. Third were art-house films wrapped in the guise of martial arts to explore a spiritual core, such as *The Swordsman in Double Flag Town*. Furthermore, many kung fu movies had negligible overseas theatrical runs and made their money on VHS and DVD instead. For instance, *Fist of Legend* had modest overseas box office returns, but home video rentals in the United States alone brought in 16.75 million dollars. However, the home video market was only just emerging right now, so there was no need to factor that in yet. Beijing Film Studio could at most provide a budget of seven hundred thousand yuan, ruling out a blockbuster from the start. Even if the money were there, the studio lacked the physical infrastructure and equipment for it. "Then small-scale actioners are the only option. Add in some scenic landscapes of the motherland, and that should be enough to dazzle Western audiences. The key is the action director!" Chen Qi had an angle, but then came another headache. Mainland action choreography had evolved strictly out of wushu forms, whereas Hong Kong had already passed through its rigid, traditional "firm bridge, hard stance" phase, and Jackie Chan's acrobatic slapstick and Sammo Hung's flashy routines were growing in popularity. Once Tsui Hark's new-wave wuxia arrived, action scenes would become even more unbound and ethereal, like a goat hanging its horns in the trees, leaving no trace... "Right now, Westerners like fist-to-flesh realism. The ideal choice would be a Hong Kong action director who knows every style inside and out, like a Wang Yuyan of martial arts. But given the current climate over there, how do I coax one over?" Immersed in these thoughts in the archive room, Chen Qi didn't notice the print on the pages dimming until night had fallen. Rolling his neck, he scooped up his stack of notes and stepped out. It was quitting time, and everyone looked on with curiosity. "Little Chen, what have you been up to?" "Nothing much, just looking up a few things!" "Struck by inspiration again? What genre are you planning to write?" "Not even a stroke on the page yet. I'll be sure to tell you once I've figured it out." Fending off questions with casual replies, he left the main building and checked on the soundstage. With the Congress of Literary and Art Workers concluded, filming on *Romance on Mount Lu* had resumed and was on track to wrap by mid-December. ... Just like that, he holed himself up in the archive room for three days straight. Word quickly spread around Beijing Film Studio: *Good grief, nobody knows what Little Chen is up to, reading books for three days straight, burning the midnight oil and forgetting to eat and sleep. Look at him putting on airs—does he think he's Wang Yangming achieving enlightenment at Longchang?* On the fourth day. Chen Qi finally stayed away from the archive room and knocked on the door to the studio director's office. "Come in, come in! Have some tea!" Wang Yang poured the tea himself, smiling. "Everyone knows you've been in seclusion training. Emerging today—does that mean you've come up with something?" "It's decent. I got a bit of inspiration." "Out with it, quickly!" "I've come up with three ideas. Let me give you a quick summary." Chen Qi took a sip of tea to wet his throat and said, "The first is the tale of a western bladesman. The second is the legend of the master thief Yanzi Li San. And the third is the story of Tai Chi grandmaster Yang Luchan."