Chapter 0235: A Surefire Profit

What Yue Yiling couldn't understand, Dong Chenxi also couldn't understand.

So the next day, when she saw Zhao Fusheng off, she asked him the doubt in her heart.

“Why did Liu Dehua offer you such a high price?” Dong Chenxi asked Zhao Fusheng.

Zhao Fusheng smiled: “What, you think I'm not worth that price?”

After all, 200,000 Hong Kong dollars, converted to RMB, was about 210,000. By normal standards, it was indeed a high price.

Dong Chenxi nodded. Since they were not outsiders, she naturally spoke frankly without worrying too much.

Zhao Fusheng sat in the waiting hall, glanced at the scenery outside the window, pondered for a moment, and then said: “You've heard these days that the film market in Hong Kong is not doing well, right?”

Dong Chenxi was taken aback: “Yes, I do know that.”

Because when Zhao Fusheng had asked for information earlier, she had looked it up and found that in recent years, the Hong Kong film market had indeed been on the decline.

Speaking of which, twenty years ago, in 1979, was an important milestone for Hong Kong cinema—the beginning of the Hong Kong New Wave. A large number of TV behind-the-scenes workers switched to the film industry, including Xu Anhua, Zhang Guoming, Tan Jiaming, Yan Hao, Xu Ke, Yu Yunkang, and others. Driven by their passion for film, as well as the unique creativity and social sensitivity of youth, they made many highly personal films, opening a new chapter for Hong Kong cinema. Many works vividly expressed these directors' feelings and sentiments about the social climate of the time.

Although these new directors were collectively labeled as “New Wave directors,” in fact, each of their works was highly individualistic and did not fall into the traditional patterns of Hong Kong genre films. Xu Anhua's works exuded profound humanity and heightened female sensitivity. Xu Ke had a neurotic tension, Fang Yuping's style was plain and realistic, Yan Hao oscillated between youthful intensity and understated restraint, Tan Jiaming leaned toward middle-class aesthetics, and Zhang Guoming specialized in police thrillers. These traits all reflected the auteur theory aesthetics of New Wave cinema.

The New Wave marked a break between Hong Kong cinema and the previous generation of Cantonese films rooted in Chinese tradition. Cantonese films of the 1950s and 1960s often bore a heavy national burden and failed to innovate, whereas New Wave films had a strong urban character and a pronounced local sensibility, closely related to the directors having grown up in Hong Kong and received a Western education.

Moreover, films of this period used big stars sparingly and kept production costs under control, a stark contrast to the later Hong Kong films that flaunted star-studded casts and budgets in the tens of millions.

Hong Kong's film industry has always been commercially driven. The New Wave films, though critically acclaimed, were not box-office hits, so they inevitably faced elimination. By the early 1980s, Cinema City Enterprises emerged as a new force, recruiting many up-and-coming directors—John Woo, Tsui Hark, Ringo Lam, Clifton Ko—to produce commercially oriented films, mostly comedies.

Compared to the New Wave of the late 1970s, Hong Kong cinema in the 1980s focused too much on plot construction and star packaging, leading to a homogenization of film genres, let alone any auteur theory. Some believe that films of this period created stars but stifled the creativity of directors and screenwriters, driving Hong Kong cinema into decline. By the 1980s, the quality of Hong Kong films had dropped, though box-office returns remained strong.

In recent years, Hong Kong cinema could still be described as flourishing in diversity. However, following Hong Kong film tradition, any profitable genre attracts imitators. When too many imitators appear with varying quality, that genre heads toward extinction. This was the case with the martial arts action film boom, the gambling film craze, and later the Young and Dangerous series.

By the mid-1990s, Hong Kong film box-office revenues declined continuously, while Western films gradually gained ground. Hollywood blockbusters like Jurassic Park and Titanic swept the globe.

Additionally, piracy dealt a heavy blow to the Hong Kong film market. Pirated copies appeared soon after midnight screenings or premieres, with customs and police shifting blame. Later, the Hong Kong government began to address the issue, and customs gradually intensified crackdowns, slightly curbing piracy.

But overall, Hong Kong cinema today rarely produces blockbusters with tens of millions in box-office revenue. So far this year, the best-performing film hasn't even reached 15 million.

"Andy Lau isn't the kind of person who cares much about 200,000 Hong Kong dollars." Zhao Fusheng, seeing Dong Chenxi's expression, knew she understood his meaning. He spoke slowly: "Not to mention, he's worth tens of millions now, and his girlfriend's family is also wealthy..."

"Girlfriend?" Dong Chenxi was stunned. "Wait, you're saying Andy Lau has a girlfriend?"

Zhao Fusheng paused, then looked at her and said with a smile: "You don't actually believe those news stories about him being single, do you?"

Dong Chenxi's face fell, and she looked visibly dejected, clearly hurt by Zhao Fusheng's words.

Shaking his head helplessly, Zhao Fusheng was also speechless. These celebrities really had no choice. Being a public idol meant even dating and marrying had to be done cautiously, for fear of hurting fans' fragile hearts. No wonder the Heavenly King had kept his marriage hidden for so many years. If it were him, he'd probably make the same decision.

"Alright, go on. Why exactly is Andy Lau willing to pay such a high price?" Dong Chenxi quickly calmed herself down and asked Zhao Fusheng.

Zhao Fusheng smiled: "Simple. If this succeeds, he'll be like the savior of Hong Kong cinema. Don't you see?"

Dong Chenxi blinked, clearly waiting for Zhao Fusheng to explain further.

Zhao Fusheng sighed. Sometimes it was a headache when the people around him lacked talent. As the saying goes, dragons beget dragons, phoenixes beget phoenixes; birds of a feather flock together. If Han Bin were here, he'd probably already understand what he meant. But Dong Chenxi was still completely in the dark, having no idea what he was talking about.

"Think about it. Hong Kong cinema is in a slump right now, the whole market is depressingly weak. If at this time, Andy Lau's Tianmu Films produces a high-quality Hong Kong film that wins both at the box office and with critics, what kind of scene would that be?"

Zhao Fusheng asked Dong Chenxi.

Dong Chenxi was taken aback, then blurted out: "Then Andy Lau would become a legend. Everyone would praise him."

"Exactly. Think about it. When Hong Kong cinema is so低迷, he discovers the script for a great film, and without knowing how much box office it will earn, he pays a high price to buy the work of a mainland newcomer. What kind of spirit is that? It's the spirit of shedding blood and sacrificing for the development of Hong Kong cinema..."

Seeing Zhao Fusheng getting more and more worked up, Dong Chenxi rolled her eyes and quickly stopped him: "Alright, alright, I get it. So you're saying he's buying a horse's bones with gold, putting on a show for others?"

Zhao Fusheng nodded: "Yes. No matter how this turns out, he's in the right. If the film does well at the box office, everyone will think he's visionary and willing to contribute to the revival of Hong Kong cinema. If the film flops, I've taken so much of his money, so I owe him a huge favor."

"What a calculation!" Dong Chenxi was silent for a long time before uttering these words. Clearly, she had never expected that her long-time idol could be such a shrewd person.

Zhao Fusheng could tell at a glance that she was feeling uncomfortable, but facts were facts. Although there were many beautiful things in this world, they definitely didn't include celebrities in the entertainment industry. If they were really as pure and innocent as they appeared on TV, in movies, or in front of the camera, to be honest, a lot of people would be out of work...

After a while, seeing that Dong Chenxi had calmed down, Zhao Fusheng smiled and said: "Let me tell you, in our line of work, never get too attached to any celebrity, got it?"

"Why?" Dong Chenxi stood up, helping Zhao Fusheng with his luggage, ready to see him off to the car.

Zhao Fusheng smiled and left Dong Chenxi with a meaningful remark: "Because what you see isn't always the truth."

Watching Zhao Fusheng's back, Dong Chenxi was lost in thought. She always felt that Zhao Fusheng had too many secrets. Both were roommates living together, but Zhao Fusheng was far more complicated than her boyfriend Wang Zhen. At the very least, Wang Zhen wouldn't give her the feeling of seeing through the world like Zhao Fusheng did.

Actually, Dong Chenxi was wrong about Zhao Fusheng. For him, the label of 'seeing through the world' was too high a praise.

Zhao Fusheng defined himself as a mundane person, a purely mundane person.

As a mundane person, loving money and admiring beautiful women were perfectly natural. It's just that Zhao Fusheng had his principles and bottom line; he knew what he wanted.

...

...

Two days later, Zhao Fusheng set foot on the land of Ninghai. Looking at the Ninghai airport building, he shook his head, speechless.

If he remembered correctly, fifteen years later, the Ninghai airport would have no changes except for a renovated terminal.

The city's development speed seemed to have derailed from the whole country's pace. In Zhao Fusheng's memory, even when housing prices in third- and fourth-tier cities had risen to five or six thousand, Ninghai's prices were still around three thousand, and that was for a pretty good location.

"Really a place for keeping the poor," Zhao Fusheng muttered to himself, then strode out of the airport and got into a taxi, heading home.