Chapter 493

“Xiao Ming, I’m afraid I might break my promise this time,” Wei Anping said apologetically.

Originally, I was supposed to take Xi Zi to Hong Kong first, let him stay a few days to adjust, then have Jiefang replace me, so that Wei Jiefang could take care of the kid during this month-plus of filming in Hong Kong.

My main reason for going to Hong Kong is to meet Lao Gui—I need to get some things cleared up once and for all.

“But Fang Zheng still has some work left, I can’t leave right now, so I’ll have to wait a few more days. You see, this, this—”

Uncle Ping’an can’t go, and Lao Wei can’t go either—he still has to return to his hometown to fulfill his duties as a primary school principal.

Wei Ming said: “It’s fine—we still have me and Xiao Hong, oh, Gong Ying is going to Hong Kong too, she’ll definitely make Xi Zi happy.”

“Oh, Comrade Gong Ying is going too?” Wei Anping and his brother and sister-in-law exchanged glances, all three smiling mysteriously.

Then it’s settled, Wei Anping said: “I’ll go to Hong Kong with your father then.”

After confirming Wei Ming’s study-abroad plans, some formalities still needed to be handled; meanwhile, “The Spring of the Sheep Herding Class” was screening to packed houses across major cities nationwide, its popularity rivaling “Mother, Again I Love You” and “Shaolin Temple,” with full theaters even on weekday afternoons.

To allow more cinemas to screen it and more audiences to watch, film couriers were wearing out their bicycle chains—now it seemed even 404 prints were barely enough.

Film critic Zhong Dianfei praised “The Spring of the Sheep Herding Class” in a film magazine for ushering Chinese cinema into a new era; after watching it three times, he wrote a detailed review analyzing and affirming the film’s technical methods, narrative depth, cinematography, art direction, and music.

Many seasoned cinephiles watched the film, then read Zhong Dianfei’s review, and rewatched it twice or thrice, discovering details they’d missed before—truly a masterpiece worthy of winning the world’s most influential film festival.

Even non-cinephiles could derive immense enjoyment from its visuals, performances, and music—it was a film with no viewing barriers and abundant entertainment value.

Xie Jin hadn’t watched it three times—he was busy preparing “Flowers on the Mountain,” and only squeezed in one viewing, but that single viewing made him sigh, “The younger generation is formidable,” and tell those around him: “If I’d directed it, I certainly wouldn’t have done as well as Wei Ming: ‘He was right not to give this story to me.’”

The film’s emergence made Xie Jin treat his own “Flowers on the Mountain” with greater caution; he hoped to join Wei Ming in elevating the quality of Chinese-language cinema.

But he and Shanghai Film Studio alone weren’t enough—he needed military support, treating the film’s production as a hard-fought battle.

In Shaanxi, Xi Film Studio’s “Life” crew had already begun shooting, but when they heard “The Spring of the Sheep Herding Class” had premiered, Director Wu Tianming took the entire crew to watch it at the nearest screening.

Because the decision was made hastily, after coordinating with the cinema, they could only sit on the steps or stand at the back of the screening hall.

This was Zhang Yimou’s first time watching the international award-winning film he served as chief cinematographer on—it was even better than he imagined, since during filming there had been no such brilliant music, and the plot and score blended perfectly; many editing techniques deeply inspired him.

After the film ended, Director Wu Tianming nudged him: “Just wait for your Golden Rooster nomination next year.”

Zhang Yimou’s wrinkles smoothed out—really? This was his very first time as a cinematographer.

Wu Tianming added: “Add our ‘Life’ and your classmate Chen Kaige’s ‘Yellow Earth,’ and you’ll likely get nominated for the next two years—winning isn’t out of the question.”

A small flame ignited in Zhang Yimou’s heart—he suddenly remembered what Wei Ming had told him: “Lao Zhang, I think you could become an excellent director.”

If he truly won Best Cinematography at the Golden Rooster, would it be easier to ask Xi Film Studio to let him transition into directing?

Many audience members in this screening brought children; after the film ended, the kids spontaneously clapped.

At that moment, Zhang Yimou became even more determined: he wanted to become a director like Wei Ming, one who earned spontaneous applause.

As the film’s production supervisor, Han Sanping felt genuine pride—this was now the most glittering credential on his resume.

His studies at the Film Academy had ended; he was returning to Emei Studio, where he’d likely be promoted and given greater responsibility.

Before leaving, he treated Wei Ming, Chen Kaige, Feng Xiaogang, Feng Xiaoning, Ge You, Xi Zi, and other key crew members to dinner; Li Baotian wasn’t there—he’d taken on “People, Ghost, and Love” and gone to a rural opera troupe to experience life.

As the film’s primary creators, they raised their glasses together to celebrate its success; the adults drank alcohol, Xi Zi drank Beibingyang soda.

Learning Wei Ming would take Xi Zi to Hong Kong to film, as the male lead, Feng Xiaogang eagerly chimed in: “Xi Teacher, if you become famous in Hong Kong, don’t forget us—remember your brothers when you’re rich and powerful!”

Xi Zi waved his small hand: “We’re all brothers.”

Wei Ming tapped him on the head: “No respect for elders.”

Ge You laughed: “Hey, don’t say that—Xi Zi is your brother, and you’re peers with us, so we’re all brothers—no problem.”

Feng Xiaoning also laughed: “Yeah, yeah, no problem.”

Chen Kaige teased Ge You: “I think you’re no problem too.”

Ge You quickly smoothed his thinning hair: “Get lost, you’re poking me right in the heart.”

Both had grown up since childhood in the Beijing Film Studio compound; Chen Kaige was five years older, and Ge You still called him “Brother Kaige.”

After the joking, everyone was curious about what story Wei Ming’s Hong Kong project was about.

Wei Ming explained it was a Christmas-themed family comedy.

He added: “This film is also from Dream Factory.”

Hearing it was Dream Factory again, Han Sanping took notice—whether or not Dream Factory belonged to Wei Ming, it was clearly closely tied to him, and he could spend as much as he wanted without pushback.

“Director Wei, if there are future co-production opportunities, could you recommend Dream Factory to collaborate with our Emei Studio?”

Wei Ming smiled: “Sure, but the state limits the number of co-productions each year; it’s hard for Emei Studio to compete. If one day you become head of Beijing Film Studio, you might get more chances.”

Hearing this, Han Sanping, who hadn’t even become head of Emei Studio, exclaimed: “Can’t even imagine it!”

Chen Kaige didn’t take it seriously—Beijing Film Studio was the top studio in the country; although Han Sanping was well-connected and came from an official family, he was from Sichuan—how could he possibly get such a position?

He’d rather support Zhuang Zhuang to take over, then get transferred to Beijing Film Studio as a top commander.

By the end of the meal, they drifted into gossip; Feng Xiaogang started talking about that Zhu kid.

He’d been arrested last year, with very serious charges, but after being detained for half a year, there was no trial or verdict—until last month, when the shocking nationwide cases in Neimeng and Tangshan broke, he was formally indicted at month’s end.

Wei Ming knew: once this case truly moved forward, sentencing and execution would come fast—same month sentenced, same month executed, same month buried.

In his past life, when Wei Ming read the news in the paper, he’d sighed: “Truly a new society, a new era—princes breaking the law are punished like commoners.”

But once he gained some status himself, he began to crave privilege.

People never want to endure hardship, yet all want to rise above others.

After dinner, Wei Ming rode his bicycle home with Xi Zi; tomorrow they’d depart by plane.

On the way, Xi Zi told Wei Ming about his classmates watching “The Spring of the Sheep Herding Class.”

“Other kids from different schools surrounded me after watching—it used to be ‘Little Gourd,’ now they call me ‘Pipi.’”

Wei Ming smiled: “That means your character struck a deep chord—soon people might start calling you Abin.”

The male lead of “Home Alone” was Abin; his grades weren’t great, but he was mischievous, and his four older siblings found him a headache—he was the family’s troublemaker. Teacher Xi was already studying the script for his next role, with pinyin annotations.

When “The Sheep Herding Class” first premiered, many primary and secondary schools across China hadn’t yet broken for summer vacation; since it was a film bringing glory to the nation, after final exams but before holidays, many urban schools like Peking University Affiliated Primary organized group viewings—Wei Ming hadn’t expected his first film to receive such treatment.

But domestic box office meant nothing to him—he’d already made a fortune from his copyright; now he wanted to see how this film would perform overseas, especially in the two biggest markets: the U.S. and Japan.

From communications with Melinda, Tokyobunko, and Amblin, Tokyobunko was still working on the dubbing and planned to release it in September, October, or November after the busy summer season.

Amblin had no plans for dubbing—they’d use Dream Factory’s English subtitles directly and planned a limited December release, followed by awards campaigning, then expanding screenings during the awards season.

Wei Ming brought Xi Zi straight back to the Overseas Chinese Apartment—his luggage had already been moved there; they’d depart from here tomorrow.

Wei Ming had also sent a fax from Dream Factory Hong Kong, via Li Zhi, inviting Hu Weili to work there for a while; if Hu Weili wanted to quit his job and apply for immigration, the paperwork would take a long time.

In Tuanjiehu, Biaozi told his mother to let their daughter sleep with her tonight—he was saying his final goodbyes to Yanzi.

This nearly two-hundred-pound muscle giant rolled and pressed over her; even Huang Jiaoyan, a martial artist, barely endured it.

But since they were parting, she was just as wild.

Biaozi’s mother next door listened intently, curious—could this be a second pregnancy? The state didn’t encourage that anymore.

The state didn’t even encourage one man having two girlfriends.

Tonight, Zhu Lin was sleeping with Gong Ying in Nanshuogu Lane.

But with just the two of them, the night felt dull and empty—such a big bed wasted.

Early the next morning, Zhu Lin helped Gong Ying pack and saw her off at the lane’s entrance—he didn’t go to the airport, to avoid drawing attention.

Zhu Lin sighed: “Who knows when we’ll all three be together again?”

At Beijing Capital International Airport, Wei Ming arrived first with Wei Hong and Wei Xi, then Hu Weili, Biaozi, and finally Gong Ying.

Though she arrived last, there was still plenty of time; Xi Zi rushed over to hug Snow Mom, Wei Hong and Biaozi greeted Gong Ying, and Hu Weili needed Wei Ming to introduce him.

There were six of them total, seated together—they wouldn’t be bored on the flight.

Hu Weili immediately slipped into work mode, eager to discuss the script with Wei Ming and already pondering what musical style to use.

Since Xi Zi was also studying the script, Wei Ming had him sit with Hu Weili—the old and the young studying the script together.

While waiting to board, Wei Hong pulled out her Nintendo handheld; Biaozi was envious, so Wei Ming had him sit with Wei Hong so they could exchange gaming tips.

“Aren’t there any fighting or martial arts games?” Biaozi offered his opinion.

Wei Hong stared straight ahead: “I’ll tell your aunt later—they’re developing a new game.”

Wei Ming naturally sat with Snow Sister, but he couldn’t be too forward—there were so many people, so many eyes watching.