Chapter Sixty-Eight: Encirclement

The day after the Golden Horse Awards ended, as soon as Gu Zhi arrived at the entrance of China Film in the morning, he was immediately surrounded by a dense throng of reporters.

There were at least thirty different media outlets present, along with more than a dozen cameramen, completely blocking off the entrance to China Film.

The instant Gu Zhi appeared, the scene erupted into chaos, a torrent of voices and people surging toward him all at once. He was so startled that he almost dropped the donkey meat sandwich in his hand.

A circle quickly formed around him, with the reporters giving no quarter to each other as they chattered excitedly, each vying to get their questions in.

“Gu, did you watch the live broadcast of the Golden Horse Awards yesterday?”

“Director Chen Guo from Hong Kong publicly criticized you yesterday—what’s your response?”

“As a newcomer, you were honored with a Golden Horse nomination. Why didn’t you attend the ceremony?”

“There are rumors you refuse to use actors from Hong Kong and Taiwan. Is that true? Is that why you didn’t go to the Golden Horse Awards?”

“…”

“Huh?”

“What?!”

Gu Zhi stood there with his mouth agape, completely dumbfounded, having no idea what was going on.

Flashes and cameras converged on him, eager to capture him from every possible angle, while a forest of microphones pressed in so closely it seemed they might be shoved straight into his mouth.

Fortunately, at that moment, Liu Qi arrived with security personnel from China Film and managed to force a path through the crowd. With the help of several burly guards, Gu Zhi hurriedly dashed inside the building.

When he looked back, the reporters were still relentless, blocking the entrance, their flashes still firing. It was clear that unless Gu Zhi granted them an interview, they would not hesitate to wait there for days on end.

With the year drawing to a close, such a sensational story that could ignite both sides of the entertainment industry was a rare goldmine. Reporting on this would surely secure the reporters their year-end bonuses.

Determined to return home with something big for the New Year, they were prepared to do whatever it took to corner Gu Zhi and leave him no room to escape.

This was the ironclad command given by numerous gossip magazines and entertainment media to their reporters last night: by any means necessary, get an interview with Gu Zhi.

After entering China Film, Liu Qi led Gu Zhi straight to Han Sanping's office, briefing him along the way on what had happened the previous day.

“How did I not know about this…” Gu Zhi muttered in confusion once inside the office, where Han Sanping, Liu Qi, and Ning Hao were already waiting. Apart from Liu Ye, who was filming in Hong Kong, and Tang Wei, who was in class, the other core members of “The Butterfly Effect” were present.

“I only learned about it after arriving at the company this morning. I was planning to tell you once you got here, but I didn’t expect the reporters to be so well-informed. They blocked the entrance first thing in the morning,” Liu Qi said with a helpless shrug.

Han Sanping had heard the news first, having been informed before dawn about what had transpired at the Golden Horse Awards. Though the matter was neither trivial nor earth-shattering, he had instructed Liu Qi to notify Gu Zhi and the main creators of “The Butterfly Effect.” Even so, he hadn’t anticipated word to spread quite so quickly.

When major news breaks, these reporters move faster than anyone else—almost as fast as the information age itself, just a shade slower than the speed of future social media.

At that moment, both Ning Hao and Tang Wei wore grave, worried expressions.

Initially, “The Butterfly Effect” had only been nominated for Best Original Screenplay. The creative team felt there was little point in attending—going would feel like merely walking the red carpet. With their own affairs to manage, they agreed with Gu Zhi’s decision not to attend.

No one imagined things would spiral to this extent.

“It shouldn’t have been a big deal in the first place. Skipping the ceremony for a secondary Golden Horse nomination is nothing new—there are precedents. But this time, someone decided to make an example of us, publicly calling us out from the stage, putting us all in an awkward position,” Han Sanping said, his face dark.

Though he spoke of “us,” he knew in his heart that the real embarrassment fell upon the two mainland films in competition—both of which he had produced.

At present, the entertainment industry in Hong Kong and Taiwan wielded far greater influence than the mainland. With a Hong Kong director suddenly attacking Gu Zhi at the Golden Horse Awards—taking the moral high ground—many media outlets across the strait had already begun to condemn Gu Zhi.

To make matters worse, some domestic media, with their habitual foreign-worship and tendency to belittle their own, skewed public opinion further toward Hong Kong and Taiwan.

The more Han Sanping thought about it, the more his head ached. Not only did they come away empty-handed at the Golden Horse, but they’d also been publicly rebuked in front of the entire press corps, with public opinion now running against them. It was truly an unlucky year.

Although he wasn’t directly involved, the criticism wasn’t aimed solely at Gu Zhi—it encompassed all mainland filmmakers, and Gu Zhi was someone he had personally championed. He couldn’t help but feel responsible.

“Who is that Hong Kong director anyway? Why is he picking on me for no reason? What does my attendance have to do with him? Even the Golden Horse jury didn’t say anything, but he jumped out to create trouble. Isn’t he just trying to stir up conflict?” Having learned what had happened, Gu Zhi was furious. The man had already received his award, yet still felt the need to berate him—truly the height of pettiness. How could anyone be so tiresome?

“Here, take a look.”

With that, Liu Qi handed thin folders to both Gu Zhi and Ning Hao, containing information on the film “Little Cheung,” including a brief introduction to Chen Guo.

The only reason they had even this much information was that “Little Cheung” had been released in the mainland that year; otherwise, Liu Qi would have found nothing.

Gu Zhi skimmed through the material, finding nothing particularly noteworthy about Chen Guo, but he did notice a small detail about “Little Cheung.”

The film’s production companies were Nicetop Independent and NHK Japan Broadcasting Corporation.

Gu Zhi was unfamiliar with the first, though Han Sanping recalled it as a local Hong Kong film company. The latter was, of course, Japan’s NHK—world-renowned and, apart from China’s CCTV, the most famous state broadcaster in Asia, its reputation surpassing even CCTV’s in some respects.

A foreign production company’s involvement meant little in itself. However, given Chen Guo’s attitude toward Gu Zhi and mainland cinema, it was clear he harbored a certain disdain for filmmakers from the mainland.

To be honest, Gu Zhi had no impression of this director. Having lived two lives, he at least knew the names of all the famous Hong Kong directors, but he’d never even heard of this one. He surmised that Chen Guo must be a director focused solely on the Hong Kong market, with few works distributed in the mainland. In that light, his comments were less surprising.

“There’s no helping it. Bring those reporters in and hold a press conference to explain the situation,” Han Sanping said, not wanting to dwell on it further. He then cautioned Gu Zhi, “Be careful with your words later. Don’t let your emotions get the better of you or say anything that might undermine cross-strait harmony. Remember, our own media won’t necessarily take our side. If they catch you slipping, there’s no telling how far they’ll blow things out of proportion.”

Gu Zhi’s expression grew serious as he nodded solemnly.

“You two will go as well—be careful with your answers if questioned.” Han Sanping rubbed his temples with one hand and pointed at Ning Hao and Liu Qi with the other, then waved them out of the office.