Chapter 163: Export Turned Domestic Sales (Request Monthly Votes, Request Rewards)

Time passed quickly, and by late October, Beijing had grown increasingly cold.

During this period, a major event occurred in the film industry, stirring up widespread uproar.

"If theaters disagree, they can refuse to screen it."

When Zhang Weiping shouted this, it was like a stone thrown into a pond, sending ripples through countless layers.

The reason was that this person bypassed the distributor and negotiated ticket prices and revenue splits directly with theater chains, demanding that theater shares not fall below the set price cap.

But the talks failed, collapsed entirely, and only then did he utter those words.

For example, if a ticket costs 30 yuan, you give me exactly 30 yuan as my share—no less than this price.

But theaters refused, because to attract customers, they offered discounted group tickets and bulk purchases, all inevitably below Zhang Weiping's set price cap.

If Zhang Weiping's plan were adopted, theaters would have to pay him money out of pocket.

This was only one issue; another was that producers demanded lowering the theaters' and theater chains' share from 57% to 55%, a reduction of 2%.

Yindu offered theaters and theater chains a 59% share.

Fang Hong had never intervened—he had his own calculations and didn't rely on the domestic market for big profits; as long as theaters wanted to screen his films, that was enough, for his ace was Tu Piao Piao.

If he could get this going, it would force theater chains to bend.

In the original timeline, this was exactly how it happened: Maoyan not only charged theater chains a service fee per ticket but also profited from promotion and marketing, even making consumers pay an extra 1 to 3 yuan in handling fees.

Of course, these weren't blatant—they were hidden within the ticket price.

Capital had burned so much money, wiping out competitors, that it had to recoup losses elsewhere.

But this also caused deep resentment among theater chains and major producers, who demanded that ticketing platforms reduce their cuts, triggering a chain reaction of rising ticket prices paid for by consumers.

Since no one could be settled, let the common people suffer.

Zhang Weiping's statement gained support from many producers, including Red Pants, who joined in, demanding theater chains lower their shares and loudly claiming producers weren't making money.

Yindu didn't participate; Yindu only quietly monitored the situation.

If producers succeeded, Yindu benefited; if they failed, Yindu would keep receiving capital injections from the United States.

Of course, whether they succeeded or not, it didn't affect Fang Hong's development.

Actually, this controversy had one side's interests at stake, but another was that Zhang Weiping's mouth was too foul—he called theater chains: "Making money lying down, not taking on any risk."

Theater chains naturally resented it; you discuss, fine, but constantly cursing? This led to the Eight Major Theater Chains uniting to boycott and refuse to screen "The Flowers of War."

The General Manager of United Theater Chain even stated: "Who do you think you are? Do we really have to screen your films? Learn from Yindu—they're far more professional."

Yindu also had films coming: "The Big Shot" and "Those Years," but they never blabbed, always maintaining a good attitude.

Damn it, you guys argue among yourselves, yet you drag Yindu into it as a role model—Yindu just wants to quietly be a lazy fish.

Chen Zhixi told the media: "I've heard about it. I'll keep watching."

In any case, she took no side—she'd support whoever won. If the state stepped in, she'd firmly stand with the state.

The controversy grew so large that the Film Bureau intervened to mediate, bringing together the Eight Major Theater Chains and the producer, New Picture.

One can only say, Lao Mouzi's influence is truly immense.

If any other company or director had done this, no one would have cared—they'd ignore you outright.

This incident stirred up big waves within the industry, with media coverage, but few netizens or passersby paid attention.

It had nothing to do with them, and many didn't even know who Zhang Weiping was, who the United Theater Chain manager was, or who the Film Bureau was—no sense of connection.

Of course, Fang Hong also took advantage of this controversy to renegotiate revenue splits with China Film Group, essentially demanding the treatment of a top director, reducing the distribution share to 5%.

Yindu has sold over a billion yuan: "Those Years" earned 130 million, "Lost in Love 33 Days" earned 347 million, "So Young" earned 406 million; "Beijing Meets Seattle" earned 396 million.

Add "The Genius Dumbass" at 362 million, totaling 1.641 billion.

Last year, China's entire film box office was just 10.1 billion; this year it's around 13.1 billion, and that's without counting the upcoming New Year Slot.

Yindu alone created one-tenth of the film market's share—why shouldn't it get top director treatment? As for "The Genius Dumbass," honestly, its promotion was inadequate, and the seven-day holiday was too short, causing its later box office to collapse.

But a masterpiece is a masterpiece—its buzz remained high, even spreading overseas to Southeast Asia, prompting many countries there to seek import rights.

But Fang Hong had no channels—he wouldn't turn to the United States; China itself had Yindu Institution, dedicated to the Southeast Asian film market.

Yindu Institution is a state-owned enterprise, tasked with uniting Hong Kong's film circle and producing progressive films—progressive films, you know what that means.

It also distributes domestic films overseas and across Southeast Asia.

Of course, only good films—terrible ones that ruin the viewing experience won't be sent; no one wants to watch them.

Yindu owns film companies like The Great Wall and Phoenix.

Later, its reputation faded, due partly to Hong Kong cinema's decline and partly to Chinese cinema's failure—all of it garbage, even Hong Kong's output was garbage.

It was also crushed by Netflix—Netflix's video streaming platform reshaped the global film and television landscape outside China.

Many producers no longer needed distributors—they simply sold directly to Netflix, which served global users with a massive enough platform—simple as that.

Just like online streaming later eroded TV viewership, causing TV audiences to hit record lows—people stopped caring about ratings and started chasing buzz.

Yindu Institution took notice of "The Genius Dumbass!" The film had already spawned pirated copies in Southeast Asia and was gaining popularity among netizens, showing signs of breaking out—after all, it had been in theaters for a long time.

Many netizens recommended the film on Twitter—this thing was equivalent to Weibo.

One netizen posted a long article, translated into Chinese as follows:

"I want to recommend a high-tension Chinese thriller—it had me sweating from nervousness! The film is called 'The Genius Dumbass.' I don't know if it's based on a true story, because the opening credits state in Chinese: 'Purely fictional. Any resemblance to actual events is purely coincidental.'

The story tells of a female genius student meticulously orchestrating an exam-cheating scheme for profit. This Chinese thriller really suits my taste—every shot is precise, sharp, and brutal, leaving me tense throughout! I saw a comment saying, 'As someone terrified of teachers since childhood, I felt like I was watching a horror film,' and I couldn't agree more!

If you like thrillers or want a movie that makes your heart race, you must watch 'The Genius Dumbass!'"

This long review received many likes and shares, and others posted comments below.

"It's truly tense and thrilling, but the ending is a failure? The female lead surrenders without any buildup—it's too abrupt and drags down the rating."

"Don't be fooled by the ending. On Chinese media, I heard there are two versions—the second one hasn't been released. I hope the second version gets imported."

"The female lead is awesome—her presence is genuinely powerful!"

"."

Fang Hong hadn't gone to China Film Group when Song Dai, Chairman of Yindu Institution, arrived, with Liu Tianxian present.

This man looked somewhat aged, his scalp bald.

"Chairman Song, hello—I should've gone to see you." Fang Hong extended his hand.

The two had spoken on the phone before.

"Don't be formal—I was in BJ on business anyway, so I dropped by."

Song Dai seemed warm, turning to Liu Tianxian: "This is our leading lady, right!"

"Chairman Song, hello." Liu Tianxian smiled.

"Even more beautiful than in the film," Song Dai chuckled.

"Thank you for your compliment, Chairman Song—I'm flattered." Liu Tianxian tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

The three sat down in the sofa area, Fang Hong and Liu Tianxian sitting together.

Song Dai crossed his legs, exuding the air of a big shot: "Let me be direct—two million for the film rights, for Hong Kong, Taiwan, and Southeast Asia distribution."

Box office in these three regions won't be high; at best you'll make money on streaming, and piracy already exists.

"Fine. Promoting Chinese cinema overseas is exactly what we filmmakers should do."

Fang Hong had high awareness—this was also why Yutu's film was the first to go abroad, to test the waters and cultivate the market.

He said: "I'd like to know whether you want the first version or the second version."

"The second version—the first version is outdated," Song Dai said.

The second version had never been released.

Let overseas audiences see something fresh.

"I'm worried it might harm our image in the eyes of overseas audiences," Fang Hong ventured.

"No problem. Films have artistic elements—don't be so fragile. As long as it's good, they'll only say our film is great, nothing else," Song Dai was open-minded.

Fang Hong said no more, but added: "I do have one request."

"Go ahead," Song Dai gestured.

"Have the leading lady make a trip to Southeast Asia for promotion," Fang Hong pointed to Liu Tianxian.

Liu Tianxian glanced at him but said nothing—this was Fang Hong's plan to send her abroad, to appear in overseas newspapers and raise her prestige.

As soon as the film screened overseas, it would inevitably appear in major international media, since it was already gaining traction.

The Golden Horse Awards were coming up soon; whether she won or not, raise her prestige first, add some impression points.

In the eyes of the Chinese, Liu Tianxian's acting was terrible; her Golden Horse nomination had drawn criticism for a while.

But foreigners were unfamiliar with her—no prior impressions at all. Once they praised her, it would be different; the Wangyi would say:

"Even foreigners think it's good, yet our own people are tearing her down."

This was called exporting and re-importing—boosting her image.

Of course, it also served to let Liu Tianxian lie low; when promoting "The Legend of Hongmen Banquet," if any scandal broke, they could claim she'd been overseas the whole time, unreachable.

It was a way to shift blame and minimize the impact.

"That's fine—I agree," Song Dai nodded.

Sending the leading lady on a tour of Southeast Asia to get recognized would help the film and leave a good impression on overseas Chinese.

Liu Tianxian's appearance and demeanor were more than sufficient!

With Yindu backing her, Liu Tianxian wouldn't face any trouble—no one would dare mistreat her.

(End of chapter)