Chapter Nineteen: Learning from the Advanced Experience of America

What is a knockoff most afraid of? It's running into the original.

Wu Xiang, though not deeply versed in the film industry, knew full well who Zhai Junjie was—the director of “Surging Waves.” How could he not feel uneasy? But he could only put on a brave face.

Fortunately, no one else could sense Wu Xiang's anxiety. After introducing Zhai Junjie, Huang Hong shifted the conversation to another reason they’d taken an interest in Wu Xiang’s script.

As it turned out, the August First Studio had recently been assigned a project: to produce a documentary about flood relief efforts. The assignment had come down, and some funding approved, but the money...

Huang Hong glossed over this part, but Wu Xiang understood the implication—things were tough. Given the current state of the August First Studio, it was clear they were barely scraping by; the budget must be extremely tight.

He didn’t know the specifics, but in the late nineties, large-scale film productions and cinemas across the country were all struggling. Wu Xiang had experienced it himself—the seats in his hometown’s state-owned cinema were all battered and worn.

“Deficit” was the common word these days. After listening to Huang Hong, Wu Xiang realized what Uncle Huang wanted: to turn a loss into a profit.

“Actually, it was Director Zhai who took a liking to your script. He thinks it’s excellent and we…”

Before Huang Hong could finish, Director Zhai couldn’t hold back and cut in, “Xiao Wu, let me be frank with you. I really like your script, and to be honest, I can already see a lot of potential in it. But as you said, making money—well, talking about profits feels a bit awkward. After all, this is art, this is…”

Director Zhai’s face grew flushed. Wu Xiang, noticing this, quickly gestured that he wanted to speak.

“Making money is nothing to be ashamed of—not at all!”

“Xiangzi!” Seeing the young man he’d brought with him contradict such a renowned director, Huang Hongbo felt a little embarrassed, but Wu Xiang pressed on.

“Uncle Huang, Director Zhai, when we made films before, it was all about fulfilling assignments—to entertain the masses. That was the planned economy. Now, we’re in a market economy; we need a new perspective. There’s nothing wrong with making money. How do you judge whether a film is good or bad? Of course, professional opinions and artistic achievements matter, but for me, profit is crucial—it’s about the box office, it’s about audience numbers. Only those figures show that your film, your art, is being accepted by more people. And for films with a main theme, it means more people are being moved and educated!”

Wu Xiang spoke with utmost seriousness. In all the time Huang Hongbo had known him, he’d never seen Wu Xiang like this.

“That’s exactly right! But…” Director Zhai wanted to continue, but Wu Xiang anticipated his words.

“But we don’t have experience in this area—no one’s tried it before, right?”

“Right!” Director Zhai slapped his thigh. In fact, Wu Xiang wasn’t all that familiar with Director Zhai, but had he been a student of the Film Academy, he would have known Zhai was an innovator. Back in '86, Zhai had directed “Bloody Battle at Taierzhuang,” the first film to portray the anti-Japanese war positively.

Now, main-theme films had reached a dangerous crossroad: the market was poor, and production methods had grown rigid, leading to financial losses. Take “The Decisive Battle,” for example—it had solid box office numbers, but the budget was enormous.

Change was necessary, and Wu Xiang’s script gave Director Zhai hope.

Wu Xiang continued, “We may lack experience, but the Americans have it—Hollywood has it. Haven’t you seen their films? So many blockbusters are actually themed films!”

“What?” Not only Director Zhai and Commander Huang were stunned—even Huang Hongbo’s mouth dropped open.

“Let me give you an example.” Wu Xiang stood up, gesturing animatedly, almost as if he were pointing out the course of an empire. “Take the previous box office champion, ‘July 4th’—that ‘Independence Day’ movie. At first glance, it seems like a sci-fi blockbuster, but in reality, it’s a main-theme film for America.”

By now, no one interrupted Wu Xiang. His argument was simply too novel.

Wu Xiang smiled and pressed on, “The plot is about fighting aliens, but have you ever wondered why America is always so powerful? Why is it only they can take on aliens? It’s simple: on this planet, America has no rival; only extraterrestrials can threaten them now. And the outcome? They triumph, defeat the aliens, and become the saviors of the world. Look at Bill Pullman’s passionate speech, look at America’s unity—this is patriotism in action. If you love the world, you love America. The United States—the hope of humanity!”

With a playful smile, Wu Xiang glanced around; the other three were utterly dumbfounded.

“You have to admire their ingenuity. They make main-theme films so well, you can’t even tell. Let’s analyze their techniques: yes, there’s a president, but he’s not the one who saves the world. The ones who deliver the virus are a Black pilot and an ordinary White technician, and the one who sacrifices himself to destroy the enemy base is a drunkard. Apart from the president, all the heroes are everyday people. What does that mean? It means their story is grounded—ordinary people can save the world. That’s the spirit of the protagonist…”

Wu Xiang was unstoppable, dissecting “Independence Day” from a unique perspective. The others in the room, though unsure if he was entirely right, couldn’t find any flaws in his reasoning.

“Xiangzi, what on earth have you got in that head of yours?” Huang Hongbo couldn’t help but marvel, but Wu Xiang’s focus was elsewhere.

He turned to Commander Huang and Director Zhai. “My script is actually written in the Hollywood style. Of course, it’s not a copy—there’s plenty of our own, distinctive material in it.”

“Excellent, truly excellent.” Director Zhai was genuinely impressed. “Xiao Wu—no, Teacher Wu, let me assist you. Let me be your assistant director!”

“Oh my goodness!” Wu Xiang cried out at the offer. “Director Zhai, please, you’re my teacher. We can’t mess up the hierarchy like this.”

“What’s the harm? In art, what do generations matter? That’s old thinking.”

“No, no…”

Wu Xiang couldn’t possibly agree, but at that moment, Commander Huang spoke.

“Xiao Wu, this project is good, but, well, about the investment, how exactly…”

Money—it always came down to money.

But Wu Xiang knew well that these old film studios, though poor, were sitting on a mountain of gold without realizing it. They might indeed be cash-strapped, some even unable to pay wages—which was common for state-owned enterprises at the time—but they had resources: facilities, equipment, personnel, especially skilled technicians, and most importantly, connections of every kind. These were exactly what Wu Xiang valued most.