Chapter 479: Glory Night, Global Spotlight

The film’s opening scene immediately captivated the audience with visuals, music, and outstanding performances—this deserves praise for Teacher Wei Xi, though he’s currently running naked on Mount Zhangbai.

Wei Ming didn’t deliberately cater to foreigners; he didn’t use text or voiceover to explain the historical context—they only knew the refined middle-aged man was a university music teacher now forced to take over a struggling primary school.

Due to a shortage of teachers, this primary school mixed students from multiple grades into one classroom.

Wei Ming’s animal series has been gradually translated and published abroad; “The Spring of the Sheep Herding Class” is one of the more widely circulated, but it still pales in comparison to his other commercial works, its influence confined to circles of literary enthusiasts.

A British university student in the audience had read the original of “The Sheep Herding Class” and quietly explained to his girlfriend why the male lead looked so disheveled and what he’d endured.

Such behavior is usually frowned upon in movie theaters, but David Bowie and Ryuichi Sakamoto in front of them leaned in to listen, fearing they might not understand a foreign film.

David Bowie admired Wei Ming out of respect—John Lennon was his friend and wrote “Fame,” his first number-one Billboard single for him—and he wondered if he could ever collaborate with him, envying Phil Collins and Elton John.

Ryuichi Sakamoto also held deep affection and interest in China; he’d watched some Chinese films, but their atmosphere was entirely different from Wei Ming’s.

With the student’s explanations and English subtitles, Sakamoto easily grasped the story’s flow—it wasn’t a confusing film at all.

And the music was so stunning it left one awestruck: the newly arrived Teacher Zhong was caught in a heavy rain, yet miraculously created beautiful melodies using containers.

In this scene, Wei Ming inserted a segment of Li Baotian playing piano and Pan Hong playing violin—this was Teacher Zhong’s imagination, performing “Listening to the Rain,” composed after the rain, which could be titled “The Rain” in English.

Not only was Ryuichi Sakamoto moved by this piece, but even the rough-and-tumble Takeshi Kitano nodded in quiet agreement.

It was hard not to agree—it was the very piece Joe Hisaishi later composed for his “Kikujiro’s Summer.”

Listening to this music, Zhou Huimin closed her eyes in comfort, feeling it must be from A-Ming’s hand—beautiful to hear, beautiful to watch; if she ever went to the mainland, she’d definitely visit this village.

Compared to most international festival entries, “The Spring of the Sheep Herding Class” had low narrative barriers; aside from Teacher Zhong’s wife frequently appearing as an imagined figure, everything else was easily understood as long as one could keep up with the English subtitles.

After the heavy rain, Teacher Zhong gradually drew the students back, demonstrating exceptional musical talent—even whistling produced wonderfully rhythmic melodies.

Only three names remained unaccounted for on the roster; under the leadership of the principal’s grandson, the village chief’s son, and class monitor Wangshitou, Teacher Zhong visited each one and brought them back to class—that was the main plotline.

Along the way, the natural landscapes of rural Ya’an, Sichuan, and the music—sometimes calming, sometimes stirring—made this “quest-and-collect” journey anything but dull.

As a genuine music prodigy, Ryuichi Sakamoto was repeatedly moved by the film’s score, unable to believe so many outstanding pieces were concentrated in a single film.

Though he still didn’t know who composed them, he thanked Wei Ming!

Wei Ming: Thank you, Japanese musicians too.

The film’s music could broadly be divided into two series: one performed on modern instruments, the other on traditional Chinese instruments.

Hu Weili primarily handled traditional instruments, composing nearly all original pieces for the film, using bianzhong, erhu, various drums, guzheng, pipa, dizi, and rural sound sources—Wei Ming believed they were no less impressive than his later wuxia film BGMs.

Wei Ming, meanwhile, “borrowed” many well-known post-era scores: the classic “Grand Reunion” for period film narration, the grand “Distant Journey,” the ethereal “Longing Across Time,” and the dizi piece “The Wind Resides in the Street.”

He also wrote “The Street Where the Wind Lives,” a duet for erhu and piano, with Hu Weili himself playing the erhu.

Most of these scores were composed by Japanese musicians; because they went viral on short-video platforms, many mistakenly thought they were domestic works.

Great melodies need skilled performers; to produce the film’s dozen-plus scores, musicians from the Central Song and Dance Troupe and the Eastern Song and Dance Troupe fully cooperated, delivering the film’s ultimate auditory experience.

Of course, most of the post-production budget went into this.

Usually, a film gets one or two memorable scores—that’s already good—but “The Spring of the Sheep Herding Class” had classics in every track.

Fortunately, this was a film about music, where the score and plot were tightly intertwined, and Wei Ming balanced them well, so it never felt overwhelming.

David Bowie adored this film—not only was the story moving and understandable, but the music was stunning; he even considered recommending the original score to his company, EMI Records.

Yet as a near-master filmmaker, Martin Scorsese felt genuine anxiety for Wei Ming.

Because the earlier scores were so exceptional, he feared that if the plot didn’t reach another major emotional climax, the final music couldn’t match the preceding brilliance, leaving the ending weak and flat.

He also deduced that the protagonist’s repeated fantasies of his wife revealed their profound bond and soul resonance—there must be a major emotional release ahead.

True enough—a letter arrived informing Teacher Zhong his wife had long since committed suicide.

As Pan Hong wrote her suicide note and walked toward the lake, Wei Ming used the erhu piece “Missing You in Darkness,” composed by Wei Ming himself.

The song was heart-wrenching, especially paired with Pan Hong’s suicide and the overlay of Teacher Zhong suppressing his grief to teach his students.

Its emotional impact rivaled Qiao Feng holding A-Zhu’s body.

Martin had encountered the erhu frequently in this film; the piece was powerful, but he felt it still fell short—the emotional base was too weak.

He glanced at his watch—it was already 110 minutes; wasn’t this film two hours long?

Precisely 123 minutes.

In the final dozen minutes, every audience member held their breath for Teacher Zhong—they suddenly realized this was also a love story.

Though “Madam” never appeared on screen, only in Teacher Zhong’s words and imagined scenes, their unshakable bond had long been undeniable.

Now that his beloved was gone, Teacher Zhong became a hollow shell; when the county magistrate personally delivered the paperwork saying, “You may go home,” he showed almost no emotional reaction—those familiar with suicide knew something was wrong.

Martin’s concern was precisely what Wei Ming had prioritized in his creation: too many golden scores had been inserted; the finale needed one piece to overpower them all, pushing the plot and emotion to a peak, then cutting abruptly, leaving a lingering resonance.

Wei Ming entrusted this task to Hu Weili and suggested one idea: use the suona.

The proposition intrigued Hu Weili—the suona usually accompanies funerals, yet here it would welcome the rebirth of Zhong Wei and Pipi.

He didn’t disappoint Wei Ming, completing the suona piece titled “Rekindled.”

When the film reached its end, the music vanished, the protagonist left the frame, and silence fell—the entire theater held its breath, waiting for a miracle.

Then came Teacher Zhong, like a thief stealing a melon, hauling Chen Pipi onto a tractor; as the tractor started, “Rekindled” erupted—the suona, a musical rogue, blasted its aggressive, piercing notes into every audience member’s mind.

Even the most apathetic youth felt reborn, injected with adrenaline, suddenly determined to live fully and accomplish something great.

Some burst into tears on the spot—they’d gained energy from this film, something no previous movie had given them.

“Rekindled” was composed by Hu Weili, performed by Zhao Chuntin of the China Conservatory of Music, at age 71—his suona carried the weight of his life’s wisdom.

Wei Ming’s contribution was proposing and assisting Zhao in inventing the “adjustable suona core,” using a telescoping copper mechanism to enable semitones and the twelve-tone system, solving tuning instability and key-change difficulties, expanding the suona’s expressive range.

The stunning impact of “Rekindled” owed just as much to this small device.

Amid the soaring suona, “The Spring of the Sheep Herding Class” ended; when the screen darkened and lights rose, the theater erupted in thunderous applause—most audience members stood, clapping and shouting.

Ryuichi Sakamoto kept telling Takeshi Kitano and David Bowie beside him: “I must meet the composer of this film—he’s a genius!”

Martin Scorsese adjusted his glasses, suddenly wondering if he was growing old—he was barely twenty when he first encountered the French New Wave.

No wonder he made the short “The Witness”—this feature was so complete, so moving, so powerful, and already bore his own unmistakable style.

Jury president William Styron reflected: this year’s Asian cinema was extraordinary—Japan’s two entries and China’s this one were indisputable masterpieces; oh, and the Soviet film too—what a surprisingly brilliant edition.

After the premiere, Wei Ming, as director and screenwriter, took the stage and spoke briefly, thanking the audience for sitting quietly for over two hours to listen to his story.

As the audience filed out, Zhou Huimin moved to greet Wei Ming, then saw a fiery-haired Melinda walking beside him, standing shoulder-to-shoulder as he conversed with fellow filmmakers.

In that instant, A-Min’s bright eyes dimmed.

So all along, when I wasn’t by his side, he wasn’t lonely.

Ming Bao reporter Luo Ashou finally waited for the film to end and saw the audience dispersing.

He’d see the film again later; now he grabbed his recorder to interview viewers.

“Excuse me, sir… oh, you don’t understand English? Sorry, sorry.”

“What did you think of the film you just watched?” He caught an elderly white man.

“The visuals were beautiful, the music superb—and I actually understood it! Previous Chinese films always left me half-confused; this time I felt I fully grasped it—an incredibly delightful experience. I even want to take a vacation in China.”

Luo Ashou then interviewed men, women, young, and old—some negative feedback existed: some felt the film overly romanticized China; others admitted they were so absorbed in the music and scenery they missed the plot entirely.

But the overwhelming majority praised it, saying it exceeded expectations; several declared it the best film they’d seen at this year’s Cannes Film Festival.