Chapter Twenty-Six: The Small Premiere

After the music issue was resolved, post-production became much less daunting. It took less than a month to finish, an almost unbelievable speed considering Wu Xiang hadn’t invested much into it. Yet, without financial incentive, everyone’s initiative was undiminished. It seemed that, when it came to certain matters, we always found the strength to pull together.

As for the censorship process, that was even simpler. The review had actually begun before post-production, and even at the project’s inception, Bayi Studio had already taken care of all the necessary tasks. When the officials from the Film and Television Administration saw the material—especially knowing it was from Colonel Huang’s team and dealt with the current flood relief—there was simply nothing to question.

The efficiency and speed with which “The Great Flood” passed review was truly unprecedented; it was all settled in just a few days. Wu Xiang could swear that in both his lives combined, he’d never had such a smooth experience dealing with government departments. It was all so seamless, he could hardly believe it.

Next came distribution, but before the official screening, Wu Xiang wanted to hold a small premiere at the Film Academy. After all, this film wouldn’t exist without the Academy and those who had helped him along the way; he wanted to invite them all to witness the fruits of his labor.

The Film Academy had its own screening hall—a new, recently completed one, in fact, the very rooftop hall where Kun had once drunk wine. Still, having the facility was one thing; getting the school’s approval was another. Fortunately, with the help of Professors Mu and Zhou, the request was quickly submitted and swiftly approved.

On December 31st, 1998—the last day of that year—the Film Academy’s screening hall was packed to the brim. At least within the school, the publicity for Wu Xiang’s “The Great Flood” was more than sufficient.

But that wasn’t all. Wu Xiang had also invited Colonel Huang, Director Zhai, Professor Song Chunli, and staff from Bayi Studio. Of course, Liu Licai and his men attended as well.

Thankfully, the screening hall was spacious; otherwise, it wouldn’t have fit everyone.

Many of the Academy’s senior leaders attended too. To be honest, Wu Xiang felt a little embarrassed as a student, since he couldn’t even recall many of their names. However, he recognized one young man—Sun Li’s future husband, Huang Sanshi.

At the moment, Huang Sanshi was accompanying an elderly gentleman, whom Wu Xiang assumed must be a high-ranking official. Wu Xiang didn’t dare disturb them, but was suddenly brought to attention by another guest’s arrival.

Han Sanping!

Others might not have recognized him, but Wu Xiang certainly did—at this time, Han Sanping was still the director of Beijing Film Studio, but he would later become a leading figure in the Chinese film industry.

Wu Xiang knew Han Sanping, although a graduate of the cadre class, had roots at the Film Academy. What Wu Xiang didn’t know was that Han was invited this time by that very elder.

“Hello, Teacher. You said there was a good film, so I rushed right over.” Han Sanping’s manner before the old gentleman was exceedingly humble, with none of the imposing aura of a future film magnate.

“Haha, don’t worry, you won’t be disappointed. Come, let’s take our seats.”

As they sat, Han Sanping spotted Colonel Huang and Director Zhai. They all knew each other, exchanged greetings, and sat together.

“It looks like this is Director Zhai’s masterpiece, isn’t it?” Han Sanping assumed as much, since from the title alone he could guess what the film was about—which fit Zhai’s style perfectly.

“Haha, I just contributed a little; to be precise, I didn’t direct this film,” Zhai replied honestly.

“Oh? Then could it be Colonel Huang?” Han turned his gaze to Huang Hong.

“It wasn’t me either,” Huang Hong replied modestly.

“Alright, alright, it’s about to start. Let’s watch the film,” the elderly gentleman interjected, reminding those chatting to settle down.

The film began—no advertisements, just the Bayi Studio logo, followed by simple credits.

The feature started. Though titled “The Great Flood,” it opened not with floodwaters, but with a military competition. Chen Kun as Zhang Shangwu and Huang Xiaobo as Liu Xiangqun showcased their combat skills to each other. They respected one another, but Zhang Shangwu was about to retire and return home. Liu Xiangqun tried to persuade him to stay, but his efforts were in vain.

Zhang Shangwu reached out to an old classmate for a job, but on his way back to his unit, he was blocked by rising floodwaters. He had to seek shelter with local villagers, but the water kept rising, soon flooding the area.

“Flood! Hurry, get to higher ground!”

Most villagers lived in single-story homes, and the flooding was fierce. They evacuated in a rush, but—

A baby’s wails, chaos among the villagers—all of it gripped the audience’s hearts.

Zhang Shangwu sprang into action to save them. Still in his military uniform, he became a beacon for the villagers, who instinctively gathered around him.

“Let’s move uphill!” Zhang Shangwu, balancing a basin with a child inside on his head and supporting an old man, led the way.

This was a true-to-life portrayal, based on real events.

Though temporarily safe, the crisis wasn’t over.

“Comrade, will the army come to rescue us?”

“Will anyone come?”

The people stranded on the rooftop grew anxious—the water was overwhelming, and many buildings had collapsed. The shots of buildings crumbling weren’t filmed by Wu Xiang; they were documentary footage captured by Bayi Studio during the actual disaster, which Professor Zhou skillfully edited into the film.

“Someone will come! They’re sure to come!” Zhang Shangwu insisted, though even he wasn’t sure.

They waited, and waited longer. Despair began to set in on the rooftop—until suddenly,

The rhythmic sound of helicopter blades!

Cheers erupted—not from the film’s characters, but from the audience in the hall. At that moment, the film’s stirring drum-driven score filled the room.

“Not bad, quite imaginative,” Han Sanping nodded approvingly to the old gentleman.

“Haha, yes, this isn’t like one of our productions,” the old man commented. “If we made it, we’d have to show higher-ups authorizing the use of helicopters. That’s how the real procedure works, but it’s not very interesting for the story.”

“Indeed,” Director Zhai agreed, having once held the same view.

The film continued, leading into a scene where Zhang Shangwu argued with his father, the division commander. Because the acting company commander had sacrificed himself, Zhang Shangwu, despite rescuing people, not only received no commendation but was scolded by his father.

At this, a sense of frustration swept the audience—just as Wu Xiang intended, creating a natural ebb and flow in the plot.

“A fine performance! You’re no longer afraid of the stage, are you?” Colonel Huang remarked, beaming.

“Han, you flatter me. If you ever need an actor, I’ll work for you for free.”

“I’m too old, not up for directing anymore. It’s the young people’s world now.”

As their conversation continued, so did the story.

With each new surge of floodwaters, Zhang Shangwu and his company were dispatched to defend a section of the dike.

The flood struck like an enemy assault, wave after wave beaten back by the defenders, while the dike itself grew ever higher.

It wasn’t just soldiers on the dike—many young people came to help, university students among them. Wen Zhengrong and Zhang Yanyan were there too, mainly handling logistics, but their presence with Chen Kun’s Zhang Shangwu sparked a few romantic sparks.

This was necessary for the film’s pacing—no audience can stay tense indefinitely, so a lighter interlude was essential. And don’t underestimate the women: during filming, Wen Zhengrong actually carried several sandbags herself, adding a bit to her role. In truth, the 1997 acting class’s female students were all robust, and while Zhang Yanyan was a bit less sturdy, she did her share of the work.

“Don’t you realize how high the dike is now? If it gets any higher, it could collapse entirely—its structural integrity can’t be guaranteed!” This was the debut of Sun Li’s senior, playing a young hydrologist. Her role was brief, but she delivered it with sincerity.

“I have no choice but to keep building it higher! What about the people behind us? If the dike collapses, I’ll lie right here! And I’d like to ask you scientists—didn’t you say this year’s rainfall wasn’t the highest? So why is the water level so high?” By now, Zhang Shangwu could no longer worry about anything else.

“The vegetation upstream has been severely damaged, there’s too much silt in the river—the Yangtze is almost like the Yellow River now. Plus, the El Niño effect is especially strong this year, and that’s why...”

That one line was enough—Wu Xiang wanted the flood’s causes to be clear to all.

But soon, the plot shifted again. After days and nights of grueling work, Liu Xiangqun collapsed onto the muddy ground.

When the hero fell, the once-melodious violin score turned sharp and piercing, as if its strings were scraping across the very hearts of the audience.