Chapter 504: Give Hong Kong Audiences Something Better

Wei Hong woke up and immediately reached for the side of the bed.

Where’s Amin!?

“Oh no, she must’ve sleepwalked—probably in her brother’s room now. Did she get eaten clean?”

She tiptoed over, worried yet curious, and saw Amin in the kitchen, simmering porridge.

“Where’s my brother? Still asleep?” Wei Hong asked.

Zhou Huimin answered while busy: “When I got up, he just took a call and left. He told us to go ahead and entertain ourselves—he’ll join us for the movie tonight.”

“Whose call was it? Li Zhi’s?”

“No, it was from the Xinhua Branch. Said a top leader had arrived.” Amin said.

It was Old Ji, who had just replaced Liao Gong as Director of the Hong Kong and Macao Affairs Office, visiting Hong Kong. The old gentleman wanted to meet local figures who could unite people—mostly Hong Kong tycoons and celebrities like Old Ho, Qiu Degen, Jin Yong, and Xia Meng.

But since the Xinhua Branch mentioned Wei Ming was also in Hong Kong, they invited him too—collective wisdom, after all.

Among them, Wei Ming was the youngest, so he originally planned to just listen and say nothing.

Yet his international reputation preceded him; though young and inexperienced, his achievements were remarkable, and no one overlooked him. Old Ji personally called on Wei Ming to speak on what they could do for the peaceful return of Hong Kong.

He had no choice but to speak. Wei Ming gathered his thoughts: “Miss Xia Meng and Mr. Fu Qi are both in the cultural front. Lately, we’ve been busy with new films in Hong Kong, so I’ll speak from that perspective.”

Taiwan has set up a Free Association in Hong Kong, imposing rules that sever ties between Hong Kong’s film industry and the mainland—even big directors like Li Hanxiang, who made films on the mainland, are routinely blacklisted.

Hong Kong filmmakers detest this, yet they’re powerless—Taiwan’s market is bigger than Hong Kong’s, so except for a few hardliners, everyone bows to the Free Association’s rules.

Of course, you can scold these people as fence-sitters, but even fence-sitters aren’t useless—you can’t let them fully lean toward the other side…

The leaders listened, intrigued, and nodded slightly.

“So I was thinking—could we moderately open up part of the mainland market, allowing select Hong Kong films with high quality and proper ideology to enter? This would lure them in with profit, while also enriching the spiritual and cultural life of mainland audiences. Of course, these are just my immature suggestions.” He finished by sheepishly scratching his head—his acting was flawless.

One mainland-based leader spoke up: “Hong Kong films have entered the mainland before—didn’t ‘Three Smiles’ become wildly popular a few years ago?”

‘Three Smiles’ was a 1960s film by Changcheng Company, approved for mainland release in 1979, causing a huge sensation and making Changcheng’s Three Princesses, Chen Sisi, a household name on the mainland.

Wei Ming shook his head: “Whether it’s the old Changfengxin or today’s Yindu Group, I still see them as our own mainland studios—their films are made according to mainland standards. They’re family. Their entry into the mainland is natural. I’m talking about films from outside Yindu—Shaw Brothers, Golden Harvest, and Xinyicheng.”

And there’s another benefit: it would catalyze reform in domestic studios. If Hong Kong’s captivating films come in and you stick to your old ways, you’re doomed to be abandoned by audiences.

Of course, Wei Ming didn’t expect his suggestion to be adopted—mainland views on film have never been about entertainment, nor even art, but propaganda. And as a tool, it mustn’t be controlled by outsiders.

What they must consider is whether Hong Kong films entering the mainland would influence the people’s thinking—that’s the real issue.

Even a flawless film like ‘Shaolin Temple’ was deemed harmful to male audiences because it was too popular, let alone earlier ones like ‘The Garrison Death Squad’.

Old Ji nodded in strong agreement and asked the general manager of Yindu, Liao Yiyuan, for his opinion.

Wei Ming and Liao Yiyuan had a decent relationship; Liao didn’t embarrass Wei Ming, but insisted reviews must be strict and rigorous—to give mainland audiences only the highest-quality, harmless films.

“And how should profits be divided? These Hong Kong studios care deeply about profit.” His implication: they’re not domestic studios or Yindu—you can’t bribe them with scraps.

In the mainland, films like ‘Shaolin Temple’ and ‘Mother, Again’ earned over a hundred million yuan at the box office—actual ticket sales in Zhenggui cinemas—but the studios received only fixed acquisition fees.

Studios are guaranteed a payout from Zhongying regardless of film quality, so they won’t lose money, but they won’t make much either—naturally, production enthusiasm stays low.

Old Ji nodded, lost in thought, then changed the subject: “Xiao Wei’s ‘The Class of the Cuckoo’ is screening in Hong Kong soon, right?”

Liao Yiyuan hurried to reply: “Yes, today. Hong Kong audiences have been waiting eagerly—it’s the first time a Chinese film has won the highest honor internationally.”

Old Ji: “Some here may not have seen it yet—I recommend watching. I’ve seen it twice. It’s beautifully made—funny, touching, and thought-provoking.”

Wei Ming quickly thanked him. The film topic ended there, and they moved to the next agenda.

Wei Ming ate lunch with everyone. Thankfully, the meeting ended in the afternoon—he could finally go on a date with his girlfriend.

But he hadn’t expected Xiao Hong to be the third wheel.

“Xiao Hong, don’t you have anything else important to do tonight?”

Wei Hong linked arms with Zhou Huimin: “Nope.”

“But you’ve already seen this movie, haven’t you?”

“How can one viewing be enough for such a classic?” Wei Hong said. “It’s been over a month since I last saw it—I’ve been dying to rewatch it.”

Fine, bringing her along would help conceal things—Amin’s still young, and Wei Ming didn’t want their relationship splashed all over the press.

Besides, if her fragile fans found out their goddess had a boyfriend, they’d be heartbroken.

In Hong Kong, there are about six film magazines—Shaw Brothers’ ‘Nanguo Film’, Golden Harvest’s ‘Golden Harvest Film’—most backed by major studios.

‘Film Biweekly’ was funded by Tang Shuxuan and reorganized from ‘Big Close-Up’, gaining massive influence through professionalism and the Golden Horse Awards.

‘Chinese and Foreign Film & Picture’ thrived on international film news and illustrated content, its reach even extending to Guangdong—it’s a vital source for Guangdong residents to understand Hong Kong and global entertainment.

One of its founders, Lie Fu, was a sent-down youth who swam from Shenzhen to Hong Kong in the 1970s. He remembered that unique era well and had read Wei Ming’s original ‘The Class of the Cuckoo’.

On the film’s opening day, he came with his wife—they had swum over together, and married a year after arriving in Hong Kong.