1978: Female educated youth, don’t want an illiterate husband

As dawn broke, the newsstands in Hong Kong were already occupied by morning papers.

Although the entertainment headlines were still dominated by the promotion of the martial arts tournament between "The Martial Arts School" and "Shaolin Temple," some astute newspapers had already placed brief news flashes in inconspicuous corners:
"The overseas rights to director Cheng Xuemin's new film 'Shaolin Temple' have been sold for a record-breaking price, potentially breaking the record for Chinese-language films."

The news spread like wildfire, like a drop of cold water falling into boiling oil.

In tea restaurants, under film set rest tents, and next to coffee machines in office buildings, all film industry professionals are whispering among themselves, discussing the same topic.

"Have you heard? That Northman's movie made nearly thirty million US dollars before it was even released!"

"Are you crazy?! Don't you even think before you speak?"

"Really! My friend works at Jiahe, and he said Mr. Zou was furious last night!"

"Aren't Lau Kar-leung and Golden Princess Golden Harvest doomed to lose this time? They're not going to play the local market anymore!"

"Cinema City is in an even worse situation. They already had fewer screenings, and now compared to others, it's like a beggar comparing treasures with the Dragon King!"

Inside the modest office building in Kowloon Tong, owned by Golden Princess Cinemas, the atmosphere among the seven members of Cinema City had plummeted to rock bottom.

On the table were cold steamed buns and untouched milk tea.

Mai Jia's eyes were bloodshot, clearly indicating he hadn't slept all night. A newspaper was spread out in front of him, containing the brief news flash.

Shi Tian slammed his fist on the table, making the cups and plates rattle: "Damn! Twenty-eight million US dollars! Our movie 'Desperate Dog Jumps Over the Wall' only cost five million Hong Kong dollars! It didn't even get released, and it made dozens of times more than us!"

Raymond Wong pushed up his glasses, trying to remain calm, but his voice was also slightly hoarse:
"The data may not be entirely accurate and may contain inaccuracies. Moreover, it's a global copyright, and we mainly focus on the domestic market, so we can't make direct comparisons."

"Can't we compare?" Tsui Hark suddenly spoke up, his tone laced with sarcasm. "Why can't we compare? They've set their sights on the world stage, while we're still fighting for Causeway Bay. The scale is already different."

Nansun Shi gently nudged Tsui Hark's arm, signaling him to say less.

Eric Tsang, fidgeting with anxiety, muttered, "If I had known, I should have followed that northerner Cheng Xuemin and made my way in the world!"

"What are you talking about!" Karl Maka suddenly looked up, his bloodshot eyes glaring fiercely at Eric Tsang, his voice hoarse and filled with anger, "Boosting the morale of others while diminishing our own! We at Cinema City speak with strength, not with boasting!"

"Strength?" Teddy Robin, who had been silent all along, suddenly sighed softly. "Brother Jia, this is not the time to talk about feelings. Their strength is real and undeniable."

And us? Our screenings have been drastically cut; Lei Juekun probably looks at us worse than he looks at beggars now.”

The meeting room fell silent once again.

Cheng Xuemin's success is like a cruel mirror, reflecting the current predicament of Cinema City and its possible bleak future.

Cheng Xuemin's divisive remarks about equity distribution, which he had made in the newspaper before, resurfaced in everyone's minds and sounded particularly jarring.

If companies have sufficient capital and channels, and if they don't have to rely entirely on the charity of Golden Princess, could they also have a wider range of choices like Cheng Xuemin?

Looking at the undisguised disappointment and doubt on his companions' faces, Mai Jia felt a pang of pain and irritation in his heart.

He knew that relying solely on empty promises and brotherhood was no longer enough to keep things under control.

We must produce tangible results as soon as possible; otherwise, the team that Cinema City has worked so hard to build may really fall apart from within.

"Enough!" McGa stood up abruptly, placing his hands on the table and scanning the crowd. "What others do is their business! What we need to do now is win this battle!"

"Desperate Dogs Jump Over the Wall is the culmination of the efforts of seven people! No matter how bad the screening schedule or how unpleasant the showtimes, as long as the movie is good, I believe the audience will recognize its value!"

"From today onwards, everyone go full steam ahead! Promote! Promote on the ground! I want to see posters and word-of-mouth for 'Desperate Measures' all over Hong Kong!"

"Anyone who says anything discouraging or affects morale shouldn't blame me for being rude!"

His voice was loud, almost roaring, as he tried to dispel the oppressive atmosphere in the room.

But he himself wasn't sure how effective it would be.

The impact of Cheng Xuemin's 28 million US dollars was like a cold wave, penetrating to the bone marrow, and could not be easily resolved with a few slogans.

The dressing room at Liu's Film Studio was filled with the smell of cheap hairspray mixed with sweat.

Liu Jialiang had just finished filming a promotional clip for "The Martial Arts School". He hadn't taken off his costume as a Southern Fist master yet, and his forehead was covered with paint and sweat from the fight.

He sat in front of the mirror, closing his eyes to rest, waiting for the makeup artist to touch up his makeup. His assistant, Acheng, tiptoed in and placed several copies of the day's morning newspaper in the corner of the dressing table.

Liu Jialiang opened his eyes and habitually picked up the top newspaper.

His gaze swept across the entertainment section, where the headline was still the promotional photos and screening schedule for "Martial Arts School," but a news item in the sidebar, boldly circled in red, pierced his vision like an icicle.

"The overseas rights to director Cheng Xuemin's new film 'Shaolin Temple' have been sold for a record-breaking price, potentially breaking the record for Chinese-language films."

His hand, which was reaching for the purple clay teacup, froze in mid-air. His fingertips were only an inch away from the rim of the cup, but he could not go any further.

The veins under the loose skin on the back of the hand are slightly bulging.

"What is it?" His voice was hoarse, with a hint of tension that was barely perceptible, and his gaze was fixed on the headline.

Ah Cheng swallowed hard, then steeled himself and picked up the newspaper.

"Master Liu... it's about Cheng Xuemin's 'Shaolin Temple'... the overseas rights... they said it sold for 28 million... US dollars..."

Liu Jialiang grabbed the newspaper, his movement so fast that he knocked over a bottle of hairspray.

The glass bottle rolled to the ground, making a crisp shattering sound, and a pungent aroma filled the air.

The makeup artist gasped in fright and took a half step back.

Liu Jialiang seemed oblivious; his cloudy but sharp eyes were fixed on the short report of a few hundred words, as if drawn by a magnet.

Each printed word was like a heavy hammer, striking his retina hard.

"Twenty-eight million... US dollars?"

He repeated it, his voice sounding as if squeezed from the depths of his throat, with an absurd sense of distortion.

His fingers, covered in age spots, gripped the edge of the newspaper tightly, and the paper groaned under the weight.

The air in the dressing room froze instantly.

Acheng dared not breathe. The makeup artist stood frozen in place, watching Liu Jialiang's face visibly change from tired to flushed, and then quickly fade to a bloodless gray-white.

The veins near his temples throbbed, and his breathing became heavy.

"Impossible... This is absolutely impossible!" He shook his head violently, his voice rising abruptly, filled with anger at being severely offended. "They don't even think before they start talking! Where would they get so much?! Do they think those foreigners are fools?!"

He waved the newspaper around, making a rustling sound in his hands:
"My 'Martial Arts School'! An investment of four million Hong Kong dollars! A box office target of over twenty million! That's already an audacious idea! This kung fu film made by a northerner, grossing twenty-eight million before even being released? In US dollars?! Are you crazy?!"

After the rage came a brief silence.

Liu Jialiang suddenly stopped what he was doing, his body swayed, and he steadied himself by bracing himself against the dressing table with his other hand.

He lowered his head, his gaze sweeping over the line of numbers once more. The black and white text, along with the specific names mentioned in the report, such as Brian from the United States and Yamato Film Company from Japan, pierced his last shred of hope like cold needles.

A chill that seeped into my bones crept up my spine.

He knew all too well what that number meant.

This means that Cheng Xuemin's overseas revenue from just one film far exceeds the total box office revenue of all the films Liu Jialiang made over his decades-long career!

It could even exceed the entire annual profit of Shaw Brothers!
An unprecedented sense of powerlessness and absurdity overwhelmed him like a tidal wave.

He recalled how he had worked tirelessly to secure screenings for "The Martial Arts School," negotiating with Shaw Brothers, Golden Harvest, Golden Princess, and the Golden Horse Film Bureau.

But those mainlanders don't play the game of Hong Kong, this tiny little place, with you. They've taken a leap onto the global chessboard.

"Why...why did this happen..." Liu Jialiang murmured to himself, his arm supporting him on the dressing table trembling slightly.

His back, which had always been ramrod straight, now seemed to have hunched over a bit.

Throughout his life, he believed in the importance of genuine skill and hard work, and was convinced that good wine needs no bush. However, reality dealt him such a heavy blow.

"Master Liu... are you... are you alright?" Acheng asked cautiously.

Liu Jialiang did not answer.

He slowly straightened up, walked to the window, and suddenly pushed it open.

The humid, stuffy air rushed in, carrying with it the noise of the prop crew hammering wood in the distance from the film set.

He gazed out the window at the familiar scenes from the film: the constructed streetscapes, the suspended wires, and the busy stuntmen.

The place where he had dedicated his entire life now seemed so cramped and outdated.

"Get out!" He said, his back to the two men, his voice low and weary. "Get out, let me have some peace and quiet."

Ah Cheng and the makeup artist felt like they had been granted a pardon and hurriedly left.

The door was gently closed.

Liu Jialiang stood alone by the window, sunlight shining on his gray hair and wrinkled face.

He picked up the small purple clay teapot that had been with him for many years. The teapot was still warm from his body, but his hands were ice cold.

He slowly stroked the smooth surface of the pot, his eyes gazing blankly at the towering buildings in the distance.

That was a financial center, a place where capital flowed, an area he had never truly understood, yet now felt immense pressure from.

“Twenty-eight million... US dollars…” he whispered the number again, as if chewing on a bitter fruit.

This is not just a difference in money, but a cruel testament to the divide between generations.

Meanwhile, the air conditioning in the Golden Horse Film Bureau director's office was on full blast, but Jiang Fengqi felt a burning rage within him.

The newspaper lay open in front of her, her well-maintained fingers gripping a Montblanc pen tightly, her knuckles white from the force.

The secretary stood in front of the desk, head bowed, even her breathing was soft.

"The news... has it been verified?" Jiang Fengqi's voice was unusually calm, but beneath that calm lay a volcano about to erupt.

"It's been verified... Director!" The secretary's voice was tense. "We've confirmed it through several channels. The contract was signed late last night at the Peninsula Hotel. The guaranteed profit sharing of 28 million US dollars... this figure is basically true."

"boom!"

Jiang Fengqi finally couldn't hold back any longer and slammed the pen in his hand hard on the mahogany desk.

Ink splattered from the pen tip, leaving a stain on the expensive document.

"Useless! A bunch of useless trash!" She stood up abruptly, her chest heaving with anger, and cursed, "Our Golden Horse Film Bureau allocates so much money every year to support local films and promote them in other regions!"

And the result? More than a decade later! Which film has ever sold for such an astronomical price overseas?!

She walked around the desk to the window and pointed to the bustling street below:
"Look at the North! One 'Tai Chi' movie made over 20 million, and now another 'Shaolin Temple' is worth 28 million! And that's in US dollars! Where do you expect me to put my face? What will the officers at headquarters think of us?!"

The secretary remained silent, trembling with fear.

She knew that Jiang Fengqi's anger stemmed not only from being outperformed in performance, but also from pressure from her superiors.

After the success of the mainland boy's "Tai Chi" last year, the headquarters sent a letter severely criticizing him and demanding a deep reflection.

Unexpectedly, an even more violent storm is coming.

Jiang Fengqi, panting heavily, slumped back down, utterly exhausted.

After the anger came a deeper sense of panic and helplessness. She knew all too well how headquarters operated; if the news got back this time, it would probably be more than just a reprimand.

"Cheng Xuemin...it's Cheng Xuemin again!" She gritted her teeth as she muttered the name, a hint of resentment flashing in her eyes.

This suddenly emerging mainland director was like a troublemaker, completely disrupting the situation she had been building up for many years.

"Director... what... what should we do next?" the secretary asked, mustering her courage.

"What can I do? What can I do?" Jiang Fengqi gave a bitter laugh. "Prepare a detailed report immediately, and collect as many details as possible about the transaction."

I'll also draft a self-criticism and sign it; it's always better to be proactive than reactive.

She paused, a calculating glint in her eyes:

"In addition, the previously prepared plan to increase support for local kung fu films must be revised immediately!"
The budget will be increased by another 50%! Emphasis will be placed on innovation and international cooperation!
We must produce results as soon as possible that can at least salvage our reputation! Otherwise, neither of us will be able to hold our positions secure!

"Yes, Director! I'll take care of it right away!" the secretary replied hurriedly and quickly left the office.

Jiang Fengqi was left alone in the empty office. Outside the huge floor-to-ceiling windows was the street view of Central, but she felt a chill run down her spine.

The barriers she had painstakingly built over many years crumbled before the high wall that Cheng Xuemin had erected with US dollars.

Meanwhile, on the north bank of the Shenzhen River, just across the water, only a few lights were visible in the direction of Luohu Bridge under the cover of night.

Mr. Feng, who had just taken up his post, was wearing an old Zhongshan suit and stood in the corridor of the simple office building, gazing into the distance.

The dazzling lights of Hong Kong across the river, like a river paved with diamonds, stand in stark contrast to the sparse and dim lights on this side.

The evening breeze carried the fishy smell of the river and the earthy scent of the rice paddies.

……

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