Chapter 81: Preparations for a Grand Production

What truly qualifies as a big-budget film?
In America, it’s all about star power and dazzling special effects; that’s what defines a blockbuster.
But in the current domestic scene, a big-budget film is precisely what Wu Xiang is about to make—a historical epic, a sweeping, grand-scale period piece!
Just how much investment goes into a historical film? Here are a few examples:
“The Emperor and the Assassin” had an investment of 80 million; Zhou Xiaowen’s “The Emperor’s Shadow” surpassed 40 million; and the renowned elder director Xie Jin’s “** War” cost a whopping 100 million!
This was in the 1990s. Even back then, you needed this kind of investment to pull off a historical epic. Of course, all these films suffered disastrous losses, each one worse than the last.
It’s said that Mr. Chen, the investor from Hong Kong for “The Emperor’s Shadow,” arrived at the launch in a Mercedes, but by the time the film premiered in Pengcheng, he came in a Xiali. (As recounted by Zhang Weiping, CEO of New Picture.)
And everyone knows what happened with “The Emperor and the Assassin”—that film thoroughly fleeced the Japanese, though they had a hand in their own downfall.
As for “** War,” it wasn’t a bad film, but it ruined the old director’s lifelong reputation.
All lost money, every single one, and lost big. So why would Wu Xiang want to attempt such a thing, to embark on a production of this scale?
The answer is simple: Wu Xiang knows very well that the way to change the domestic film market is with a grand, high-budget, historical martial arts epic.
“Hero!”
Yes, it was this film that reversed the long-standing slump of domestic cinema, ushering in a new era—domestic films could be blockbusters, too, even grossing over a hundred million!
Wu Xiang’s ambition, in this stagnant market, is to boost morale with a truly magnificent production. He believes that at this moment, with his current reputation and resources, he can achieve this monumental feat.
It truly is a monumental undertaking, but deep down Wu Xiang has another reason. This grand plan didn’t arise out of nowhere; it was inspired by a major event—the event that made him a “student leader.”
But let’s leave that aside for now and focus on the historical film. The reborn Wu Xiang knows the success of “Hero” stemmed from several factors: an excellent script, stunning visuals, brilliant choreography, and a cast of superstar actors. But, above all, in this era, period pieces still have a strong market; audiences are willing to pay to see them.
With the goodwill from his recent successes, Wu Xiang is fully capable of taking this on.
As the saying goes, how many times in life can one take a leap? This is the time to go for it!
But is Wu Xiang’s ten million enough?
“Script: Mainly depicts the turbulent and magnificent life of Emperor Wu of Han... the ‘Golden House for a Beauty’... palace intrigues... diligence in governance... campaigns against the Xiongnu... the Sorcery Disaster...”
This is Wu Xiang’s new script, currently in the hands of Han Sanping. After a quick glance, Teacher Han spoke up.

“What happened to your face? Who hit you?”
Instead of commenting on the script, he was concerned about Wu Xiang’s injury.
No need to explain—it was from the ditch incident earlier. But Wu Xiang couldn’t tell the truth. “Nothing! Walked into a door.”
“You need to be more careful. How do you walk into a door?”
“My mind’s been on this script.”
With Wu Xiang, Han could have skipped reading the script—this kid always had good material—but there was a catch...
“I’m telling you, why jump into this big pit? Your romance film cost so little and made so much money. What are you thinking? If I were you, I’d write a sequel right away. If not a sequel, make another similar one. Don’t tell me you don’t know this—Hong Kong, Taiwan, that’s how they do it. Can’t we learn from them? Is it that hard?”
Han Sanping had a point. If you’re talking about making money, this is the best approach, proven by countless predecessors in Hong Kong, Taiwan, even Hollywood.
It’s the surest path to profit—why else are there so many sequels?
Regardless of artistry or script quality, sequels rake in cash!
But Wu Xiang’s mind was made up. He replied with a smile, “Teacher Han, as artists, we can’t be blinded by money. And even if this fails, I’ll make smaller films to recoup the losses. This time, I really have a vision. I estimate the box office will pass a hundred million.”
“Bragging!” Han Sanping shot back. After all, at present, you could count domestic films that grossed over a hundred million on one hand. But since Wu Xiang said it, Han Sanping felt a flicker of hope. “Why are you so stubborn? You’re set on making this blockbuster?”
“Absolutely,” Wu Xiang replied firmly.
“You’re really not afraid of losing money?”
“I’m really not.”
“But I am!” Han Sanping voiced his worry.
Why was Wu Xiang here? To seek investment, of course!
His own ten million wasn’t enough for a project of this scale, so he had to find support. And among his contacts, who was the most formidable? Naturally, Han Sanping.
Han Sanping was deeply concerned, but he couldn’t refuse Wu Xiang outright. “The state gives subsidies for young directors. You qualify. What do you think?”
“Oh? That’s great news!” Wu Xiang was delighted.
There really were such policies, and they’d been around, but as for the amount...

“Just five hundred thousand? Third Master Han, are you kidding me?” Wu Xiang let loose his brash Northeastern attitude. This subsidy was almost negligible.
“Don’t scoff—plenty of people are waiting for that money. Are you sure you don’t want it?” Han Sanping played hard to get.
“I’ll take it! A little is better than nothing.” Wu Xiang thought Han Sanping was even stingier than he was.
It wasn’t just that—Han Sanping was simply scared of losing money. He’d lost so much before, not just on those films mentioned earlier. Before China Film was consolidated, he’d backed quite a few projects that lost everything, even their underwear. You know the famous director Tian Zhuang? In his whole life, he never made a profitable film, but he’s still a celebrated director and keeps making movies.
If Han Sanping hadn’t made some money in the past couple of years, those earlier days... well, better not to mention.
“It’s not that I don’t want to help, or that I don’t believe in you, but I’m really afraid now. So...”
Before Han Sanping could finish, Wu Xiang jumped in, “I guarantee China Film won’t lose money, all right?”
“How do you guarantee that?” Han Sanping had been waiting for this.
“If the box office doesn’t cover costs, if the loss is small, it comes out of my ten million. If the loss is bigger and my ten million isn’t enough, I’ll make a few profitable films for you. Fair?”
“Deal!” That was a no-brainer—a risk-free bet. Only a fool would refuse.
Wu Xiang was frustrated inside. “What a shrewd businessman!” But he couldn’t say it out loud; the deal was finally done.
Five million—no more, not a penny extra. That was Han Sanping’s investment.
“Well, it’s better than five hundred thousand.” Wu Xiang had finally secured some backing, but it felt like begging.
Han Sanping also had an interesting point: if you could get in with the Hong Kong or Japanese crowd, maybe I could help you hustle up more.
Wu Xiang thought, “If I had those connections, what would I need you for?” Still, he understood—clearly, they’d previously conned the Hong Kong and Japanese investors more than once.
In the end, Wu Xiang asked an important question.
“Teacher Han, could you introduce me to Zhao Qingxia, who handled costumes for ‘Romance of the Three Kingdoms’?”
Han Sanping gave a thumbs up. “Smart kid!”