Chapter 87

That day, Wu Yuchen entrusted staff to produce a new poster, printing on it the passage he had previously spoken; since he’d already used it, he might as well use it fully.

Generally, by the second day of a film festival, foot traffic is inevitably less than on the first; Wu Yuchen had expected an average occupancy rate of seventy percent the next day, but unexpectedly, even the morning screening of “You and Me” reached sixty percent, and by afternoon, the theater was completely full.

The economic bubble burst in 1991, bringing comprehensive impact to all of Nihon; society as a whole halted its previous restlessness and fast pace, and amid the loss of money and future, people began reflecting, placing greater emphasis on the present and what was around them.

The warm, sincere emotion conveyed by “You and Me” was precisely what many Nihonese craved at the time; moreover, “You and Me” also reflected a key issue Nihon currently valued: empty-nest elders.

Nihon has the highest proportion of empty-nest elders in the world and the most severe case of “lonely death”; in “You and Me,” the old woman still had a girl caring for her before she died, but many empty-nest elders in Nihon passed away silently and alone, with absolutely no one caring for them!

Thus, though unexpected to Wu Yuchen, it was entirely logical: through word-of-mouth, the reputation of “You and Me” exploded.

Naturally, this situation drew the attention of the festival organizers; they increased staff in the “You and Me” exhibition hall to maintain order, and on the third day, local media arrived for interviews.

A few days later, in Koganei, a suburb of Tokyo, Studio Ghibli.

With white hair and a thick beard, Miyazaki Jun rubbed his aching right hand; since beginning work on “Princess Mononoke” in 1994, two years had passed, and his right hand had developed a condition—these days it hurt again, forcing him to pause and rest.

He picked up the latest edition of the Asahi Shimbun, flipped through it, and came across a report on the Tokyo Film Festival.

“……

At the currently ongoing Tokyo Film Festival, a film from Huaxia has caused a sensation; every viewer who watched it was moved. We were fortunate to interview its director, Mr. Wu Yuchen.

“Director Wu, how do you evaluate your own film?”

“One scene, two people, four seasons—a Huaxia expression of genuine emotion within a confined space.”

“Why call it a Huaxia expression?”

“What is ethnic is universal, but how does the ethnic connect with the universal? I believe the most ordinary human nature may be the most important—what touches both yourself and the audience’s heart is key.”

……”

“What is ethnic is universal… the most ordinary human nature…”

Miyazaki Jun murmured these words to himself; they aligned closely with some of his own beliefs, stirring an impulse in him—he felt he might as well take these two days of rest to watch the film.

The next day, Miyazaki Jun drove to Roppongi and stood before the “You and Me” exhibition hall, staring blankly at a poster:

“Life is a train bound for the grave; along the way, there are many stations, and few can accompany you all the way. When the one who accompanies you must get off, even if reluctant, you should feel gratitude, then wave goodbye.”

Upon reading this passage, Miyazaki Jun felt deeply moved; his mind swirled with thoughts, and he stood before the poster for a long while, only turning to enter the theater as the film was about to begin.

Inside the theater, when the film ended, many people wept quietly; Nihonese are particular about this—even when crying, they restrain themselves so as not to disturb others.

Miyazaki Jun had weathered great storms; though deeply touched by the film’s sincere emotion, he did not cry.

Yet at this moment, he was struck anew by inspiration, silently muttering:

“A plain, lovely girl, and an ‘evil old lady’ who appears harsh and shrewd but has a soft heart?”

At that moment, Miyazaki Jun felt a surge of creative desire welling up in his mind; he immediately pulled out a notebook and pen from his pocket and jotted down every fragment of thought—this was a long-standing habit of his.

When Miyazaki Jun finally stopped writing and put away his notebook, he looked up to find the theater now lined with a long queue—audiences all wanted to shake hands with the director and the lead actress.

Miyazaki Jun had developed a strong interest in this director and stepped into line at the end.

“Director, this is truly an outstanding film; this beautiful emotion from strangers to companionship moved me deeply! I will bring my mother and grandmother to watch it again!”

It was a young man who spoke, then bowed deeply to Wu Yuchen. Behind him, a woman’s remark was even more interesting:

“At first, my soul was with the girl; gradually, it shifted to the old woman. I’m in my twenties now, and I hope that when I have a granddaughter someday, I’ll watch this film with her.”

Of course, after speaking, the woman also bowed—typical Nihonese tradition.

After the woman left, Wu Yuchen saw only one elderly man with white hair and a mask remaining, and he smiled warmly, extending his hand.

The man removed his mask, then extended his hand to shake Wu Yuchen’s, smiling:

“Director, thank you for allowing me to watch such an outstanding film—it moved me deeply!”

Wu Yuchen found the man vaguely familiar, but before he could place him, his interpreter gasped, covering her mouth with a look of great delight, then bowed deeply to the man and said to Wu Yuchen:

“This is the esteemed Director Miyazaki Jun!”

Hearing the interpreter’s words, Wu Yuchen finally realized—no wonder he looked familiar! This was none other than Miyazaki Jun, the “God of Animation” as Nihonese called him!

“Director Miyazaki, thank you for supporting the film; I also love your works, and I’m truly honored to meet you here!”

Since his rebirth, Wu Yuchen had met many celebrities and no longer felt excitement—he had grown accustomed to it.

Miyazaki Jun laughed heartily and said: “Today, I’ve gained much; your film has given me new inspiration and insight. When it’s released, I will certainly invite you to the premiere!”

Wu Yuchen paused, not fully understanding what inspiration he’d given Miyazaki Jun, but still smiled generously: “Thank you for the invitation—it’s my honor!”

After Miyazaki Jun left, Wu Yuchen’s interpreter remained extremely excited and agitated, repeatedly saying “Sugoi!”—clearly demonstrating how revered this old man was among Nihonese.

News of Miyazaki Jun’s visit to watch “You and Me” and his conversation with Wu Yuchen quickly spread, adding further heat to the still-screening film; in the following days, viewers came in an unbroken stream—even morning screenings, usually dead times, were fully seated.

Unsurprisingly, local Nihonese distributors had already come knocking, seeking film rights—but Wu Yuchen naturally deferred all discussions until after the awards ceremony.

These days, Zhou Xun was overjoyed; arriving in Tokyo, this cosmopolitan metropolis, and especially in Roppongi, one of Tokyo’s busiest districts, she had been taken on a thorough shopping spree by the interpreter.

Of course, what delighted her even more was the treatment she received here; back home, she had merely been a minor actress—when she went to theaters to watch her own films, audiences paid her no attention.

But now, accompanying “You and Me” to Nihon, she was treated like an international superstar—even better than the lead actresses in her previous productions; for the first time, she felt her character was loved by so many, and her performance was respected by so many—a deep, heartfelt sense of recognition and accomplishment!

On the day before the festival’s closing ceremony, Zhou Xun received a message that thrilled her even more:

“Xun-ge, you’ve been nominated for Best Actress!”

Zhou Xun’s eyes widened; she dashed to Wu Yuchen’s side and grabbed his hand:

“Really?”

“Why would I lie to you? Ask Songben the interpreter if you don’t believe me.”

Zhou Xun shrieked, leapt into the air, yet still held tightly onto Wu Yuchen’s arm, bouncing up and down until his arm swayed like a wave.

“Xun-ge, if you don’t let go, my arm’s going to break!”

Zhou Xun released his arm with a grin; she was now very familiar with Wu Yuchen and knew he wouldn’t mind. But immediately she asked: “What about Grandma Jin?”

Wu Yuchen tapped her head: “Good, you still remember Grandma Jin—she’s in too; you both got nominated!”

Zhou Xun sighed in relief; she felt if Grandma Jin gave such a great performance but didn’t win while she did, she’d feel embarrassed facing her.

Then her eyes rolled as she asked: “Wu Dao, what about you?”

Wu Yuchen chuckled: “If you made it, I certainly did too!”

…

The next day, at the closing ceremony’s red carpet, as Wu Yuchen and Zhou Xun walked the red carpet, the cheers from both sides were clearly louder than those for the front-line crew.

“You and Me!”

“Wu-san! Zhou-chan! Go!”

“You’ll definitely win the big prize!”

Wu Yuchen understood some of the cheers, others he didn’t—but still waved to the fans with Zhou Xun.

“You and Me” was nominated for many awards: besides Zhou Xun and Jin Yaqin both being nominated for Best Actress, Wu Yuchen himself was nominated for Best Director, and the film was also nominated for the festival’s top prize—the Best Picture award, known as the Golden Kirin or Sakura Award.

All three nominations were major awards in the main competition category, and Wu Yuchen felt he had a strong chance of winning at least one, since among the five judges, one was a Chinese judge—Tian Zhuangzhuang from Jingying.

He was his own senior brother—surely he’d fight for him to win at least one major award!

The performances and speeches upon entering were all standard procedure; once these were done, the official award ceremony began.

The first awards presented were from the Youth Film category—three prizes: Youth Film Sakura Gold, Silver, and Bronze; the Silver went to the Hewanwan film “Spring Blossom, Miss Lu.”

Then came awards from other categories; when these were nearly finished, the main competition category began.

First, a less significant award for Best Artistic Contribution, given jointly to a Nihonese film, “Ryokan,” and an Iranian film.

Then came Best Screenplay, awarded to the Czech film “Give Me a Father.”

Wu Yuchen’s expression grew slightly grave as he watched this film; it was also a favorite this year—originally, in his past life, it had won the Golden Kirin at the Tokyo Film Festival and the following year won the Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film.

Then came the moment Zhou Xun dreaded: Best Actress. As her scenes played on screen, she nervously gripped Wu Yuchen’s hand, completely losing her earlier chatter.

Besides her and Jin Yaqin, the other nominees were two actresses from the Norwegian film “Lonely Sunday” and one from a Polish film.

The presenter was the famous Nihonese actor Kitano Takeshi; a comedian by origin, he cracked jokes on stage, but even with translation, Wu Yuchen barely understood them.

Quickly, Kitano tore open the envelope and pulled out a slip, reading aloud:

“Best Actress is… ‘You and Me’!”

Hearing the film’s name from Kitano’s lips, Wu Yuchen and Zhou Xun both brightened—but “You and Me” had two nominees, and he hadn’t said who yet!

Kitano paused, then said: “Jin Yaqin!”

Wu Yuchen’s mood didn’t change—he knew the award belonged to the film regardless of who received it; in his past life, the old woman had won it anyway. But he knew Zhou Xun must feel some disappointment—after all, who doesn’t want to win when nominated?

Wu Yuchen patted Zhou Xun to comfort her; she smiled and shook her head, indicating it was fine.

But at that moment, Kitano did not lower the slip; after a pause, he smiled and continued loudly: “…and Zhou Xun!”

As his words ended, the large screen displayed the image: Zhou Xun hugging Jin Yaqin in a heartwarming scene!

Zhou Xun was still stunned, confused by hearing her name again, but Wu Yuchen instantly understood—it was a tie!

He immediately shouted happily to Zhou Xun: “Xun-ge, you won too! You and Grandma Jin both won Best Actress!”

Hearing this, Zhou Xun finally understood what had happened; she screamed with excitement and threw her arms around Wu Yuchen.

The entire audience now realized: Kitano had deliberately teased them; those familiar with him knew he had this mischievous personality, and the crowd erupted in applause.

Wu Yuchen patted Zhou Xun, who still hadn’t let go: “If you don’t go up now, they’ll take the award away.”

Zhou Xun finally released him; Wu Yuchen noticed she was already in tears—he said nothing, simply took her hand and walked up. Jin Yaqin had not come, so he would accept the award on her behalf.