Chapter Thirteen: The Butterfly Effect

February 5th, 2000, the first day of the lunar new year, ushered in a new beginning. In Gu Zhi’s memory, the new year had always been summed up in just six words—reunion, firecrackers, and paying visits. Yet with each passing year, the festive spirit seemed to fade a little more.

For fifteen days around the new year, the three members of the Gu family shuttled back and forth between the hometowns of Gu Wenzhi and Lin Zhi, visiting relatives, sharing meals, and only managed to return to Shenjuan the day before the Lantern Festival.

After more than a dozen days of this ceaseless round of familial visits, not only did Gu Zhi find himself bored, but even his parents were growing weary of the routine. Though everyone was bound by blood, truly family, most of them saw each other just once a year, hardly knowing one another and struggling to find common ground for conversation. Each day was spent either eating or playing cards and mahjong; Gu Wenzhi and Lin Zhi endured it all, losing several thousand yuan in the process.

Gu Zhi was even more at a loss for entertainment. He couldn’t find common ground with the children, his peers, or the adults. In an era before the internet became widespread, he had no choice but to spend his days with a group of little kids at dingy cybercafés, reliving childhood classics like “Road Rash,” whiling away the time.

The only good news was his discovery that every computer in every cybercafé came pre-installed with Penguin’s QQ, and almost every student there had an account. Pony Ma’s Penguin had already started gaining traction without anyone noticing.

During these six months, Gu Zhi had remained in touch with both Pony Ma and Ma Yun, though he rarely interfered in their operations. Only when they were about to make significant changes would they consult Gu Zhi for his opinion. After all, he was the largest shareholder in both companies, and his profound understanding of the business made his advice invaluable to the two “Master Mas.”

Finally back in Shenjuan, after a leisurely day at home during the Lantern Festival, Gu Zhi sat down at his computer and began drafting his first screenplay.

Its title: “The Butterfly Effect.”

The term “butterfly effect” refers to the idea that seemingly trivial changes can, in the end, lead to unforeseeably severe consequences—a concept that aligns perfectly with the film’s central theme.

This was a 2004 American film, starring two completely unknown young actors from the West, with other cast members also drawn from Hollywood’s periphery. The plot follows a protagonist who, as a child, would frequently lose his memory for no apparent reason and so began keeping a journal to record his actions. After enduring a series of chaotic events—a perverse act by his girlfriend’s father; a prank involving a mailbox bomb that resulted in casualties; his girlfriend’s brother burning his dog alive; his own father trying to strangle him—his mother moved them away.

As an adult, the protagonist revisits his old diaries and discovers that his consciousness can travel back to the moments described in their pages, allowing him to alter the past and attempt to resolve those traumatic incidents. Yet every change he makes, every life he saves, brings harm to someone else in unexpected ways. Each round of intervention only leads to another kind of tragedy, never a perfect ending.

The film ultimately has two versions of its ending. In the director’s cut, the protagonist, after watching a video of his own birth, travels back to his time in the womb and uses the umbilical cord to end his life, thereby sparing everyone from the curse of his abilities.

In the theatrical release, the protagonist returns to his childhood and frightens away the girl who wanted to befriend him, ensuring that both of them go on to live happy, fulfilled lives.

This was a low-budget, small-scale pseudo-science fiction thriller, produced for around one million dollars, yet it grossed ninety-six million at the North American box office—about seven hundred and ninety million yuan at the 2004 exchange rate.

By any measure, the film was a resounding financial success; the investors made a killing. Its reputation was equally stellar, earning high ratings both at home and abroad—7.7 on IMDb, 8.7 on Douban, placing it among Douban’s top 100 films.

Gu Zhi had loved this movie in his previous life, watching it at least three times and marveling at the meticulous attention to detail. As his first screenplay, he regarded it with particular seriousness.

It would serve as his stepping stone into the film industry; without solid quality and the promise of strong box office returns, his debut would leave a negative impression that would be hard to shake. First impressions matter far more than most people realize. If you fail the first time, no matter how much effort you expend later, you may never erase that initial stain. It’s just like how, when people think of domestic films, many immediately think of mediocrity—a perception that can’t be changed by a handful of good movies.

So this first shot had to be both loud and beautiful.

Gu Zhi spent an entire month polishing the screenplay for “The Butterfly Effect.” He had initially estimated it would take just a week, but found that writing a screenplay was even more demanding than a novel; every scene, every line of dialogue needed to be impeccable. Adapting the American context to that of China alone was torture enough.

Creation, revision, refinement—Gu Zhi barely left his home for a month. During that time, Guangming Daily Press called to invite him to a book signing in Beijing, but he declined, citing his work on a new project.

Having completed the script for “The Butterfly Effect,” Gu Zhi now faced the task of finding a director willing to take it on and a film company to back the project.

And here he was truly at a loss.

Even though he was a celebrated young writer, he was still worlds away from the film industry; no one would readily gamble millions on his word alone.

It was worth remembering that even writers like Guo Xiaosi and Han Han only entered the film world after years of established fame.

At present, Gu Zhi appeared more like a fleeting prodigy—no one could say for sure whether his brilliance would last.

So the question of whom to approach for direction and investment became a major hurdle.

In China, directors had always been rare, and finding a good one was like searching for a needle in a haystack. In 2000, the country was dominated by two main groups: the “Fifth Generation” directors and those in the Beijing circle.

The so-called Fifth Generation referred to directors who graduated from the Beijing Film Academy in the 1980s, with notable figures such as Zhang Yimou, Chen Kaige, Li Shaohong, and Wu Ershan. Apart from these few renowned names, the rest were mostly unknown directors fond of making art films—hardly worth mentioning.

Then there was the Beijing circle, with prominent directors like Feng Xiaogang, Jiang Wen, Ye Jing, and Ye Daying. Beyond these directors, the Beijing circle also boasted media giants like Huayi Brothers, famous writers and editors such as Wang Shuo, and actors like Ge You, the circle’s favored leading man.

Many of these people had some degree of political background or connections. For example, Ye Daying’s grandfather was a well-known figure; no one else in China could have made a film like “Tiananmen.” Ye Jing, too—when Feng Xiaogang needed a tank for a scene in “The Dream Factory,” it was Ye Jing who pulled the necessary strings.

At this point in China, the director’s seat was a world away from ordinary people. Whether Fifth Generation or Beijing circle, these directors wielded enormous influence in the industry. By now, they were all established and would never look twice at a young writer like Gu Zhi.

He was neither a Beijing native nor a graduate of the Film Academy; hoping to break into their circle was sheer fantasy.

Moreover, these acclaimed directors were ill-suited to a film like “The Butterfly Effect.” After careful consideration, Gu Zhi realized there might not even be a handful of suitable directors in the entire country.

“Should I bite the bullet and write, direct, and act myself?”

Upon reflection, Gu Zhi abandoned the idea. He was still too green; without real experience on a film set, he couldn’t possibly create a quality film.

On the other hand, his connections in the film industry were nonexistent; his reputation as a writer just wasn’t enough.

What to do?

Should he let the screenplay gather dust, waiting for a future opportunity?

“Wait! There’s someone who fits perfectly!”

Pacing back and forth, Gu Zhi was suddenly struck by inspiration. A straightforward, honest figure instantly appeared in his mind’s eye.