Chapter Fifty-Nine: I Hope You Will Be With Me Along the Way

“Hahaha… this guy is hilarious! Why is he so eager to die? Insisting that Jing Ke kills him—what a riot…” Watching the film, Hai Qing couldn't help but reveal her true nature.

“Hehe, it is pretty funny,” Wu Xiang replied, not saying much as he accompanied her.

What movie were they watching?

“The Emperor and the Assassin!”

Yes, the new film directed by Chen Kaige, starring a host of celebrities, still showing in theaters. Wu Xiang had bought tickets early, and when Hai Qing saw them, she felt the man before her was a devil, having planned out everything so she could never escape his grasp. The frustration was compounded by the fact that Wu Xiang had stocked up on snacks, saying the movie was long and he didn’t want Hai Qing to get hungry. Even more annoyingly, Hai Qing found his thoughtfulness almost touching, despite knowing he was a devil.

The film ran nearly three hours; without something to eat, it would be uncomfortable. Throughout, Wu Xiang spoke little, simply watching and urging Hai Qing to eat, acting perfectly normal—so different from his usual wild behavior.

“You brought me here just to watch a movie?” As the film ended and the audience dispersed, Hai Qing was baffled. Was this supposed to be a date? Dates usually involve conversation. Last time, at least, Wu Xiang had commented on “Titanic”—even if his remarks were nonsense. But now, nothing. Was he trying to fool her?

She had expected more, but…

“I told you, it’s just a movie,” Wu Xiang replied, his smile rather wicked.

“Go to hell!” Hai Qing, exasperated, turned to leave.

“Alright, no more teasing. Let’s find somewhere to talk.” Wu Xiang wouldn’t let her go; he led Hai Qing to a bench by the roadside.

“How much do you think this film will make at the box office?”

The question surprised Hai Qing. This was a major director’s work, packed with stars. The box office should be a sure thing. But the theater had been so empty.

“Ten million?” Hai Qing guessed.

Wu Xiang chuckled. “Let’s not beat around the bush. The domestic box office will barely reach a million, and overseas earnings won’t be much higher.”

“What?” The statement was so shocking that Hai Qing’s tough side emerged. This was Chen Kaige, with so many stars—even minor roles performed by famous actors like Pan Changjiang. How could the box office be so low?!

“Impossible! Didn’t they say overseas earnings topped ten million dollars?”

“That’s just hype,” Wu Xiang replied, knowing it was a classic PR trick. In those days, domestic audiences couldn’t verify overseas box office. The numbers were whatever they said, but in reality, “The Emperor and the Assassin” fared miserably abroad.

Hai Qing’s mouth hung open, unable to believe it.

Wu Xiang smiled. “I wish it weren’t so, but that’s how it is. Want to make a bet? If I win…”

“I’m not betting with you.” Hai Qing’s alertness spiked; this bastard loved betting, and always seemed lucky.

“Fine, fine, no bets.” Wu Xiang had intended to say, “If I win, we’ll start dating,” but she wasn’t stupid. “Alright, no bet this time. Just tell me, why do you think this film failed to achieve a high box office?”

The result was settled; they might as well analyze the reason.

“Is it because the acting is too exaggerated? Like the shop owner who foolishly asked to be killed? Maybe people just don’t understand?” Hai Qing offered a plausible explanation.

“That’s part of it.” Indeed, the film felt odd—Qin Shi Huang constantly shouting, Jing Ke speaking in a dialect from who-knows-where, and confusing plot points. They might be important, but Wu Xiang wanted to point out something else.

“What did you think of the visuals?”

“The visuals?” Hai Qing recalled her impression—the film looked strange, not attractive at all, yellowish, as if shot on the Loess Plateau. “Maybe Director Chen wanted authenticity…”

“Two thousand years ago, the Loess Plateau was lush forest, one of the most habitable regions on earth,” Wu Xiang interrupted, undermining her defense of Director Chen. “This film was shot at Hengdian, at the new Qin Palace. Costumes, sets, everything was new. Eighty million RMB invested—it should’ve been a spectacular film.”

“Then…” Why did such a lavish production feel like a return to the Loess Plateau?

“Did you notice the credits at the end—the crew list?” Wu Xiang asked.

Hai Qing stuck out her tongue, admitting she hadn’t.

Wu Xiang laughed. “That’s normal. Most people don’t notice. But the film’s downfall lies here. Though the cinematographers were top-notch, the color grading was done by Japanese technicians. And I need to tell you: whenever Japanese experts handle Chinese films, they use yellow filters. No matter the movie, they do this, making everything look old and dirty!”

Normally, color grading is the cinematographer’s job. But this film was a strange case.

“What?!” Hai Qing’s mouth dropped open; she’d never heard such a thing.

Wu Xiang continued, seeing his words take effect: “You’ll ask why. Simple—their government teaches them this. Look at your neighbors—they’re still living in misery. It’s part of their propaganda to maintain a sense of superiority, convincing their people that Chinese are doomed to hardship, lower class, an inferior race!”

Hai Qing was stunned. “Is that true?”

Skepticism was normal; if Wu Xiang hadn’t been reborn, if he hadn’t worked with a Japanese crew in 2010, he wouldn’t have believed it either. That Japanese crew, filming in Shanghai, managed to make it look like the Loess Plateau. Wu Xiang remembered clearly—Lin Chi-ling was in that film.

Outraged, Wu Xiang had argued, only for the Japanese to retort, “Your country is just like this—dirty!” He’d replied with his fists, and although he could handle a few Japanese, he lost his job and nearly caused an international incident.

That’s how the island nation operates. Except for one major TV station with some integrity, the rest are shameless.

Wu Xiang recalled briefly and went on: “I have no reason to lie. Let me explain why they do this. The answer is simple—America does it, and the Japanese follow their father’s lead. It serves their interests, so why not?”

“Why are they so malicious?” Hai Qing couldn’t understand. She could accept manipulated history textbooks, but this was modern media.

Ordinary people couldn’t comprehend it. Hollywood films and American values appear inclusive and objective, but their actions are the opposite.

“Do you know what kinds of Chinese films they import? For the past decade, only rural dramas, films portraying social darkness, and those about the Cultural Revolution. Why don’t they import uplifting films showing progress and achievement? We’ve made plenty—good box office too—but they refuse. Besides rural films, they’ll import some historical dramas. Do Americans really love rural Chinese films? Of course not. Often, their box office is terrible, but America is obsessed.”

Hai Qing didn’t know what to say, but the answer was clear in her mind—one that overturned everything she’d believed.

Those born in the seventies and eighties had an innate fondness for America, seeing its advanced society and wealth on TV, and enjoying good relations. Especially Hollywood imports—one more exquisite than the next. That was the most successful ideological export, impossible to resist; these films became powerful weapons.

Rural films, those exposing social imbalance, aren’t inherently problematic—a society needs such voices, needs to recognize its flaws. But you can’t focus solely on shortcomings, ignoring all achievements since reform and opening. Is that normal?

It’s not, but that’s what they do. They show their people only one side; your achievements don’t matter. Many overseas Chinese in Chinatowns aren’t aware of the huge changes in their hometowns, even in the age of information explosion a decade later.

As for Chen Kaige’s “The Emperor and the Assassin,” its oddity lay in its Japanese funding—Kadokawa Publishing was a major investor. But they insisted on yellow filters, so despite the hefty budget, the result was ugly. Film is visual art; an unattractive movie won’t draw crowds.

“Remember Zhang Yimou’s ‘Not One Less’?” Wu Xiang continued. “At this year’s Cannes, Zhang Yimou withdrew his film because Western judges saw it as excellent, perfectly reflecting social issues—those children were so poor, a sign of government failure.”

They wanted to use this as ammunition, to criticize, a tactic repeated ad nauseam.

“Why are you telling me all this?” Hai Qing wondered if Wu Xiang’s views were relevant to why he’d invited her out today.

Wu Xiang smiled, a knowing smile. “Because it concerns me. The reason foreign powers do this is to blockade us. Our ideology differs from their ‘universal values,’ so they must block us. For now, it’s just a blockade; but when our country grows strong enough to challenge them, they will attack—ideologically.”

Hai Qing grew uneasy; she’d only ever wanted to act, never thought about such things.

But Wu Xiang had to think. “How did the Soviet Union collapse? It’s a classic case of ideological subversion. First, they destroyed heroes, spreading rumors about them—Lei Feng, Liu Hulan, even the Volunteer Army. Then came attacks on the system, rights, economic collapse… all the old tricks from the CCCP’s final days…”

“Wait!” Hai Qing’s eyes widened as she realized something crucial. “How are you so sure? Could it be…”

Wu Xiang broke into a cold sweat; he’d gotten so excited he almost revealed his rebirth!

“Simple—I am certain our country will continue to prosper. That’s definite!” Wu Xiang congratulated himself silently for his quick thinking.

“Oh, I see.”

In fact, Hai Qing wanted to ask if Wu Xiang had access to special information—if he belonged to some secret department. That made her a little hopeful.

Wu Xiang never expected Hai Qing’s imagination to run so wild, but he quickly returned to the main point. “The reason I’m telling you this is because the path I’m on will determine my future and the films I make. I won’t shy away from criticizing ugly realities, but I’ll also praise social progress. That means I’ll face all kinds of slander, accusations, and things you can’t even imagine…”

At this moment, Wu Xiang suddenly grabbed Hai Qing by the shoulders, locking eyes with her.

“My path will be full of thorns, but I will keep going. But I need someone to support me. I hope that person will be my lifelong companion, my whole life…”

“Stop!” Just then, Hai Qing broke away, shouting, “Are you trying to win my sympathy again?”

Wu Xiang’s words had reminded her of how he’d persuaded her to star in “The First Intimate Encounter,” making her feel sorry for him—if he lost the bet, he’d have nothing, and she was the key to his film’s box office.

“Allow me to correct your error.” Though exposed, Wu Xiang showed no embarrassment.

“What error? You’re a liar! This is just a ploy for sympathy!” Hai Qing protested, but inside, she’d been genuinely worried for Wu Xiang—it all sounded so frightening.

“You truly are the woman I’ve set my sights on—so clever.” Wu Xiang affirmed his choice, but showed no shame; instead, he was pleased. He laughed and said, “Your error is that I’m not deceiving you. I’m creating opportunities for us, and what I need is your support, not your sympathy. To be blunt, what I want from you is…”

“I don’t want to hear it!” Hai Qing sensed what he was about to say, and the word would be unbearable.

“What are you afraid of?” This was Wu Xiang’s biggest hurdle. All his elaborate explanations were to get Hai Qing to face it, not to run.

“I, I…” Hai Qing was shy; she’d had feelings for Wu Xiang for a while but didn’t want a romance in school.

But Wu Xiang couldn’t wait—he was madly in love, desperate to embrace her a moment sooner, for a moment’s peace, a moment’s happiness.

“I know. I love you, and you love me.”

“Ah!” The word finally burst out; Hai Qing was frantic. “Why are you so shameless? How do you know I—I love you? Can’t I like someone else?”

“If you didn’t love me, you wouldn’t talk about all this ozone nonsense, wouldn’t have agreed to my request for the film, wouldn’t even glance at me—isn’t that so?” Wu Xiang was utterly confident.

“That’s all your setup!” Indeed, Hai Qing had noticed it was a trap, but she couldn’t help falling in.

“Yes, I planned it all.” Wu Xiang admitted openly; Hai Qing was stunned. He continued, “I planned it because you’re in my heart. And you, knowing it’s a trap, still got ensnared—meaning I’m in your heart. So why keep running?”

“I, I…” Hai Qing retreated step by step, but Wu Xiang wouldn’t let her escape.

“Don’t run.”

“You—what do you love about me? I have a bad temper, I’m not gentle, not slim, not as beautiful as Zhang Jingchu or Zhang Ziyi, and I have braces!…” Hai Qing really didn’t want to admit these things, but she was cornered.

“Heh…” Wu Xiang was amused, but then he spoke earnestly, “You’re not gentle, but you’re kind-hearted—at least, when I’m in danger, you always help me. I love your honesty, your authenticity, your effort, your strength, your shyness, everything about you—including those damned braces!”

“Please, stop! I really don’t want to date in school!” Hai Qing was about to break; she couldn’t find any good excuses. Everything Wu Xiang had said made her heart burst with joy—that happiness, that satisfaction of being praised by her beloved, it made her tremble.

“Ah!” Wu Xiang sighed deeply. He hadn’t expected her to be so stubborn. Just then, a dry leaf fell from a nearby tree; Wu Xiang caught it, and with a touch of sentimentality, said, “If a leaf falls at five centimeters per second, how long will it take two hearts to meet?”

“Ah!” Hai Qing was beside herself. “Can you stop being so poetic?!”

In that moment, Wu Xiang’s melancholy expression and poetic words cut through the defenses in Hai Qing’s heart, almost breaking through.

“Let’s try something more down-to-earth. I won’t mess around—if you marry me, all my earnings are yours, just leave me enough to make movies, alright?” Wu Xiang sounded like a simple Northeastern fellow.

“No! I really don’t want to date!…” She protested, but couldn’t help smiling.

So, will this honest, bumbling Northeasterner succeed in winning Hai Qing’s heart?