Chapter 86

The neon film industry has declined, and Chinese-language cinema has long surpassed and even crushed it, yet its Tokyo Film Festival remains the best in Asia today.

Here, one must distinguish a concept: a film festival is not the same as a film award.

Film festivals like the Big Three in Europe were originally founded to screen films—to serve as artistic exhibitions for cinematic exchange—where nearly all entries had not yet been released; though now, everyone focuses on the final awards.

Film awards like the Oscars, however, are meant to honor outstanding films released in the past year, granting prizes and prestige, and eligibility requires the film to have been screened within that year.

Therefore, comparing the Tokyo Film Festival to the Golden Horse or Golden Rooster is somewhat mismatched.

A film can very well participate in a festival before its release, then compete for awards after its theatrical run—for example, Jiang Wen’s “The Days of Our Youth” entered the Venice Film Festival in 1994, premiered domestically in 1995, and then went to Wanwan for the Golden Horse Awards this year, 1996.

I mention this because Wu Yuchen is currently aboard a flight to Tokyo—“Us Two” has been officially selected for the Tokyo Film Festival.

This time, Wu Yuchen came with Zhou Xun and Tang Yu; Grandma Jin Yaqin, being elderly, did not come along.

Alongside Zhou Xun were two other crew members from films also selected for this year’s Tokyo Film Festival: “Face Change” and “Red Light Stop, Green Light Go.”

This “Face Change” is not Wu Baige’s version, but rather a traditional Chinese cultural work, directed by Wu Tianming. Some may not know him—then consider another film he directed, his final work: “The Rooster Crows at Dawn,” whose producer knelt to beg for box office, sparking public debate.

Whether “The Rooster Crows at Dawn” or “Face Change,” both focus on traditional Chinese culture—honestly, both are deeply sincere domestic films, and Wu Yuchen greatly admires Director Wu Tianming.

The other film, “Red Light Stop, Green Light Go,” was directed by Huang Jianxin, a seasoned director who has won the Golden Rooster and Five Ones, and serves as the leader of China’s delegation to this year’s Tokyo Film Festival.

Unlike Wu Tianming’s quiet demeanor, Huang Jianxin is quite talkative—he chatted across the aisle with Wu Yuchen:

“Little Wu, you’ve got a brilliant future! When I was your age, I didn’t even know what cinema was; I didn’t get a chance to make my first film until my thirties.”

“Director Huang, you flatter me—the overall environment is just getting better. Without funding from the Film Channel, I couldn’t have made this film!” Wu Yuchen replied modestly.

“Sigh, China’s economy is improving, yet our film box office keeps getting worse. Ten years ago, our national box office still exceeded 3 billion yuan; back then, with movie tickets priced at 2.5 jiao, ‘Lushan Love’ earned over 100 million yuan in just half a month.”

Now look—ticket prices in Jingcheng have reached 15 yuan, yet total box office is less than half of what it used to be; forget 100 million, even hitting 50 million is hard, and we still rely on Hong Kong’s Cheng Long to carry us!”

“Sigh, you’ve come at such a time—I don’t know if it’s good or bad…”

Huang Jianxin shook his head in despair.

Wu Yuchen thought: it hasn’t hit rock bottom yet—by the early 2000s, when total box office plunged to 800 million yuan, many in the industry would truly despair; during those two years, many recent graduates from film-related majors either went back to school to become teachers or took civil service exams.

“Director Huang, I believe things will definitely get better—when the economy improves and people have more money, more will go to the movies!”

“I hope so. When we get to Tokyo, I’ll come support you!”

“Thank you so much, Director Huang!”

Wu Yuchen breathed a sigh of relief when Huang Jianxin fell silent—he always felt like he was chatting with a superior—then he glanced at the woman sitting beside Huang Jianxin, his film’s lead actress, Ding Jiali. Hmm, she was the ex-girlfriend of Sun Honglei’s older sister in his past life.

Rumor has it Sun Honglei climbed the social ladder by courting this older sister, who secured him many good opportunities; once he became famous, he kicked her aside.

Wu Yuchen didn’t know if this rumor was true, but some marketing accounts claiming she knelt before Zhang Yimou and Zhang Weiping to beg for Sun Honglei’s chances were pure nonsense—“My Father, My Mother” was shot in 1998, while Sun Honglei met this older sister only in 1999 during the rehearsal of the play “Madame Curie”; he was already no unknown before meeting her.

At this moment, he called out to Zhou Xun, who had been staring out the window: “Wu Dao, look outside—it’s so beautiful!”

Zhou Xun had never flown before; gazing at the blue sky and layered clouds outside, she was overjoyed.

Wu Yuchen couldn’t help but smile at Zhou Xun’s childlike expression.

…

Wu Yuchen had previously attended the Berlin and Sydney Film Festivals; the procedures were largely the same, so he remained calm—but Zhou Xun was different: this was her first time abroad, her first time at a film festival, and her excitement never ceased.

The Tokyo Film Festival, like the Big Three in Europe, has various screening sections; this time, “Us Two” was selected for the Main Competition Section and was even given a dedicated hall, along with one translator and two staff members—Japan’s service here was indeed better than Europe’s.

Upon arrival, the usual routine was to hang prepared promotional posters, set up display boards, banners, and so on.

Wu Yuchen paid for all this promotion himself—he had already negotiated with the Film Channel that overseas rights belonged to him, so he brought Tang Yu along to help. With two extra staff members, they finished everything in one afternoon.

On September 27, the festival officially opened; Wu Yuchen and Zhou Xun were invited to walk the opening red carpet, receiving far greater treatment than before.

The festival was held in Roppongi, a district filled with malls and office buildings; as Wu Yuchen walked the red carpet with Zhou Xun, beyond the crowds on either side, just steps away, he could see white-collar women going to work or shopping, making him feel strangely disoriented.

But there was an advantage to being in such a bustling area: the number of passersby who came to watch was truly high. When he returned to the hall, Tang Yu told him it was nearly full.

Asuka had originally come to Roppongi to shop, but accidentally spotted the film festival and, curious, entered with her friend Yuna.

The two girls were just wandering aimlessly until they stopped before a poster showing a girl with a palm-sized face, hugging an elderly woman with a gentle smile, resting her chin on the woman’s shoulder—a warm, harmonious scene that reminded Asuka of her grandmother, who had raised her since childhood, causing her to pause.

“Yuna, let’s watch this film, okay?”

“Didn’t we say we were just browsing? If we watch a movie, we won’t have time to shop~”

“We’ve already shopped so long—let’s just find a place to rest, okay? Please~” Asuka tugged her friend’s hand, pouting.

“Fine, fine—I’m a bit tired of standing too.”

“Yuna is the best!”

Saying that, the two girls held hands, bought tickets, and entered the “Us Two” screening hall. By the time they entered, the theater was already half-full; soon after they sat down, the lights dimmed.

The screen displayed the film’s title: “You and Me”—and to the audience’s delight, the film had been thoughtfully subtitled in Japanese. This was Wu Yuchen’s own expense—he added this version because “Us Two” was primarily sold for profit in Japan.

The film opened with a little girl riding a bicycle through a snowy wasteland, alone and helpless; soon, she arrived at the elderly woman’s sihe courtyard.

A few brief exchanges revealed the girl was a student drifting in Jingcheng, seeking a room to rent. This resonated with Asuka—she too had come alone from her hometown to Tokyo after high school, and felt deeply touched.

But during the rent negotiation, the old woman showed a harsh, stingy face, leaving Asuka with a slightly negative impression.

As the girl moved in, the two constantly clashed over daily matters—gas, phone calls, electric heaters—and the old woman’s shrewdness and cruelty made her dislike her. Seeing Zhou Xun lament to a stray dog abandoned by the roadside, wanting to take it home but knowing she couldn’t even feed herself, Asuka felt a pang of sorrow—this was exactly what she had once experienced.

But when she saw the old woman, upon realizing her misunderstanding, fall into long silence, slowly rehanging the fallen lantern, watching the girl’s room every night during the New Year, preparing a full table of food waiting for her return, Asuka’s heart warmed, and her view of the old woman changed completely.

Watching the girl return and sit at the table with the old woman, fireworks bursting brilliantly outside, the scene of the two together made Asuka unconsciously smile.

Through snow-covered winters, green-sprouting springs, warm summer sun and heavy rains, as the seasons changed, the bond between the old woman and the girl grew stronger; when the girl suffered heartbreak in summer, the old woman sat alone outside, talking to the dog, comforting the girl locked in her room. Then came autumn, with yellowing leaves, and the girl prepared to leave.

Watching the old woman hold the girl’s hand, repeating again and again: “You’re really leaving? Really emptying out? Really emptying out? Just like that?”—each question pierced Asuka’s tender heart, bringing tears to her eyes.

The old woman’s wrinkled face, dull, hollow eyes, and lost expression now looked so pitiful—Asuka felt unbearable sadness!

“No! Don’t leave!” Asuka squeezed her friend’s hand, whispering desperately.

But the girl didn’t hear her plea—she still left; her departure seemed to steal the old woman’s soul, and soon after, she fell ill, and the sihe courtyard was given to her grandson as a wedding home.

In the film’s final scene, another bitter winter arrived; the girl and the sick old woman sat silently together in a rural cottage, tears streaming down their faces, Asuka covered her mouth and wept softly.

The old woman eventually passed away, yet this bond remained forever in the grieving girl’s heart—and moved every viewer present.

At this moment, Yuna’s eyes were also red, but she hugged Asuka to comfort her.

Asuka wiped her tears, leaned her head on Yuna’s shoulder, and spoke in a hoarse, tearful voice:

“Yuna… I miss my grandmother back home…”

When the lights came back on, there was no applause—many viewers wept quietly, some with red eyes, others wiping tears with tissues.

The festival’s translator had intended to pick up the microphone to remind the audience, but Wu Yuchen stopped him—give these viewers time. After a long while, Wu Yuchen led Zhou Xun and the translator to the center of the stage.

“This is Wu Sang, director of ‘You and Me,’ and Miss Zhou, the lead actress—please welcome them with applause!”

The audience slowly began clapping, the sound growing louder, and only after a long while did it fade.

After greeting the audience, Wu Yuchen and Zhou Xun quickly moved into the Q&A session.

The first person called was a middle-aged woman, around forty, wearing glasses, her eyes red; she stood and asked:

“Director, is this based on a true story? Though it may be impolite, it felt so real—it was like something that happened beside me twenty years ago.”

Wu Yuchen took the microphone and explained:

“The inspiration for this film came from a true story I observed around me; when the old woman passed away, I felt deeply moved.”

“Thank you, Director. This film moved me profoundly—in today’s Tokyo, it’s rare to see such warmth between strangers. I remember when I was young, neighbors’ uncles and aunts were always close; now, even if we meet, we won’t even say hello…”

The middle-aged woman, stirred by the film, spoke for a long while before stopping.

But Wu Yuchen and everyone present felt no impatience—the film festival atmosphere was like this, and her words resonated with many. Especially since Japan’s economy collapsed in recent years, everyone had become more self-centered, making society even more emotionally distant.

Wu Yuchen then called on several more audience members, answering their questions; when he reached a girl around twenty, she stood and asked:

“Director, why are you so cruel? Must the girl leave?”

The question made Wu Yuchen smile inwardly—how else could he continue the story if she didn’t leave?

But he understood this was a common emotional assumption from viewers deeply immersed in the film, so he replied:

“The girl couldn’t stay with the old woman forever—everyone has their own life.”

“But I feel so sad—if she hadn’t left, the old grandmother wouldn’t have fallen ill or died. If I were her, I’d carry this regret for my whole life…” Asuka said, tears streaming again.

Wu Yuchen looked at this emotional Japanese girl, had a sudden thought, cleared his throat, and spoke in a slightly solemn tone, quoting a line from a future classic film:

“Life is a train bound for the grave. Along the way, there are many stations—hardly anyone can accompany you all the way. When the person who walks with you must get off, even if you’re reluctant, you should be grateful, then wave goodbye.”

After Wu Yuchen finished speaking, the entire theater fell silent; Asuka stood frozen, those words echoing endlessly in her mind.

Moments later, thunderous, prolonged applause erupted throughout the hall!

Wu Yuchen bowed slightly in thanks—he wasn’t surprised by the audience’s reaction. After all, this was the most iconic line from Japan’s most legendary animated film, “Spirited Away,” which had held the top box office spot in Japan for over twenty years.

No wonder these Japanese viewers were moved!