sovbooks Chapter 203: The Exhibition Area Hierarchy of Disdain, Closed-Door Invitations Ignoring the Rules
Chapter 203: The Exhibition Area Hierarchy of Disdain, Closed-Door Invitations Ignoring the Rules
Milan in October was shrouded in continuous rain.
On the second basement level of the MIA International Audiovisual Products Trading Market, the old carpets were damp, the cheap coffee was brewed to a bitter taste, and the smell of sweat from the crowd clung to the passageways, making one's head throb.
Su Wan, dressed in a sharp black suit, stood in this low and noisy exhibition area, as if she had mistakenly entered another venue.
She stopped in front of a French publishing company's booth, holding a stack of beautifully printed English brochures.
The booth was pitifully small, with a plastic table, two folding chairs, and a half-pack of crumpled napkins pressed down on the corner of the table.
A French buyer named Jean-Michel was eating a sandwich, his mouth greasy. He looked up and saw Su Wan, his gaze sweeping over her with the disdain of someone inspecting goods.
"Hello, Mr. Michel."
Su Wan suppressed her stomach discomfort, handed over the brochure, and began speaking in fluent French.
"This is our company's latest heavy-industry science fiction film, 'The Wandering Earth.' The film is technically supported by Weta Digital, the special effects team behind 'The Lord of the Rings,' and we've brought a twenty-minute sample clip."
Jean-Michel did not answer.
He slowly swallowed the food in his mouth and wiped the oil from between his fingers with a napkin.
"Science fiction?"
He scoffed, and crumbs from the sandwich fell onto the table.
"Chinese science fiction? Miss, you can't even build a decent car engine, and you want to make science fiction movies?"
Su Wan's face turned cold.
"Film is film, and industry is industry. You can take a look at our audiovisual standards first."
"No need."
Michelle waved to interrupt her, leaned back in her chair, and crossed her legs.
"I came to this godforsaken place hoping to find some cheap kung fu movies, the kind where they fly around. Or, I'd like to see an art film about how poor and backward your country is; it might even make some money at the European box office. As for science fiction? That's an American game; your stuff is worthless."
He picked up the remaining half of the sandwich, lowered his head and continued eating, not even bothering to glance at her.
Several other booths nearby looked over, their faces showing amusement.
Su Wan stood there, her hands holding the brochure tightening their grip.
She pinched the edges of the paper until they were deformed.
A hand reached out from the side and snatched the stack of brochures from her arms.
Chen Yan stood next to her without her noticing.
He was wearing a dark gray trench coat and glanced at the French buyer first.
Then, in front of Michelle, Chen Yan grabbed the brochure with both hands and tore it open in the middle.
The crisp sound of the coated paper cracking drowned out the noise from the second basement level.
Michelle stopped chewing and looked up at him.
"What are you doing?"
Chen Yan did not answer, but folded the brochure, which had been torn in half, in half again, and then tore it open again.
One after another.
That stack of brochures, which had cost so much effort and money, ended up as a pile of shredded paper.
He let go.
The piece of paper fell into the nearby trash can.
After doing all this, Chen Yan turned to Michelle and said in English, "My things are dirty."
After saying that, he grabbed Su Wan's wrist, turned and left, without giving the Frenchman another glance.
Wu Gang carried the silver security case and followed silently behind, glancing at Michelle as they passed the booth.
The latter shrank back half an inch into the chair.
The three of them walked out of the suffocating second basement level and came to the eaves outside the convention center.
A cold rain lashed at my face.
"Chen Yan!"
Su Wan pulled her hand away from his, her eyes reddening.
"We spent the whole morning visiting twelve companies! The moment they heard the words 'Chinese science fiction,' they didn't even bother to glance at us! That's just how it is here; we simply can't..."
"Then don't follow their rules."
Chen Yan interrupted her, looking at the streets of Milan through the rain.
"You can never beat the house in someone else's casino."
He took out his phone and dialed a number.
"Richard, it's me, Chen Yan."
The call connected, and Chen Yan didn't waste any words.
"I'm in Milan. Find me an independent cinema in the city center with top-of-the-line equipment: film projector, Dolby surround sound. I need to have the entire theater to myself for three days."
Richard Taylor on the other end of the phone was speechless at this abrupt request. He mumbled a few words, and then the sound of keyboards clicking filled the air.
"Cinema Arlecchino, Piazza San Barbila, Milan's best art-house cinema. The owner owes me a favor. But renting out the entire theater for a day for 20,000 euros? Are you crazy?"
"That's it."
Chen Yan hung up the phone immediately.
He looked at Su Wan.
"Go print something. Twenty invitations, black background with gold foil. On them is just one sentence: 'The ultimate form of the Chinese film industry.' Attached are the cinema address and screening time, signed 'Chen Yan.'"
Su Wan was taken aback.
"Only twenty copies?"
"No, it will only be sent to seven people."
Chen Yan recited a string of names.
"Sony Classics, Fox Searchlight, the Asia acquisition director of Miramax. And the selectors for the Cannes, Venice, and Berlin film festivals. Send the invitations to their hotels."
Su Wan's breath hitched for a second.
She got it.
This is not an invitation.
This is a provocation.
Will they come?
"Arrogance will enrage them, but greed will drive them."
Chen Yan's gaze pierced through the rain.
"Go ahead, flip the table over."
At the same time, in a suite at the Four Seasons Hotel Milan.
Michael Horton, Sony Classics’ Asia Director, slammed a quote on the table in frustration.
The doorbell rang, and the assistant handed in a black envelope without any mailing information.
Horton tore it open impatiently.
A black card with gold foil slid out.
The arrogant remark above made him laugh on the spot.
"The ultimate form of the Chinese film industry? Chen Yan? Who the hell is that? He's got a bigger mouth than Cameron."
He casually tossed the card into the trash can.
"Get rid of it."
The assistant bent down to pick it up, but Horton called him back.
"etc."
A blurry video from an industry forum last night flashed through his mind.
A massive, outrageously large transport vehicle drifted across the ice field, its engine emitting a blue beam of light.
The poster said it was a Chinese science fiction film.
The director's name seems to be Chen Yan.
"Cancel the cocktail party tomorrow night."
Horton leaned forward and picked up the card again.
"Get the car ready, I'm going to see what this madman is capable of."
As night deepened, the rain intensified.
Two blocks away from Plaza de San Barbila, the kitchen of a pizzeria is greasy and the exhaust fan is running suffocatingly.
Wang, the comprador, slammed a thick stack of euros on the table.
Across from him, Mario, the local mafia boss, finished checking the money and smiled with satisfaction.
"Money is no problem. That cinema has an employee entrance at the back, and the lock on it has been rusted for a long time."
Wang, the comprador, ignored his nonsense, took out two black plastic bottles from his pocket, and placed them on the flour-covered cutting board.
"Destroy all the film reels in the projection room."
Wang, the comprador, spoke in a somber, harsh voice amidst the sound of rain.
"Use this, high-concentration nitric acid. Pour it on, and nothing will be left."
Mario looked at the skull logo on the bottle and whistled.
From the shadows, four men carrying crowbars and daggers emerged.
"Make your move at midnight."
Wang, the comprador, glanced at the watch.
"I want to hear your good news from across the street."
A man stepped forward, picked up the two heavy nitric acid bottles, and stuffed them into his sweatshirt pocket.
The bottle was pressed against the damp cloth, and the coolness seeped into my palm.