For every completed film produced by a film studio, China Film purchased it outright at a unified rate of seven hundred thousand yuan and handled nationwide distribution. Whatever it earned at the box office had nothing to do with the studio.
The upside was guaranteed income regardless of market performance; the downside was stunted development.
A film's production cost had to be kept under seven hundred thousand yuan at most, because spending a cent more meant running at a deficit! With production expenses creeping up year by year, studios were forced into making modest, low-budget pictures, never daring to truly spread their wings.
China Film took the lion's share of the profits, but that revenue ultimately had to be turned over to state finances. Only after the central government received those funds could it allocate subsidies to film studios, support rural screenings, restore cinemas, and construct cultural infrastructure.
Put simply, the country was still poor.
At this moment, Wang Yang sat reviewing the file.
The Beijing Film Studio had produced eleven films this year, precisely fulfilling the quota assigned by the state, among which was *Romance on Mount Lu*. He had a gut feeling that *Romance on Mount Lu* was bound to be a massive hit, but alas, the studio wouldn't see a dime of that box-office windfall.
And next year brought *Tai Chi*.
According to Chen Qi's breakdown, the film required authentic late-Qing costumes, props, and makeup, extensive set construction, a nationwide talent hunt for martial artists, and ideally a martial arts choreographer brought in from Hong Kong. It was glaringly obvious that this would be an enormous undertaking—a seven-hundred-thousand-yuan budget likely wouldn't cut it.
Wang Yang was an ambitious man. If he was going to make something, he would make it right, or not at all!
During his inspection tours in Europe, he had discovered that people there had long been analyzing box office, markets, attendance rates, and the like, while China remained bound to the old system. Throughout the year, he had been negotiating with China Film in an effort to secure better terms:
"Either give our studio independent distribution rights, or raise the buyout price accordingly. Seven hundred thousand is simply not enough."
Naturally, China Film refused.
Wang Yang was a classic reformer: forward-thinking in many ways, yet bound by the limitations of his time. For instance, he couldn't foresee what negative fallout might arise if distribution were fully deregulated. He only knew that reform was urgently needed.
"..."
Wang Yang slowly rose and paced over to the window. Down in the courtyard, he happened to catch sight of Chen Qi wandering around with a beat-up camera, pestering Liu Xiaoqing about her thoughts on the decade ahead. He couldn't help but chuckle.
The subtle shifts that had stirred in the Beijing Film Studio this year had all started after that young rascal moved in. First romance, now martial arts—every idea broke the rules, yet every single one suited Wang Yang's appetite to a tee.
He was an old revolutionary who had gone to Yan'an in 1938; stirring up trouble had never scared him.
"I'll have another talk with China Film!"
"If that doesn't work, I'll petition the central leadership directly. One way or another, we're busting this opening wide!"
"Whatever happens, I'll shoulder the blame!"
***
*Huff!*
*Puff!*
"Damn it all... I finally pedaled all the way back!"
On the final day of 1979, Chen Qi, bundled up in a thick padded coat over a padded jacket, struggled through the last stretch on his bicycle and finally reached Dashilar.
It was over a dozen kilometers! His cheeks were flushed bright red, and his ears felt ready to snap off from the frost. Having ridden without a hat, the cold breeze had whipped relentlessly against him, keeping his nose running the entire way. Truly a brisk and dashing trek through the winter chill.
Despite the freezing air, Dashilar was bustling with holiday clamor. It was New Year's Eve.
Crowds bustled, shops enjoyed lively business, and even families on tight budgets made sure to buy a few candies for their children to mark the occasion. As Chen Qi passed Ma Juyuan, he couldn't resist glancing inside. It was a time-honored hat shop that had been around since the Jiaqing reign.
Back in the late Qing dynasty, a popular jingle had circulated through the capital: *A hat from Ma Juyuan on your head, shoes from Neiliansheng on your feet, fabric from the Badaxiang on your back, and money from the Sidaheng in your belt.* In those days, every single one was the pinnacle of luxury, the very definition of authentic Beijing style!
*I ought to get myself a shearling hat,* he thought. *Those things are proper warm.*
Chen Qi turned into Menkuang Hutong. The moment he entered, he spotted a crowd clustered outside the entrance of his residential compound, buzzing with noisy excitement.
"Careful! Easy now!"
"If you drop it, can you afford to replace it? Open the door! Get the door open!"
Spotting his old man in the crowd, Chen Qi called out, "Dad, what's going on?"
"You're back, son! Your Uncle Zhang bought a TV!" Chen Jianjun said.
"A nine-inch black-and-white giant color TV—top-of-the-line! Xiao Qi, come over tonight to watch! The more, the merrier!" Uncle Zhang's grin stretched practically from ear to ear. He was the very first person in the whole compound to purchase a television set.
"Well now, a nine-inch black-and-white giant color TV? I've definitely got to see that!"
The crowd bustled noisily into the courtyard, escorting Uncle Zhang as he cradled the modest-sized cardboard box in his arms. Chen Jianjun happily tagged along, while Chen Qi headed home first.
"Mom, why aren't you going to have a look?"
"Look at what? A bunch of nonsense!"
Yu Xiuli was in the middle of cooking, her tone brimming with annoyance. "Back when you got your manuscript fee, if our family had actually bought a TV, would he be acting so smug right now? Grinning like Sihanouk!
"And your dad's just as hopeless. What's so great about a stupid TV that he has to go fawn over it in someone else's house?"
"Mom, look at it this way," Chen Qi reasoned. "Uncle Zhang spent four hundred yuan on a nine-inch black-and-white set—he's the sucker here! Prices might drop next year, and then he'll take a loss. Color TVs are expensive right now, but give it a few years and they'll get cheap, not to mention much bigger. Wouldn't it make far more sense for us to buy one then?"
"Now that's sensible talk!"
Her mood instantly brightening, Yu Xiuli returned to being Chen Qi's loving mother. She rubbed his frost-flushed face and said tenderly, "Look how cold you are. Hurry inside and warm up."
Chen Qi slipped into the room and shed his padded coat and padded shoes like shedding a layer of skin, holding his hands and feet close to the stove.
It felt novel, truth be told. It had been years since he had experienced such bitter cold. In his former life, a sweater and a down jacket were all he ever needed for winter; cars had climate control, and indoor spaces had central heating, leaving virtually no opportunity to freeze.
After he had warmed up for a while, the meal was ready, and Chen Jianjun strolled back inside with a cheerful grin.
"That TV is truly something. Let's all go over and watch tonight."
"If you want to go, go yourself. I'm not going!"
One of the secrets behind how the couple had stayed together all these years was that Chen Jianjun knew when to keep his mouth shut. Seeing that his wife was cross, he smartly changed the subject. "Son, now that your movie's wrapped, does that mean you have to head back to the tea stall?"
"No need. I'm writing another screenplay, so I'm still staying at the guesthouse."
"Still, hanging around the Beijing Film Studio day in and day out isn't a long-term solution," Yu Xiuli chimed in. "Haven't they thought about giving you a formal transfer?"
"The studio head hinted at it, but nothing's set in stone yet."
"The Beijing Film Studio is a top-tier work unit—you have to take it seriously! Once you can say you're with Beijing Film Studio, people will look at you with respect. Finding a wife won't be a problem, and they assign housing too. You can't honestly expect that run-down tea stall to allocate you an apartment!"
"Housing's hard to say," Chen Qi replied. "I've seen their tongzilou. Units are extremely tight, and regular staff members have been waiting in line forever. How could they possibly hand one to me first?"
Both parents' brows furrowed with worry.
Never mind that he had earned quite a bit of money; in the eyes of folks from this era, that was nothing more than freelancing on the side. Landing a solid position in a state-run work unit was the only true path. That mindset would persist for another forty years; countless young people would fight against it, only to eventually realize it held a great deal of truth.
Yu Xiuli ate in silence for a moment before suddenly looking up. "Say, what about private housing? Could that work?"
"The policy is far too murky," Chen Jianjun cautioned. "There are risks."
"Let's ask around anyway. Just make a few discreet inquiries first."
"..."
Chen Qi glanced between his parents. He knew that Beijing had the Huaqiao Apartments, and later on there would be Fangzhuang, but when private real estate transactions had officially become permitted was something he genuinely couldn't recall. Making a few inquiries couldn't hurt.
To be frank, one reason he didn't enjoy coming home was the cramped living conditions.
A makeshift bed set up in the outer room, separated from his parents only by a single door—any rustle or movement was heard plain as day, which was deeply awkward. Mooching a room at the guesthouse was certainly nice, but owning a place of his own would be far better. Private homes in this era were mostly courtyard siheyuan, weren't they?
That meant plenty of room. When the time came, he could plant a few trees: a pomegranate, a jujube, a persimmon, a pear, a crabapple, and a lilac, all competing in vibrant bloom. Wouldn't that be splendid?
***
"Hurry, hurry! Come on in!"
"It's starting!"
"Don't shove!"
Uncle Zhang had become the biggest celebrity in the entire courtyard. A good number of neighbors had arrived early, clutching rice bowls and carrying wooden stools to stake out prime spots.
By around seven o'clock, the bed, the floor, the doorway, and the outer room were packed to the brim. Like pilgrims at a shrine, everyone gazed with devout reverence at the nine-inch black-and-white giant color TV resting on the table.
Yu Xiuli stood by her pride and genuinely stayed away. Chen Jianjun, ever eager, had squeezed his way right to the front. Chen Qi leaned against the doorframe, watching with casual detachment, mostly curious to see what television programming looked like in this era.
"Look, look, a channel came on!"
"Stop fidgeting, the broadcast is starting!"
"Good evening, viewers. Today is December thirty-first, the lunar calendar date of..., and the final day of 1979."
A voice came through the television set that Chen Qi found very familiar, though the face was somewhat strange. Set against a striped wall backdrop behind a plain wooden desk, a man clad in a neat gray Zhongshan suit sat ramrod straight, the manuscript papers in his hands plainly visible.
It was thirty-nine-year-old Zhao Zhongxiang.
*Xinwen Lianbo* had launched the previous year, and he was its first-generation news anchor. At the very beginning, there had only been audio without video; moving images were only introduced this year. And rather than the later format featuring a male-female co-anchor pair, he sat alone.
"..."
The small room fell dead silent in an instant. Over twenty pairs of eyes locked onto the screen. Zhao Zhongxiang mostly read from his script, with relatively little news footage, but the crowd watched with rapt fascination nonetheless.
Simply seeing a living person move on a television screen was enough to send everyone into raptures.
When the thirty-minute broadcast of *Xinwen Lianbo* came to an end, Zhao Zhongxiang delivered the preview: "Up next is a brief feature on public health and hygiene, followed by the scenic television documentary *Legend of the Three Gorges*..."
Weather forecasts weren't part of the programming yet. After the hygiene segment finished, *Legend of the Three Gorges* began.
The content was remarkably straightforward: scenic footage of the Yangtze's Three Gorges accompanied by narration and music. Yet in this era, it was nothing short of a spiritual feast. Chen Qi remained leaning against the doorframe, listening to the murmurs of wonder and hushed whispers around him.
"So those are the Three Gorges of the Yangtze! Truly magnificent!"
"I have to go there at least once in my lifetime!"
"Hey, hush, hush! Listen to this song..."
The room hushed once more. A wondrous female voice drifted out, carrying an even more enchanting melody:
*"Your silhouette, your singing voice, remain forever engraved upon my heart..."*
Just as Chen Jianjun had reacted upon first hearing Teresa Teng, every person in the room froze in place, utterly entranced as if listening to music from heaven itself.
*"Tomorrow is soon to arrive, yet how rare it is that we should meet; only the gentle breeze can carry my deepest devotion..."*
It was the interlude song from *Legend of the Three Gorges*—Li Guyi's "Xianglian".
"..."
Chen Qi smiled softly as well. After listening to the song until the end, he slipped quietly back to his own home.
His father returned late into the night.
Lying in the chilly, narrow bed in the outer room beneath two heavy quilts, Chen Qi could hear his parents still awake in the inner room, keeping their evening entertainment going with the radio. His mind drifted across countless thoughts, slipping into a haze where he lost all track of time.
Only faintly did he catch a voice drifting through the quiet night:
"As the New Year's chimes ring out, the year 1980 has begun! Happy New Year, everyone!"
Chapter 71