Chapter Ninety-three: Japan’s Box Office Frenzy

“So, you’re Yan Xu?” Wu Yushen was momentarily taken aback upon hearing Yan Xu’s self-introduction. Though it had been nearly three years since he was assigned to Taiwan, he still kept a close eye on every development in the Hong Kong film industry.

At present, Hong Kong cinema was abuzz with a string of films breaking the twenty-million mark at the box office. Golden Harvest and its subsidiaries were flourishing on many fronts, Cinema City was on a winning streak, and the old powerhouse Shaw Brothers was in decline. Meanwhile, Win’s Entertainment and Baizhan were rapidly on the rise.

Unlike Win’s, which had grown thanks to a steady influx of capital and the support of major stars, Baizhan’s success rested almost entirely on one individual: Yan Xu.

He had only released two films so far, but the storms they’d caused in Hong Kong were unparalleled. One was the pioneering work of the docudrama crime genre; the other was the city’s first-ever Category III film. Though the latter included some scenes clearly designed to grab attention, it was layered with profound social significance—especially Taxi Judge, which took direct aim at Hong Kong’s chaotic taxi industry.

As a director, Wu Yushen had watched both films. If it weren’t for the rating system that kept many from seeing them, he was certain their box office in Taiwan wouldn’t have been so unremarkable.

“You’re the director Yan Xu?” There were many with the same name, so Wu Yushen asked again to be sure.

“If there’s only one director named Yan Xu, then that’s me,” Yan Xu replied with a faint smile.

“I watched your Taxi Judge—the scenes in that film…” Now certain that Yan Xu was a fellow director, Wu Yushen became animated. He greatly admired Taxi Judge, especially its ritualized approach to violence, as if it had given him sudden insight. Many of the shots left him with a sense of clarity.

Listening to Wu Yushen dissect his use of camera angles and express such reverence for the violent scenes, Yan Xu couldn’t help but marvel. Back in film school, he had studied Wu Yushen’s visual techniques with great care; much of his own cinematic language was learned from him.

Time aboard the plane passed swiftly. After exchanging contact information, Yan Xu and Wu Yushen parted ways at the airport.

In that brief hour and a half, a young man with a deep admiration for the aesthetics of violence—though not yet its true master—and a down-and-out future maestro of violent cinema had crossed paths. Two kindred spirits, both still rough around the edges, had collided and ignited unexpected sparks. Their understanding of film, especially the language of the camera, made them feel as though they had been old friends for years, finding mutual appreciation in just a few words.

Watching the slightly dejected figure disappear into a taxi, Yan Xu knew that given another year, Wu Yushen would climb out of his slump and undergo a tremendous transformation. Perhaps, before long, they would meet again.

**********************

After returning to Hong Kong, Yan Xu and Zhou Huimin saw each other even less frequently. One had officially joined the crew of Police Story and was also preparing a new album, while the other was busy with his new film.

Of course, while working on his next movie, Yan Xu happened to discover Wang Jie’s singing talent. He immediately recommended him to Lo Kwun Ting, who, upon hearing Wang Jie’s voice, exclaimed that Yan Xu had found a treasure. Having already been thrilled by Inoue Jing, Lo Kwun Ting believed that if Wang Jie could be properly cultivated, he would take the record company’s overall strength to a new level.

Not wanting to waste such a prodigy, and at Lo Kwun Ting’s request, Yan Xu took full charge of writing both lyrics and music for Wang Jie’s album. Song after song—A Game, A Dream; Annie; Say Goodbye; Only Because I Love You; The Cry Within—he simply handed over all ten tracks for Wang Jie’s first album. That record became a legend in sales, eventually exceeding eighteen million copies worldwide, even with the official numbers underreported for tax reasons—the actual figure was likely several times higher.

The shrill ringing of the telephone jerked Yan Xu’s hand from beneath the covers. Glancing at the clock, he saw it was only eight. He had spent the entire previous day at the studio on Broadcast Drive, laboring late into the night to get the set just right, and by the time he got home, it was already three. After a bit of tidying up, he hadn’t fallen asleep until almost four, and now he’d had barely four hours’ rest.

“Who is it, calling so early?” Yan Xu muttered, groggy and annoyed, his tone less than friendly.

“Ah Xu, don’t tell me you’re still in bed,” came the voice from the receiver.

Though only twenty-three, and still regarded by many as a greenhorn, Yan Xu’s accomplishments in the entertainment industry were such that no one dared underestimate him. Director Yan, Boss Yan, Mr. Yan, Young Master Yan—his titles were many, but only those truly close to him called him Ah Xu. Even Lo Kwun Ting and Uncle Jiu addressed him as Young Master Yan in public; only Chicken Feather and Ghost Dong still used his old nickname.

“Big Brother, what’s so urgent this early?” Yan Xu recognized the voice of Bald Qiang. Because of the gang leadership situation, Qiang hadn’t been in touch for some time; nowadays, Chicken Feather managed most company affairs.

“Ah Xu, I have good news for you,” Bald Qiang said, clearly in high spirits.

“What news? Don’t tell me you’ve secured the top spot?” For Qiang, the leadership contest was everything; Yan Xu couldn’t imagine anything more important.

“Not yet—this is about your film, Taxi Judge.”

“What, did the box office in Taiwan change?”

“No, nothing new in Taiwan. It’s Japan—your film has become a big hit there. If I hadn’t double-checked, I wouldn’t have believed it. Guess how much it made at the Japanese box office?”

“How much?” For Qiang to be so excited, the number had to be huge.

“Two billion—two billion!” Qiang’s voice nearly burst through the phone.

“Two…billion?” Yan Xu was stunned for a moment, then quickly realized, “Two billion yen.”

“What did you think? If it were two billion Hong Kong dollars, the whole country would have gone mad.”

“Even two billion yen is over eight million US dollars, more than sixty million Hong Kong dollars. People always say overseas releases make money—this one really did. It’s at least in the top ten films in Japan this year.” Qiang couldn’t help but marvel.

Hearing this, Yan Xu quickly did the math in his mind. At the current exchange rate, two billion yen was sixty-five million Hong Kong dollars. The company would get forty percent—twenty-six million; his share was twenty percent of that, thirteen million. His earnings from both Hong Kong and Taiwan box office combined had barely reached six million—this was more than double that, a true windfall.