Chapter 46: The Rich Lead the Poor to Prosperity

The pirated version of Those Years was a high-definition, unencrypted, watermark-free original video, and pirated DVDs were already being sold on street corners, which hurt box office sales.

But the online spread wasn't yet severe—it hadn't reached mainstream video platforms, confined only to fringe film forums.

Chen Zhixi kept sending legal notices, but legal notices were the most useless thing—they still had to rely on China Film Group.

But China Film Group wasn't putting in much effort either; they had no investment share, and earning a few million from distribution—could they really expect them to fight the pirates?

At most, they'd give Chen Zhixi some information and let her handle it herself.

This was the helplessness of having no power!

If Fang Hong had his own legal team, his own monitoring system, his own promotional platform, he could crush a whole wave of them.

The world always bullies the weak and never the strong!

On the eighth day, the box office for Those Years dropped to 8.62 million.

On the ninth day, 7.84 million!

That day's total box office exceeded 100 million, but still hadn't reached the 120 million threshold.

Although piracy was growing more rampant, the box office performance remained fairly stable—this result was already very impressive.

Earning over 100 million was more than enough for Chen Zhixi; she dared not hope for more.

She said to Fang Hong: "At this stage, we can probably net 30 million. What are your plans next?"

But the air was silent; Fang Hong stared at his phone, as if he hadn't heard a word.

"Hey!"

Chen Zhixi waved her hand in front of his face.

Fang Hong snapped back: "What?"

"I'm talking to you—why have you been so distracted these past two days?" Chen Zhixi said.

"What did you say to me? Say it again." Fang Hong said.

Chen Zhixi sighed: "I asked what your plans are next."

"Make a movie, what else? Didn't you already pick the locations and rent the equipment? See how many people from our previous team want to come back." Fang Hong said.

Chen Zhixi rubbed her forehead: "What I mean is, we're going to split tens of millions from this movie—shouldn't your company start building up its structure?"

She understood filmmaking, but how the company should develop—whether it remained a shell or built a team, whether it needed a clear direction—was something she needed to know.

"Not your company—our company."

Fang Hong corrected her, insisting on unified thinking, not treating it like a temporary lodging, then added: "First, build up the special effects department."

"What?!" Chen Zhixi was stunned: "Excuse me, what capital do you even have to start special effects?"

She really didn't want to crush this guy's spirit—she didn't even know if they could afford to hire special effects staff, let alone produce a special effects film!

Any special effects film costs hundreds of millions, and the production cycle is long.

Besides, our shooting team isn't qualified—do we really rely on students who just graduated—or haven't even graduated yet?

"Who said special effects means making special effects films? What about games? Use games to train them first." Fang Hong said.

Special effects for films and games share many similarities: 3D modeling, texture mapping, lighting, CG visuals, and so on.

The difference is games require interactivity and real-time rendering; films use pre-rendered visuals.

But film special effects are more complex than game special effects, because films demand realism, seamless transitions between scenes, and constant camera cuts.

Games don't need scene nodes—just broad special effects, and you can simulate them with texture maps.

The main advantage is games don't require long production cycles—visuals can be refined gradually while players are playing.

Films must be perfect before they can be released!

That's the difference—but no matter how different they are, they're still connected. As long as we don't aim for AAA games, a team of dozens for online games is feasible.

Special effects is an experience-based industry—the longer you work, the more experience you gain.

Also, special effects overlaps with animation—once established, we can link film special effects, games, and animation together.

It's like building all three fields at once.

Fang Hong's thinking was far-reaching; the only downside was the cost—it wouldn't be short-term spending, but long-term burning of money.

But games can generate quick returns; this industry carries less risk because there's always an audience.

Film carries far greater risk—China's current market simply can't support special effects films.

"Big brother, your thinking is too erratic—we're in film and TV, jumping into games—is that really wise? We don't even understand that field." Chen Zhixi didn't flatter his idea.

If you do something you don't understand, you'll just waste the money.

"You're right—I was just speaking offhand, don't take it seriously." Fang Hong changed his tone.

He'd handle it himself; no need to drag Chen Zhixi in—she should focus on her films; games weren't her field.

What's that saying again? Each person should do what they're suited for.

Fang Hong added: "Then let's build up the production department. See which people we can keep—hire them directly into the company."

Start with the behind-the-scenes crew; talent agency can wait—we don't have TV dramas yet, so talent agency won't take off.

"Fine!"

Chen Zhixi agreed—this was essentially forming a team.

"This time, find two new cinematographers. I'm assigning Yu Xian as my Executive Director." Fang Hong said.

After over half a year of hard work, we only earned a few million—after splitting, we're left with just a few million, and even that's just on paper, not cash.

Money comes too slowly—he needed Yu Xian to get up to speed as a director fast.

"Alright, I'll handle it!" Chen Zhixi nodded.

Assembling a crew was always the Producer's job—before, Fang Hong did it; now she would.

"Also, for this shoot of Lost in Love 33 Days, stop exploiting students—pay wages, pay fees. They supported us when we had nothing; now that we have money, we must give back." Fang Hong instructed.

As promised: the rich lead the poor to prosperity!

"This five-million budget isn't enough!" Chen Zhixi said.

Fang Hong only got five million; The Those Years payment won't arrive for months—where's the money?

Fang Hong asked: "What's the ideal budget?"

This budget wasn't his to make; Chen Zhixi made it herself. If everything has to come from him, what's the point of this woman?

"At least eight million!" Chen Zhixi said.

"Did you sell the song rights? That song, The Those Years." Fang Hong said.

"That won't bring much—piracy is rampant; ten or twenty thousand is already a lot."

In this era, songs weren't valuable; the record market had long been shattered by internet piracy. Record labels bundled their entire catalogs and sold them for only a few million a year—not like later, when bundles could sell for hundreds of millions.

Profit came only after copyright regulations were established.

And those ten or twenty thousand were the price for a hit song—still not guaranteed.

That's why there was a musical gap: records couldn't sell, online piracy ran rampant, and there was no royalty income—who would make music?

Forget Zhou Naicha—how many Zhou Naichas were there?

All those musicians survived by touring, holding concerts; creators couldn't even afford meals.

Music was like this; film and television were much the same—piracy was rampant.

(End of Chapter)