Chapter 975: The Hope of Science Fiction (Part 2)

Countless examples prove that you should never oppose the surging tide of online public opinion unless you possess Luo Quan’s peerless business acumen and impeccable character—otherwise, the consequences will be dire.

The director of Shanghai Fortress clearly hadn’t read up on emotional intelligence, or perhaps panicked due to the box office flop, and after being criticized by audiences, actually dared to turn around and question them.

This kind of deflecting blame naturally drew no sympathy from netizens.

Originally, only those who had watched the film were criticizing it, but soon enough, netizens planning to see it or who had been following the movie also began joining in.

Few people pass up an opportunity to vent emotions freely without consequence, so the film’s official team, director, and lead actors suffered the largest online backlash of the year.

The last person to be targeted by so many netizens was Sign Brother; after the details of his case were exposed, the entire internet piled on.

While Shanghai Fortress didn’t deserve such extreme backlash, its marketing campaign had been absurdly excessive, yet the final product turned out this terrible—so the massive backlash was entirely predictable.

If they had simply stayed quiet, the number of critics might not have been so high; after all, with such a terrible box office, actual paying audiences were likely few, and the trend-following netizens were mostly just mocking and satirizing.

But since the film’s production team from top to bottom remained so defiant, netizens’ aggression naturally escalated.

The film’s official Weibo account has since shut down comments under tens of thousands of insults and satires; the director deleted his four previous confrontational posts and then went silent.

Lead actress Lu Han has had her posting privileges restricted and currently has no good solution.

But because the film is so shockingly bad, even Lu Han’s own fans don’t know how to defend her.

Originally, they promised to go watch the movie together to boost their brother’s performance metrics, but after reading the reviews, aside from brain-dead fans, most followers began hesitating.

After all, no one’s money comes from the wind; Lu Han has the clout to get them to go see the movie, but not the clout to get them to suffer through it.

Thus, Shanghai Fortress failed to harvest fan economy and even lost fan support—clearly, the situation is dire.

The film’s half-day box office stands at only 34 million, even lower than Xiao Shidai’s, which has been screening for days.

With its reputation already shattered, Shanghai Fortress exceeding 200 million in box office would be nothing short of a miracle.

Moreover, there are many voices online urging everyone not to contribute any box office revenue to this absolute trash—let alone 200 million, not even 100 million should be allowed.

Going to see it would be aiding evil, making you an accomplice in destroying the Chinese-language film environment.

Though it’s unknown whether these appeals will work, Shanghai Fortress’s box office growth has indeed slowed dramatically.

For such a high-budget blockbuster to collapse on its opening day is exceedingly rare; conservatively, the investors will lose at least 800 million, a total financial disaster.

Yet the online discussion surrounding Shanghai Fortress has only just begun.

On Zhihu, someone asked: How do you view the film Shanghai Fortress?

The most upvoted answer said:

Wandering Earth opened the door to Chinese-language science fiction cinema, and Shanghai Fortress has now slammed it shut.

Nine hundred million invested, and this is what they produced? Claiming it’s world-class special effects? I say it’s world-class audacity instead!

I can’t fathom what courage the creators had after watching the final cut to make such promotional trailers—they’ve clearly trained their skin thicker than a city wall with corners.

Congratulations to this group—their work is now permanently etched in film history, and they’ve made a tremendous contribution to eliminating traffic idols from the film industry.

I don’t believe any investor will dare spend big money again on films starring traffic idols; if anyone still does, I suggest an immediate investigation into whether they’re X-money!”

………………

This answer directly defined Shanghai Fortress and all the films behind it; though harsh, it wasn’t without merit.

When everyone knows that young idols plus IP equals financial disaster, why do investors still rush to pour money into such films? Isn’t that X-money? Is it charity?

So the suggestion to investigate is entirely reasonable; whether it will be acted upon remains unknown.

The second most upvoted answer said:

“Shanghai Fortress, as a highly anticipated sci-fi film, deserves criticism for turning out this way.

But after venting, I began to reflect: where is the future of Chinese-language sci-fi cinema?

Big-budget sci-fi films, as a reflection of a nation’s film industry strength, are critically important yet consistently overlooked.

Primarily because the Oscars don’t favor sci-fi, denying it major influence, yet in theaters, sci-fi films are precisely the ones that earn massive box office returns.

Thus, a good sci-fi film is a true embodiment of a film industry’s strength.

Previously, Wandering Earth achieved both box office and critical success; we hoped it would ignite a domestic sci-fi wave and push China’s already top-tier special effects further.

But instead, what emerged was Shanghai Fortress.

Criticize it all you want, but after criticizing, we must ask: where is the future of domestic sci-fi cinema?

Or rather, will anyone still make domestic sci-fi films going forward?

My outlook is now deeply pessimistic, because Shanghai Fortress’s performance is truly disheartening.

China has a massive sci-fi market, yet investors only think of how to milk quick cash—they’d rather spend fortunes on young idols than invest in special effects.

With such a production mindset, making a good film is pure fantasy.

Worse still, this investment and production philosophy is rampant across China.

I don’t know when the next Wandering Earth will come, but I’m certain the next Shanghai Fortress will arrive soon.

Because capital never sleeps, and bad films never die!

At this moment, I can’t help but ask: who can save the sci-fi film market? Or when will the next Wandering Earth arrive?”

………………

Compared to the first answer, which was purely emotional venting, the second answer was far more constructive, seriously examining the state of Chinese-language sci-fi cinema and posing an urgent question.

As the saying goes, three cobblers with their wits combined equal Zhuge Liang; when one smart person can’t solve a problem, collective wisdom often finds the solution more easily.

In response to this answer’s question, the comment section quickly named one person: Luo Quan.

In today’s dimming Chinese music scene, she has emerged like a sudden sun, illuminating the entire sky and bringing light and hope to everyone.

As long as the sun still rises, people can feel its light and warmth!

While Chinese cinema was criticized as self-indulgent, she was the one who broke through internationally, winning the Oscar for Best Actress and other honors, earning global acclaim.

If miracles had another name, it would surely be Luo Quan.

All the feats netizens once deemed impossible have been accomplished by Luo Quan.

She is like an omnipotent goddess, dedicated to helping fans realize their most unrealistic fantasies.

Such as beautiful songs, stunning films, and top-tier swimsuit photo shoots.

Online, there’s a common saying: if you have a problem, ask Luo Quan—if even she says it’s too hard, then just give up.

Of course, giving birth is an exception.

Luo Quan is currently single and has no intention of seeking a partner; under current human biology, she is powerless to reproduce alone.

Aside from that, she is arguably the most deserving human of the phrase “omniscient and omnipotent”—had she lived two thousand years ago, she would have been a god incarnate.

Now that sci-fi cinema faces a crisis, netizens immediately thought of Luo Quan.

Though she hasn’t recently announced plans to make a sci-fi film, even a documentary starring herself would already be sci-fi enough.

Of course, this is just a joke.

Plans can change; not planning to make one now doesn’t mean she won’t later.

And given Luo Quan’s pace of filmmaking, if she truly decides, this sci-fi film might appear very soon—thinking of this, sci-fi fans grew excited.

If Luo Quan really agrees to make it, what a wonderful thing that would be.

So netizens began @ing her in the comments, hoping she’d notice the answer and the crowd’s calls.

They knew Luo Quan had a Zhihu account and occasionally checked it; @ing her would ensure she saw it—yet this time, Luo Quan remained silent.

It wasn’t that she felt incapable and pretended ignorance; she simply hadn’t seen it.

When Zhihu users posted their calls, she was in the midst of a crucial cultivation breakthrough.

After refining her pill with Samadhi Fire for so long, her internal Qi had circulated tens of thousands of small heavenly cycles, finally yielding results.

Though far from forming a Golden Core, her dantian had fully taken shape, the Qi within coalescing into a dense mass, beginning to resemble a Golden Core.

If cultivating a Golden Core were divided into ten stages, she had now completed at least two.

This milestone breakthrough brought her physical attributes a massive boost—exactly 25%!

Such an increase was extraordinary: permanent and completely without side effects.

Even at just 20% progress, the boost was this immense; when the Golden Core was fully formed, her strength might multiply several times over!

For someone whose power was already growing rapidly, this enhancement was immense.

Precisely because she had reached such a pivotal stage, Luo Quan spent the entire day in seclusion, taking a break from fans to focus entirely on pushing through this barrier.

The process went smoothly; after countless rounds of Qi circulation, she finally achieved her first-stage goal.

When she opened her eyes again, her face was flushed, her body damp.

She observed: the intense heat from Samadhi Fire had caused her to sweat profusely.

After ending her cultivation, Luo Quan stepped into the bathroom for a hot shower.

Once clean and dry, she opened her livestream.

After more than ten hours without her, fans were surely frantic.

“I know you’re eager, but don’t rush.”

Luo Quan smiled at the live chat messages.

Fans were asking where she’d been—she posted a leave notice in the morning and vanished, returning so late they nearly missed the big show.

“Big show?” Luo Quan paused, confused.

After reading the explanations, she realized the “big show” was Shanghai Fortress—the blockbuster that flopped on opening day had become the year’s biggest joke, with netizens relentlessly mocking it; Bilibili’s satirical videos kept rolling in.

From that perspective, it truly was a spectacle.

Fans also hoped Luo Quan would play a role in this spectacle—by livestreaming her own mockery.

But Luo Quan scratched her head and said: “I haven’t even seen the movie yet—how can I mock it?”

“Though I knew from the start it’d probably flop, I never bought a ticket—I can’t mock something I haven’t watched; that’d be cloud-mocking!”

“Go watch it quickly, then come back and livestream.”

“True, it’s just past six—finish the movie and you can still grab lunch.”

"Hurry up, I'm waiting for your 11 p.m. live stream rant session."

………………

Seeing her fans’ encouragement, Luo Quan laughed: “Come on, haven’t you read the movie reviews online?”

“It’s this bad already, and you still want me to watch it? Isn’t that just cruel?”

“Forget spending money on the cinema—this movie’s flopping so hard, it’ll be on video platforms soon enough. Let’s all watch it together on Bilibili later.”

To avoid wasting money, Luo Quan didn’t even bother to ride the hype of Shanghai Fortress.

In fact, many online people haven’t even seen the movie but are just joining the bandwagon to trash it.

But as a public figure, she had to be careful with her words and actions.

Without having seen something, you can’t properly judge the details—rashly attacking it would only become a black mark on her own reputation.

So even though her fans really wanted to see her roast Shanghai Fortress, they’d probably have to wait a while before it happened.

When the movie roast didn’t happen, her fans quickly urged her to check out the related questions on Zhihu, wanting her to weigh in on the future of Chinese-language sci-fi films.

Or put more bluntly—they wanted her to solve the problem.

Seeing that many comments were pushing this topic, Luo Quan opened Zhihu to observe.

After understanding the full context, she looked into the camera and answered carefully:

“As for sci-fi films, I’m not incapable of making one—I actually have a few quite good screenplays.”