Chapter Fifty-Two: The Decline of the Shao Clan

"Are you Wong King?" Yan Xu immediately recognized the chubby boy with a mouthful of cake, a center-parted hairstyle, glasses, and eyes that narrowed into slits. He wasn’t as heavy as he would become in later years; aside from his hair being a bit thicker, his appearance hadn’t changed much. This bespectacled, pudgy fellow was highly renowned in Hong Kong cinema for his creative originality.

His films were both critically acclaimed and commercially successful, earning him the reputation of a “genius director.” He launched the “Chasing Girls” series with “The Romancing Star,” pioneered the gambling film genre with “God of Gamblers,” and directed many box office hits. By the time Yan Xu arrived in this era, his cumulative box office gross had reached over a billion Hong Kong dollars, with close to two hundred films directed or produced—an unmatched record in Hong Kong film history. He even wrote several screenplays under a female pseudonym.

Of course, alongside these achievements came plenty of criticism. Many claimed his films were vulgar and lowbrow, full of crude humor, often derivative or plagiarized, and that he recycled themes until they were worn out, dragging down the entire film industry.

“That’s him, all right,” replied the man Wang King had called ‘Fatty Nan’ in response to Yan Xu’s question. “That whole theory just now was his. Don’t be fooled by his serious look—in our circle, no one’s more lecherous than he is.” Clearly, Fatty Nan was displeased with Wang King’s interruption.

“Nonsense!” Wang King grabbed Fatty Nan’s arm. “Don’t listen to him. I’m a man of pure morals. I study beautiful women purely through the lens of art.”

“And you are?” Wang King asked with an air of righteous dignity.

“Yan Xu.”

“You’re Yan Xu?” Before Wang King could say anything, Fatty Nan squeezed in, seizing Yan Xu’s hand enthusiastically. “I’ve seen both your films. Absolutely thrilling! The tight plots and the use of gore—very well done. Let me introduce myself. I’m Nan Yan, a screenwriter.”

“Nan Yan!” At the mention of this name, Yan Xu paused briefly. He’d first heard it in connection with a film called “Troublesome Night.” What seemed an ordinary ghost movie unexpectedly spawned a series of twenty films and became the breakthrough work for Gu Tianle. Nan Yan was the producer of this series, and he had a particular fondness for prison and triad themes—films like “Prison on Fire,” “School on Fire,” “Women’s Prison,” “My Days in the Underworld,” and “The Split of the Five Tigers” were all his scripts, widely recognized and enduring. In the nineties, riding the wave of Category III films, he wrote and produced a series of box office hits, earning his place among the top ten Category III directors and producers alongside Wong King.

His younger brother was also famous—Lam Ling-tung, a renowned Hong Kong director. Nan Yan and Wong King knew each other through this connection, as Lam’s mentor was Wong King’s father, Wong Tim-lam.

“Come on, you still call yourself a screenwriter? You haven’t written a script in ages!” Wong King joked.

“You’re the dark horse of the year. Both your films took the city by storm, and your ideas were great. Especially that documentary-style ‘Rainy Night Butcher’—it practically created a new genre.” Wong King looked at Yan Xu with appreciation.

“Just a lucky break. You did well too—‘Frog Prince’ grossed over eighteen million, and ‘I Love Rolando’ nearly ten million. Shaw Brothers have managed to save face this year mostly thanks to you,” Yan Xu complimented.

Wong King had made three films this year; two that he wrote himself were big hits. Only “The Southern Master vs. the Northern Young Master” had been a task assigned by Shaw Brothers. Its story and scenes were outdated, stuck in the style of the sixties and seventies, and even with added humor, he couldn’t save its flaws; it barely broke even.

Still, the high box office numbers of the first two films kept the venerable Shaw Brothers from being humiliated at the box office this year. It was worth noting that Shaw Brothers produced twenty-five films this year—fewer than before, but still prolific compared to other studios.

However, their adherence to the old studio system had left management thinking rigidly, unable to keep up with the times. What’s more, their relentless cost-cutting inevitably affected film quality and stifled creative risk. Only four Shaw Brothers films made it into the top thirty at the box office this year—two by Wong King, one by Ann Hui (“Love in a Fallen City”), and one ensemble film featuring music stars (“Fate”), which only scraped into the top thirty with just over eight million, barely making the list.

“Alas!” Wong King shook his head, perhaps worried for Shaw Brothers’ bleak prospects.

With Shaw Brothers’ films in decline, the executives did nothing but cut budgets and scale back productions, constantly blaming market changes without realizing the real problem lay in their own system.

Look at Golden Harvest: they set up numerous subsidiaries, focused on distribution and theaters, and delegated real creative power to directors and producers, not just paying salaries. It was a smart move. Directors and producers, with their own interests at stake, were all the more motivated to make good films and come up with fresh ideas.

Wong King leaned in and whispered to Yan Xu, “Rumor has it you get a twenty percent cut of your films’ box office?”

“More or less,” Yan Xu nodded. He didn’t need to hide his share; he was certain that his director’s cut was the highest in all of Hong Kong, several times what most directors got. That was the advantage of working with a small company—he’d never get such terms at a big studio.

“Tsk tsk!” Wong King clicked his tongue in envy. Most companies paid directors little or nothing from the box office. These days, it was often up to you to put up money, write the script, hire actors, and after filming, just hand over the finished product and attend some publicity events—nothing more. Shaw Brothers were notorious for their stinginess. With their own theater chain, they didn’t worry about splitting revenue, and they ran tough contracts for their talent. Even though Wong King’s films could gross tens of millions, his director’s fee was minimal.

“I’ve directed so many films, but my total earnings still don’t match what you make from a single movie,” Wong King said, full of envy for Yan Xu.

“I just got lucky, really. Taking a box office share was a gamble for me; at first, I didn’t get paid at all. If any of my films had flopped, I’d have worked for nothing, maybe even lost all future opportunities. That’s why I have to be extra careful with every project—worrying about everything, taking care of every detail,” Yan Xu replied. He knew that in terms of box office sharing, Baizhan had treated him more than fairly. “But you shouldn’t complain. Shaw Brothers take care of everything for you; all you need to do is direct. With two big hits this year, they won’t treat you badly next year. Besides, they produce so many films—you’ll never lack for work.”

“It won’t last,” Wong King’s smile faded. “Next year, Shaw Brothers might cut back even more. The film market is no longer theirs. Look at other companies—full of energy—while Shaw Brothers are dead in the water. Few of their films this year had any spark or originality. Management might give up on this business soon, maybe even let go of their theater chain.” Wong King’s father was a heavyweight director and TV producer at Shaw Brothers, so it was no surprise he’d have inside information.