Chapter 65: Wishful Thinking

“Third Master, a hundred thousand dollars is way too little. That’s only a bit over eight hundred thousand yuan. Our film has already made nine million dollars at the box office here. Columbia is offering such a low price—it’s just unfair.”

In Han Sanping’s office, Gu Zhi held an all-English contract in his hand, flipping through it as he complained.

“Hmph, these foreigners are all ruthless businessmen. They see that ‘The Butterfly Effect’ is a new film by newcomers, with no reputation, so they squeeze the price as much as they can.”

Han Sanping took a drag on his cigarette and sighed deeply.

“It’s because our domestic film industry is so lackluster. Compared to Hollywood, the gap is unimaginable. Our films can only entertain ourselves on our own turf; the moment we step outside, they’re dead on arrival. Foreign audiences just aren’t interested.

In the end, without box office success, you have no say. What’s the point of winning so many awards overseas? Our own people don’t care, let alone foreigners.

This year, we finally got a film like ‘Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon’—it won big awards and made good box office, but it has nothing to do with us. That was a director from next door, their team, and only one actress from here, and now she’s gone abroad.”

Han Sanping waved his hand and pointed out the window.

“Look at those stars, one after another. If they’re not running to Hong Kong or Taiwan, they’re scheming to get to Hollywood, or emigrating all over the world. If they can avoid coming back, they do. Anyone with any ability leaves.”

“The country’s economy has been improving these past two years, and with a growing consumer market, the stars from Hong Kong and Taiwan are now coming here to cash in. Their skills aren’t much, but their attitude is arrogant enough.

Given all this, who knows how long it’ll take for our film industry to really develop? It’s only normal to get squeezed on price.”

Han Sanping stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray, his expression shifting between gloom and contemplation.

Having long been in the upper echelons of the mainland film industry, he had access to information ordinary people couldn’t. He understood the true attitude of Hong Kong and Taiwan people towards the mainland.

But these things couldn’t be said openly—they ran counter to the current national narrative, so he could only share them privately with a few close friends.

Gu Zhi never used any actors from Hong Kong or Taiwan, and his attitude towards them was no better. He’d skipped out on this year’s Golden Horse Award nomination. Han Sanping knew all this, so he didn’t mind discussing sensitive topics with Gu Zhi.

“There’s nothing for it; we started late. But I have faith in the domestic film market. In ten years’ time, these foreign companies will be shamelessly begging to get into our market.”

Gu Zhi set the contract aside. He said this, but the self-mockery in his heart was even stronger.

Ten years later, not only did foreign films force their way in, they decimated the mainland film industry, completely dominating the domestic market. China practically became Hollywood’s biggest box office source.

The Chinese film market was a huge cake. To put it nicely, others were eager to get a slice; less kindly, they snatched up most of it and left only crumbs for local studios.

“Enough. The more we talk, the more we trouble ourselves. What are your thoughts on this contract? Are you willing to sign?”

“What do you think, Third Master?”

Gu Zhi didn’t answer, tossing the ball back again.

The key was, Gu Zhi didn’t actually hold the rights to ‘The Butterfly Effect.’ At most, he was the screenwriter and investor. China Film was the producer and distributor, and thus the copyright holder. Han Sanping didn’t need to consult him about overseas distribution, but out of respect, he brought him in to hear the original creator’s opinion. The final decision still rested with Han Sanping.

Besides, this was Gu Zhi’s first experience with overseas distribution. He didn’t know the ropes and preferred to listen to the veteran’s wisdom.

Han Sanping pondered for a while, lit another cigarette, and finally said, “Sell it.”

“At this price, we won’t even recover our costs. If it’s a global box office hit, we’ll lose out big.”

“That’s true, but we can’t expect all the best outcomes for ourselves.

If we sell ‘The Butterfly Effect’ to Columbia now, first we’ll need to prepare English subtitles. Then they’ll have to start promotion. Every country’s market has different rules; they’ll handle the review and distribution, and scheduling is also a headache.

With all the back and forth, we might not see an overseas release until March next year, and in some countries, it could be June or July.”

Gu Zhi nodded, beginning to understand. The release date would be too late; many eager viewers might have already watched pirated copies.

Moreover, every country protects its own films. Chinese films aren’t popular abroad, and once they go overseas, they face competition from the entire global market. It’s not certain how many screenings they’ll get.

Han Sanping continued, “‘The Butterfly Effect’ is close to Hollywood’s commercial style, but by next year, a flood of new Hollywood movies will be out. To audiences, a film from the previous year can’t compete in appeal with new releases. Add piracy, and the overseas box office might not be much.”

“The domestic box office has already made us a profit. Selling to Columbia for a hundred thousand dollars isn’t a loss, just less of a gain. We build goodwill, and there will be more opportunities for cooperation in the future.”

At this, Gu Zhi suddenly thought of his new film.

“Third Master, ‘My Sassy Girl’ is already finished. Could China Film negotiate with Columbia about overseas distribution for this film as well? I have great confidence in it—at least in Asia, I guarantee it’ll sell big.”

His eyes lit up as he spoke, and he couldn’t help but stand.

“We could sell it together with ‘The Butterfly Effect.’ As long as ‘My Sassy Girl’ is distributed on a revenue-sharing basis, we could even drop the buyout price for ‘The Butterfly Effect’.”

Gu Zhi talked on, then noticed Han Sanping’s impassive face, staring at him without a word.

His enthusiasm was instantly dampened. Embarrassed, he scratched his head and sat back down.

Han Sanping habitually flicked his cigarette with a nicotine-stained finger, letting ash fall into the tray. He took a small puff, exhaling smoke through nose and mouth, then spoke:

“You’re still too young. You think too simply.”

“Foreign film companies aren’t here for charity. Why would they buy your film? To make money, of course. ‘The Butterfly Effect’ has already proven its box office value domestically. Columbia decided to buy only after seeing it. But whether it’ll succeed abroad is still uncertain.”

“You say your new film will do well in Asia, but you haven’t even finished the final cut. China Film, Columbia, and other distributors haven’t seen it. How can we talk about overseas distribution? We can’t just take your word for it. After all, what filmmaker doesn’t boast their own work?”

Han Sanping spoke amid swirling smoke, and Gu Zhi kept nodding.

“In the end, you’re just too young. You’ve only just entered this business and haven’t built your own reputation. Others aren’t confident in you. And Chinese films have never performed well overseas. Distributors won’t sign two films at once.”

“That’s why I say we should sell ‘The Butterfly Effect.’ This film is your key to the international market. If its overseas box office does well, your next film will be much easier to take abroad. In time, we’ll have more leverage in negotiations, and the terms offered will be much better.”

“You’re thorough, Third Master.”

Han Sanping smiled calmly and said with a sigh, “You have to look far ahead, take steady steps, and build one brick at a time. Only then will you avoid falling flat. Don’t always hope for instant success—there’s never such luck in this world.”