Chapter Twenty-Eight: Master Han the Third

Han Sanping’s intentions were very straightforward—he came to discuss the distribution of “The Great Flood.” To be honest, this was truly a timely boon for Wu Xiang.

At the turn of the twentieth century, the domestic film industry still clung to its old distribution model: after a film was shot and cleared censorship, the producers would go out and sell the prints. At this point, filmmakers ceased to be artists and became businessmen, negotiating with cinemas and distribution companies to sell their copies.

Distribution companies were only just emerging; their resources weren’t fully integrated yet, and the industry was in a crucial period of reform. Publicly owned theaters, even those operated by the military, were undergoing collective and individual contracting reforms.

In a word, it was chaos.

There were collectives, individuals, state-owned, factory-owned, and military-owned theaters, and then there were the distribution companies. These were not new entities—they’d existed for some time—but in those days, no one dared to openly call themselves a “distribution chain,” as it was not yet legal. While they operated in the distribution business, they could only do so discreetly.

The water here ran very deep. Even Wu Xiang, with the advantage of rebirth, had no real experience in this field. All he knew was that the current film market was tough; times were hard for everyone. But business was business—negotiations and connections were essential.

It was enough to give anyone a headache. Fortunately, Commander Huang could help him with the military cinemas, but making a profit from those was going to be tough. Military theaters were focal points in the reform; Wu Xiang had no idea how many prints he’d be able to sell there.

Han Sanping, representing the Northern Film Studio, possessed the most resources—Wu Xiang’s best option. While the August First Studio also had resources, they were far behind in comparison.

As for profit-sharing, revenue splits did exist, but the producers rarely got favorable terms. Most deals were made by selling film prints outright. The split depended on the director and cast—if it was Zhang Yimou or Chen Kaige, there’d be no issue; if it was Feng Xiaogang, even better. But who was Wu Xiang?

Wu Xiang knew that, in later years, the government set the revenue split at 40–43% for producers, 50% for cinemas, and after a 5% tax, the remainder went to the distribution company. But for now, producers could never expect such a generous share.

“Thirty percent!” Han Sanping offered. That was Wu Xiang’s current market value—truthfully, already quite high for a newcomer.

“Mr. Han, may I have some time to consider?” Wu Xiang didn’t immediately agree.

“Of course, no problem. But I hope you’ll get back to me soon. You know, it’s the end of the year. The New Year’s release schedule is being set, and if you miss it, you’ll lose out,” Han Sanping advised reasonably—a seasoned businessman through and through.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Han. I’ll give you an answer by tomorrow. If it’s convenient for you, I could visit you and discuss the details in person,” Wu Xiang replied calmly, providing a clear timeline.

“Very well!” Han Sanping hadn’t expected such a response from this young man. Wu Xiang’s request for a day clearly wasn’t a stalling tactic, making Han Sanping regard him with even more respect.

Their conversation ended there, and Wu Xiang returned to his team.

“Hey Xiangzi, who was that?” Wang Hongzhi, clueless as ever, didn’t recognize the big shot.

Huang Yanbo immediately stepped in to enlighten him. “Seriously, aren’t you embarrassed? That’s the director of Northern Film Studio, a famous alumnus from our film academy—Han Sanping! Don’t you know him?”

“Wow, really? That important?” Wang Hongzhi’s exclamation made everyone laugh.

Chen Kun chuckled, then asked Wu Xiang, “He came to talk about distribution, right?”

Everyone in dorm 307 looked at Wu Xiang, eager to hear the outcome. After all, it would determine the fate of their project.

“I said I’d think it over,” Wu Xiang replied with a smile.

“What?!” That was the reaction—or at least the suppressed reaction—of nearly everyone present.

“Xiangzi! Do you realize how powerful he is? You—you…” Even Hao Yi lost his composure, voicing what everyone else was thinking.

Wu Xiang just kept smiling. “I wanted to discuss it with you all. We’re a team, aren’t we?”

As soon as he finished, Huang Yanbo threw his arms around him. “Bro, next time you’re going to get sentimental, give us a heads up! I’m a grown man, and you’ve got me nearly in tears.”

Genuine tears welled in their eyes. It was such a small, simple gesture, but it moved everyone deeply…

That night, in dorm 307, the group gathered around a piece of paper, pointing and discussing.

“Xiangzi, your plan is pretty bold. Will Northern Film Studio even agree?” The team had just reviewed Wu Xiang’s proposed revenue split—a complete innovation, totally unlike anything before. The split was outlined right there on the paper.

“How will you know if you don’t try?” Wu Xiang replied lightly.

“But seriously, isn’t this a bit much? The director of Northern Film Studio has seen more than you can imagine. Do you really think you can outsmart him?”

“What’s there to be afraid of? If it doesn’t work, we’ll settle for thirty percent. We won’t lose out either way,” Wu Xiang said confidently.

That made sense, and the others had nothing more to say.

Nothing more was said. The next day, as agreed, Wu Xiang went to see Han Sanping.

“Come in, have a seat.” It was Han Sanping’s office—his domain.

“Thank you, Mr. Han. Last night, we worked out a proposal for you to review,” Wu Xiang got straight to the point and handed over the paper.

“Alright.” Han Sanping smiled as he took it, but as he scanned it, his brows furrowed.

Wu Xiang remained silent, still smiling. He knew his proposal was unusual.

In truth, Wu Xiang had borrowed this idea from a novel—a gambling-style revenue-sharing contract. In Wu Xiang’s plan, if the box office reached ten million yuan, his team would get 30%. If it hit thirty million, they’d get 33%. At fifty million, the share rose to 35%. If it reached eighty million, then 40%. And if it broke one hundred million, they’d get 45%.

That was the cap—Wu Xiang didn’t mention anything beyond that. Forty-five percent was already generous; besides, with the current state of things, there was no need to daydream. As far as Wu Xiang knew, this kind of progressive revenue split had never been seen in the domestic industry.

“So confident?” Han Sanping quickly finished reading.

“One must be confident.” Wu Xiang’s smile never faltered.

To be honest, Han Sanping felt like giving him a good kick, but he held back. “Even if the box office reaches those figures, do you realize that at eighty million, Northern Film Studio would barely make any profit? Do you think we’d accept that?”

Wu Xiang’s smile grew even broader. “Mr. Han, did you notice the last line in my proposal?”