Chapter 49: Island of Fire Box-Office Disaster

Xiangjiang, Shaw Brothers Studio conference room.

"Slap!"

Mona Fong slammed a box-office report heavily onto the table; the paper slid half a meter across the solid wood surface and finally came to rest in front of Run Run Shaw.

"One million five hundred thousand!" Her voice carried a rare agitation. "Island of Fire didn't even earn back the cost of the film stock!"

Run Run Shaw unhurriedly removed his reading glasses and gently polished the lenses with a velvet cloth. The veteran film mogul, who had seen his share of storms, rarely showed a hint of a smile: "All twenty-three theaters in Xiangjiang averaged less than twenty percent attendance. Wang Yu this time..."

"Serves him right!"

The conference room door was pushed open, and Jackie Chan strode in, a bruise still visible on his right cheek.

"Those bastards pointed guns at us every day while we were filming!" Jackie Chan's voice trembled slightly with rage. "Tony Leung NG'd more than three times, and they smashed his back with rifle butts!"

Lin Qingxia followed close behind, the latest issue of Ming Pao in her hand. She spread the newspaper on the conference table and tapped the film-review column with her fingertip: "The famous critic Sek Kei said Island of Fire is 'a cinematic disaster under triad coercion' and gave it one and a half stars."

Xiang Qian had also just returned from the mainland with the others. Wang Jing took the report, his finger sliding over the numbers, and suddenly laughed out loud: "Interesting—Wang Yu sent Rolexes to theater-chain managers to secure screenings, and they all got sent back?"

"More than that!" Jackie Chan plopped down on the conference table, his leather shoes leaving several scratches on the expensive rosewood surface. "I heard Heung Keung put out the word that any theater daring to show Island of Fire would have its film supply cut off! Even the processing labs won't touch their jobs!"

Wan Chai Pier, the rain pouring down in sheets.

"Crack!"

The latest-model brick phone shattered on the concrete ground, the battery plate flying off into the distance. Wang Yu's face was darker than the overcast sky. He tugged at his strangling tie—the expensive silk tie was already soaked with rain and sweat.

"Damn it! These Xiangjiang bastards are ganging up on me!" His voice seemed squeezed out from between clenched teeth.

His underling Ah Biao crept over cautiously, his black suit already soaked through: "Boss, just got a call—three of the Bamboo Union's spots in Macau got swept by 14K... losses over twenty million..."

"Shut up!" Wang Yu kicked over the LV suitcase beside him; several stacks of US dollars spilled out of the cracked case and were immediately drenched by the rain. He turned and roared at another underling: "Book tickets! We're going back to Taipei tonight!"

Just then, a black Mercedes S600 slowly pulled up not far away. The window rolled down silently, revealing Xiang Yan's face with its half-smile. The cigar in his hand flickered in the rain curtain, the smoke shattered into pieces by the downpour.

"Boss Wang, leaving already?" Xiang Yan's voice was soft, yet unusually clear amid the rain.

Wang Yu's face instantly turned ashen. He instinctively stepped back half a pace, then immediately forced himself to stand firm: "Xiang Yan, don't you get cocky..."

The car window slowly rose, and the Mercedes glided away silently, leaving Wang Yu standing in place, his fists clenched white.

Causeway Bay Theater, a sea of people.

"Make way! Make way!" Jackie Chan, wearing sunglasses, struggled to push a path through the crowd. His GUCCI shirt was already soaked with sweat, clinging to his back.

At the entrance to the VIP hall, Zhou Huimin was anxiously looking around. Spotting Jackie Chan, she immediately waved: "Brother Long! Over here!"

"Where's Qian-zai?" Jackie Chan asked, wiping sweat as he went.

Zhou Huimin pointed toward the back of the IMAX hall: "Inside, talking to someone."

Lin Qingxia suddenly tugged at Zhou Huimin's sleeve: "Look!"

On the enormous IMAX screen, the seven blood-red characters "Ghost Blowing Lamp: The Ancient City of Jingjue" slowly emerged. Accompanied by deep, thunderous music, the entire hall erupted in a landslide of applause and screams. Front-row audience members even rose to their feet in unison, and someone began whistling.

Two in the morning, the Shaw Brothers Studio office was still brightly lit.

The telephone rang one after another:

"Kowloon Tong Theater is requesting three extra screenings!"

"Tsim Sha Tsui midnight show is sold out!"

"Fans in Mong Kok have started lining up to buy tomorrow morning's tickets!"

Jackie Chan stared at the flickering box-office display and suddenly let out a strange cry: "Five hundred! Five million on opening day!" He turned to embrace Zhou Huimin, but Xiang Qian darted over and blocked him midway.

Xiang Qian, however, frowned: "It's still early..."

The next morning, the massive headline on the front page of the Oriental Daily nearly took up half the page:

"Ghost Blowing Lamp Breaks Record on Opening Day! Sets New Hong Kong Film Record"

Run Run Shaw set down the newspaper and took a gentle sip of Pu'er tea: "Sixty years, and this circle is still the same." He looked out the window at Victoria Harbour: "Some leave, some come."

Xiang Qian stood behind him; sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling window, casting a long shadow at his feet.