Chapter Sixty-Two: Carving One’s Own Path

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The competition is truly fierce these days. When Black Car saw the rankings, he was genuinely startled—please, I beg for your recommendations and support, many thanks to everyone.

It was already October of 1999. Wu Xiang’s new film, “First Intimate Encounter,” had just barely passed the review board. The next steps were scheduling its release and the commercial operations to follow.

With the previous film as a foundation, arranging the release was not a problem. Both China Film Corporation and Yu Dong’s Bona had already negotiated with the theater chains: the film would be released during the New Year holiday season. Wu Xiang now had a certain box office appeal—there was no reason not to give him a prime release window.

Wu Xiang considered the timing and decided, since it was already this late in the year, why not release it at Christmas? Both China Film and Bona readily agreed; they had already made every effort in their negotiations with the theaters.

Fortunately, there was little resistance from the theater chains. There weren’t many contenders for the holiday slot this year; competition was nothing like the previous year.

Yu Dong not only relayed this news to Wu Xiang, but also brought good tidings: the film “That Mountain, That Man, That Dog” had attracted foreign interest. To be precise, a Japanese producer—Kazuo Fukasawa—wanted to purchase the rights.

Just as Wu Xiang had predicted, Kazuo Fukasawa immediately proposed a complete buyout, even expressing interest in acquiring the rights to the novel itself, and he offered a fairly substantial sum.

Of course, by today’s standards the price wasn’t high, but at that time, most people in the film and literary circles had never seen real money. Everyone was eager and thirsty—if history had run its original course, they would have agreed to a package deal, and only later regretted it bitterly.

Originally, the operation of the film had been entrusted entirely to Forbidden City Films, but now that Yu Dong was involved, he insisted on one principle after hearing Wu Xiang’s advice: they would go for a profit-sharing deal.

At first, Kazuo Fukasawa refused outright, acting as if he were picking through overripe fruit—he didn’t care for this “worthless” film at all. But Yu Dong was stubborn as a mule; after all, he had no cost to recoup, and the film’s box office had already flopped, so how much worse could it get?

However, some were anxious—China Film, for instance, since the money was right in front of them and could cover their costs; the original author was also eager, since the sum offered was more than he could earn in a lifetime. It would be unfair to call them short-sighted; it was simply reality.

Yet Yu Dong held his ground, and with good reason. Even though the box office was poor, the film had just won Best Picture and Best Actor at the Golden Rooster Awards, proof of its artistic merit.

In the end, the deal was struck: the Japanese side and the other overseas markets would handle all operations themselves, but the profit-sharing would be tilted in their favor.

Yu Dong came to inform Wu Xiang of this arrangement—the Japanese wanted an extra ten percent.

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“Agreed!” Wu Xiang replied without hesitation, not even attempting to bargain.

“You’re awfully decisive,” Yu Dong remarked. He had expected this response, but hadn’t anticipated Wu Xiang’s complete lack of deliberation.

“There’s no other way. Let me ask you: what do you think of the Japanese approach to these operations?” Wu Xiang countered.

“They’re professionals—more professional than we are!” Yu Dong answered truthfully after a moment’s thought.

“There you have it,” Wu Xiang sighed. He went on, “The Japanese may be bastards, that much is certain. But they are undeniably ahead of us. Their strength isn’t in their much-vaunted culture, or so-called qualities and national character. Their strength lies in having long been integrated into the international market, especially in the film and cultural industries.”

Yu Dong was left speechless. No one had ever put it quite like that.

At the end of the twentieth century, countless Chinese were aware of their backwardness; foreign developed nations were indeed more advanced, but few understood precisely wherein those advantages lay.

But Wu Xiang did. He continued, “We were late to join the international division of labor, especially in the cultural sphere. Our current level is barely that of elementary school—no, in the cultural industry, we’re at kindergarten at best. But the Japanese are different. They entered the global market early and absorbed advanced experience from the West in the cultural sector. Their approaches to market development and operations are distinct. So, I believe it’s no shame for us to lag behind—we can learn, and learning from the Japanese suits our current situation very well.”

“Why not just learn directly from the Americans?” Yu Dong wondered about Wu Xiang’s last point.

Wu Xiang smiled. “Take ‘That Mountain, That Man, That Dog’ as an example—we should closely study their operational methods. For instance, they proposed bundling the novel’s rights with the film. Had we ever considered that before? No. The reason it’s so suitable for us to learn from them is that they learned from the Americans first, then adapted what they learned to fit their own needs. What we need is to find a model for market development that suits us, forging our own unique path. Blindly copying the West, or the Japanese model, won’t work.”

It’s no disgrace to be inexperienced; we can study, but we mustn’t mimic slavishly or rigidly. Forced imitation will never lead to true progress.

Still, if we want to advance, we must first pay our tuition. But once we’ve mastered it, we’ll leave them with nothing to eat.

Yu Dong left the café with a broad smile, visibly elated. Wu Xiang’s theory was, in fact, nothing new; the nation’s leaders talked about forging a unique path nearly every day. But in this era, few truly grasped the concept, and fewer still could articulate it clearly.

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But the Chinese are remarkable; even if we can’t explain it, we can do it. The Chinese nation is the most capable people on this planet when it comes to execution.

Yu Dong finally discussed the release strategy for “First Intimate Encounter”: a simultaneous premiere in Mainland China, Hong Kong, Macau, and Taiwan. For this time period, that was an innovation. The greatest benefit of this approach was to counteract piracy.

Why did simultaneous release help fight piracy? Not because it eliminated it, but because it minimized piracy’s impact on box office numbers.

To put it plainly, piracy couldn’t truly be stopped, but the goal was to reduce its effect as much as possible—please, just spare us a little.

It was, in essence, a compromise, but under current circumstances, a necessary one.

However, when it came to market operations, Wu Xiang, with his reborn perspective, was second to none.

He had already prepared a backup plan: online promotion.

This was the last year of the twentieth century—the internet was just beginning to rise, especially in China, where it was still in its infancy. Even so, its future potential was already evident.

Viral marketing—this was Wu Xiang’s plan from the start, and it was particularly suited to this project. After all, “First Intimate Encounter” was itself a web novel with a strong online following. As long as...

Yet, just as Wu Xiang was getting ready to set this in motion, after finishing his conversation with Yu Dong, Ma Huateng called him—not to talk about the previously agreed promotional plan, but to complain.

Chief Ma had been sued!