Chapter Twenty: Performed for the Audience

As soon as Han Sanping finished speaking, Gu Zhi and Ning Hao didn’t hesitate; each picked up a small glass of baijiu and downed it in one shot. Their counterpart was just as forthright, following suit with a glass himself, and the three of them burst into hearty laughter.

With the matter of investment settled, it was time to discuss the terms in detail. Gu Zhi had no intention of letting his first film project be entirely controlled by China Film, relegating himself to a mere puppet. To his surprise, Han Sanping proved easy to negotiate with, and both parties quickly reached a consensus.

In the end, it was decided that Ning Hao would direct the film, “Butterfly Effect.” Gu Zhi would invest 1.5 million yuan in his own name, while China Film would contribute 3.5 million, making for a total production budget of 5 million yuan. Furthermore, Han Sanping guaranteed that if the budget proved insufficient, China Film would provide additional funding as needed.

Han Sanping would personally serve as the producer, a point beyond dispute. Since Gu Zhi was also an investor, Han Sanping even suggested that he co-produce the film. But Gu Zhi knew his own limits and declined without a second thought. Following Han Sanping’s advice, Gu Zhi would be listed as producer in name only—his name would appear in the credits, but he would have no real responsibilities or significant authority.

As the screenwriter and an investor, Gu Zhi already planned to join the crew and take part in the filming process from start to finish. He approached the project with a spirit of learning; no matter how much theory he had studied, without real-world experience, he could never truly master the craft.

Had he rashly attempted to wield the producer’s power, it would have been sheer overconfidence. In Hong Kong and Taiwan, the producer is referred to as the “supervising producer” and is fully responsible for pre-production, assembling the crew, post-production, domestic and international distribution, applying for awards, and so on. Put simply, the producer manages everything: selecting scripts, securing funding, forming the team, selling the film—all aspects of the process. The producer is the true master of the project, wielding the highest authority in the crew: hiring members, firing those who break the rules, and overseeing the film from inception to release. In theory, at least.

But in practice, there’s plenty of wiggle room. Before capital flooded into the mainland film market, the director typically held the most power on set, not the producer. Once capital entered the scene and films shifted from staid art-house productions to commercial projects, this dynamic changed. Producers became the voice of capital, and although directors still held considerable authority, if they failed to heed their financial backers, they could be easily replaced. Only the most famous directors, those whose films reliably made money for investors, had the clout to defy capital. In those cases, investors would even defer to them. The reason was simple: these directors’ works meant returns for investors, earning their trust; otherwise, directors had no choice but to submit to the will of capital.

Take, for example, the relationship between Huayi Brothers and Feng Xiaogang. Director Feng was Huayi’s biggest cash cow—how could the company not indulge him? Every couple of years, they would tacitly allow him to make a passion project, an art film almost certain to flop at the box office, then follow up with a commercial film to recoup the losses. “If You Are the One,” “Aftershock,” “If You Are the One 2,” “Back to 1942,” “Personal Tailor,” “I Am Not Madame Bovary”—for years, Feng followed this formula. But that’s Feng Xiaogang; if anyone else tried this, Huayi wouldn’t invest a penny.

All this only became possible after the Chinese film market grew in size. By contrast, in the current era, a commercial-leaning film like “Butterfly Effect” was lucky to attract any investment at all. At present, the Chinese film industry still revolves around art-house productions, with conservative forces holding sway. The prevailing climate pushed filmmakers to treat movies as works of art rather than commodities. Directors were set on winning awards and pleasing juries with odd tastes, with little desire—or even disdain—for understanding what ordinary people actually wanted to watch.

Top directors could, of course, make art films or commercial ones, but they often clung to their own sense of artistic superiority, determined to realize their personal visions. Many films thus became mere exercises in self-indulgence, appealing to no one but their creators and a handful of niche enthusiasts, leaving the broader market unmoved.

Take Jiang Wen’s early film “Devils on the Doorstep.” Did it have artistic depth? Absolutely! It won the Grand Prix at the 53rd Cannes Film Festival and was nominated for the Palme d’Or; in 2002, it won Best Foreign Film at Japan’s Mainichi Film Awards. But did it make any money? It wasn’t even released in China, so box office returns were out of the question. It remained banned for years, and only much later became available on streaming platforms. After all this time, how many Chinese people have even heard of it? Fewer still have actually seen it.

The film allowed Jiang Wen to bask in his own artistic glory, gave a thrill to the tiniest niche of art-house fans, and showed the world a glimpse of Chinese peasants’ mentality during the anti-Japanese war. But did it create any real value? Did it have a positive effect on Chinese cinema? On the contrary, it encouraged talented young directors and new actors to chase after the achievements of “art masters,” leaving no one willing to make commercial or genre films. What remained were a bunch of just-passing directors churning out flops—how could Chinese films compete with Hollywood blockbusters at the box office?

The domestic market simply became a ticket vault for foreign films! If things continued as they had in 2000, the Chinese film industry could never hope to build a mature filmmaking system or produce a single local film capable of crushing foreign competition at the box office, not even in a thousand years. Forget about matching Hollywood or the Oscars; even Bollywood would soon outpace them.

Fortunately, there were still directors in China willing to make commercial films. Starting with Zhang Yimou—the so-called “National Master”—and continuing with Ning Hao, Wu Ershan, Guan Hu, and even newcomers like Han Yan and Wu Jing, these filmmakers gradually reclaimed the domestic market from foreign blockbusters. Their contributions to Chinese cinema far surpassed those of the self-indulgent art-house directors.

“Butterfly Effect” was itself a pseudo-sci-fi suspense film, completely at odds with the prevailing cinematic environment. Luckily, with Han Sanping and China Film willing to invest, the project survived; otherwise, it would have died aborning. It stood no chance of winning awards, but Gu Zhi didn’t care about that. His true goal was box office success—he made movies for audiences, not for the juries.

Once all the negotiations were complete, Han Sanping left with Secretary Xiao Liu, taking the “Butterfly Effect” script with him. As producer, he still had much preparatory work to arrange. The script needed to be submitted to the Film Bureau for approval; the crew had to be assembled. Cinematographers, lighting technicians, composers, editors, set managers, special effects teams, professional makeup artists, wardrobe teams, jewelry teams, set construction teams—all were essential.

Fortunately, China Film was the largest film company in the country, with extensive experience and mature teams, offering plenty of choices and prompt support. In this respect, no small, makeshift film company could compare.

These were all things Han Sanping had to prepare for. As for Gu Zhi and Ning Hao, their main task was now to find actors. Since “Butterfly Effect” was a low-budget film, even with Han Sanping’s connections, they couldn’t afford the big names he might recommend. In the end, it was best to search for suitable candidates themselves.