Chapter 486

Accompanied by Gong Ying, Gong Shu visited Qingniao Film Company again and met Director Yan Hao.

Director Yan Hao was barely over thirty, short in stature, with a youthful face, looking like a college student.

At first glance, Gong Shu thought the director might be unreliable; Yan Hao, in turn, worried whether Gong Shu, a mainland-born actress, could handle the role of Shan Shan—he preferred a Hong Kong actress with depth, like Chung Ching-hong.

But Chung Ching-hong would never risk going to the mainland—her career was on the rise.

Yet upon meeting her, Yan Hao sensed almost no mainland aura from Gong Shu—as long as she didn’t speak.

Once she spoke, her Mandarin was too standard, her tone too serious, exposing her origins—but fortunately, dubbing could fix that.

Gong Shu put great effort into her appearance, even living for a time with a single mother from the Langning Toy Factory.

Also, Gong Ying’s styling work paid off—now her second sister looked exactly like a Hong Kong woman who had seen it all, full of depth.

Finally, Yan Hao tested two scenes, with Xia Meng herself, though long retired from acting, playing the role of Siqin Gaowa to partner with Gong Shu.

Gong Shu delivered both scenes flawlessly, showing no hesitation even opposite the veteran Xia Meng.

Yan Hao shook Gong Shu’s hand: “I’m satisfied—welcome aboard.”

Gong Shu asked quickly: “When does shooting start?”

Xia Meng said: “Director Yan wants to create a desolate mood, so he suggests starting in autumn. You can stay in Hong Kong to maintain the feeling, or return to the mainland for now.”

Gong Shu asked: “Is Siqin Gaowa still in Chaoshan?”

“She is.”

Gong Shu: “Then I’ll go see her first, then return to Beijing to inform my unit before coming back.”

Qingniao Film will co-produce this movie with the Pearl River Film Studio on the mainland—it’s a joint production—so Gong Shu and Siqin Gaowa will follow the mainland studio actor process: no acting fees, but salaries and subsidies.

With no actor fees and no big scenes, the film’s budget will be much smaller—the smallest Qingniao has ever invested in.

After leaving Qingniao, Gong Shu said to her sister with reluctance: “I’ll leave in a couple of days—let Mom take care of you.”

Gong Ying smiled: “My belly isn’t even big yet—don’t worry, I’m fine.”

“And this,” Gong Shu handed her sister a set of keys, “if Wei Ming gets to Hong Kong before me, give this to him—or maybe we’ll come together.”

Just before leaving Hong Kong, Gong Shu received a call from Zhou Hui-min.

“Big Sister Xue, you haven’t forgotten me, have you? We said we’d have dinner together someday.”

“Of course, I remember,” Gong Shu kept smiling.

“Are you free tomorrow? I have an urgent matter to ask you.”

Gong Shu paused slightly, then said: “Alright.”

Before Wei Ming and the others left San Francisco, Auntie launched the formal acquisition of AMC, priced at thirty million U.S. dollars.

Additionally, roughly another hundred million dollars may be needed—to acquire smaller theater chains and build multiplexes, creating a North American theater network to become the first chain giant and strengthen bargaining power with Hollywood’s Big Eight studios.

Although this theater chain had nothing to do with Wei Ming, it was absolutely trustworthy—the solid foundation for Wei Ming’s bold venture into Hollywood.

Before leaving, Wei Ming made a suggestion.

“Tangren Bookstore also sells records—could it sell video tapes too?” Wei Ming advised, “If you control movie video tapes and also secure TV and network distribution, you’ll truly control the end of the film and television industry.”

Auntie and Gong Biyang, who oversaw the bookstore business, fell into thought.

Then Auntie’s bodyguard and driver, Ah Chao, suddenly handed her a newspaper—clearly urgent.

After reading it, Auntie sighed: “Another old friend is gone.”

Seeing Wei Ming and the others puzzled, she handed them the traditional Chinese newspaper—on the front page was an obituary for Liao Gong.

Liao Gong long handled overseas Chinese affairs; his friends spanned the globe—even Auntie, with her extreme personality, regarded him as a friend, proving how effectively he united everyone possible.

Wei Ming was deeply saddened: last year, Liao Gong had just issued a public letter to Chiang Ching-kuo, sparking enthusiastic reactions across the global Chinese community—just as cross-strait relations seemed poised to advance—now the bridge was gone, much work would have to restart, and delays might close the window.

Only after reading the obituary did Wei Ming and the others board the plane; during their week in San Francisco, Wei Ming had successfully secured admission to the University of California, Berkeley—the College of Letters and Science’s Department of Humanities welcomed him warmly and offered scholarships and privileges unavailable to ordinary students.

After all, Wei Ming was a Cannes Palme d’Or winner, a famous best-selling author and musician, and widely regarded as a genius with potential to win the Nobel Prize in Literature—if the university could add a Nobel laureate alum, why wouldn’t Berkeley welcome him?

Wei Ming planned to return to Beijing after finishing his current tasks to complete domestic procedures, then officially begin his studies with his sister in the second half of the year.

Now they still had to fly to Los Angeles.

During this time, Wei Lingling had contacted Atari and was now going to speak with its parent company, Warner.

Wei Ming had also obtained the contact information for Robert Shaye, CEO of New Line Cinema, and they arranged to meet in Los Angeles.

On the plane, Wei Ming asked Wei Lingling about Atari and video games.

“Atari was the first company to produce arcade machines, holding many patents—they had a game called Breakout, have you ever played it?”

Wei Ming nodded—he had played it, but in his past life, and likely not the original version.

Wei Lingling said: “That classic game was Atari’s. You can still play it on Hong Kong arcades. One of its developers later left to start his own company—an Apple Computer Company, already publicly listed.”

This was new knowledge—Wei Ming knew Jobs had worked at Atari, but didn’t realize this classic game was his creation.

And Steve Gary Wozniak, who co-developed Breakout with Jobs and co-founded Apple, was also an alumnus of Berkeley.

“Atari’s most popular product was the Atari 2600 home console—it was wildly popular in America when I studied there; many male classmates owned one. Rumor had it that one in every three American households had an Atari 2600,” Wei Lingling said. “But because its development cost was too high, Atari was acquired by Warner in 1976 for twenty-eight million U.S. dollars in cash.”

It was worth twenty-eight million seven years ago.

Wei Ming asked cautiously: “How much did the final development of this console cost?”

Wei Lingling: “Over one hundred million U.S. dollars—but Warner bet right: the Atari 2600 brought Warner over two billion U.S. dollars in profit. Too bad its glory ended right here.”

She carried a copy of the Alamogordo Daily News—its headline reported Atari’s destruction of three million E.T. game cartridges.

Each game cartridge sold for twenty-five dollars—this wasn’t just tens of millions in losses, but also a blow to Atari’s reputation, causing Atari and the entire American home gaming industry to collapse, until years later when Nintendo and other Japanese companies returned, seizing this hundred-billion-dollar home console market.

Wei Ming: “Atari was once so glorious—I feel even Langning would struggle to swallow it.”

Wei Lingling: “Try it. When I visited Atari, the company was laying off staff—now Atari is a heavy burden for Warner.”