Chapter Thirty-Nine: Romance or Horror

“Director Yan, this is your second film as a director, and the first major production for Hundred Battles Films. You even brought in a special effects makeup artist from abroad. Do you have confidence in this film?”

“Confidence? Ha!” Yan Xu smiled faintly. “Just look at how many people showed up today. That should tell you whether I have confidence or not.”

“Director Yan, you’re also aware that tomorrow, two major productions from New Art City and Debao will be released. Do you have confidence in surpassing them?”

“Surpass them? This isn’t a battle. We’re learning from each other. Both of their films are family-friendly, suitable for all ages, whereas our film, by its very nature, has already lost a significant portion of the audience. As for the box office, I really can’t say, but as long as we reach half their numbers, I’ll consider it a success.” Yan Xu spoke modestly. The two other films were almost certain to break ten million; half of that would be five or six million, which would completely cover costs. Earnings from video tapes and related merchandise would be pure profit. Of course, Yan Xu’s ambitions were set higher—he was aiming to break ten million himself—but he would never reveal that at this moment.

“Director Yan, your film is the first Category III movie since the rating system was introduced. Does it contain a lot of explicit or horrifying scenes? What are your thoughts on the new rating system?”

“Film, in order to better portray realism and artistry, sometimes contains scenes that go over the top. But what draws people in isn’t those elements; it’s the story and its completeness. As for the government’s new rating system, I support it wholeheartedly. In other countries, it’s a long-established practice, and it does a great job of protecting minors. At the same time, it gives Hong Kong filmmakers more creative freedom. We can now tackle previously taboo subjects, which is a driving force for the growth of Hong Kong cinema.”

“Director Yan, are you satisfied with Wu Mengda’s performance in the film? What made you choose him, considering his reputation isn’t great in the industry?”

“Everyone makes mistakes. But being willing to change is something many are capable of. What they lack is the opportunity—whether we’re willing to give it to them. As for Wu Mengda’s performance, you’ll see for yourselves once you’re inside. The audience’s approval is the best answer.” Yan Xu smiled at the reporters, then took a few steps to rescue Zhou Huimin, who was surrounded by journalists.

“Everyone, it’s about time. Please go easy on Amin in your write-ups; don’t make things hard for her. The movie’s about to begin—let’s head in together…”

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Just like in "The Butcher on a Rainy Night," there were no opening credits. Amid a field of deep red on the screen, a man’s heavy breathing could be heard. The camera slowly pulled back to reveal Wu Mengda’s face. The red seen earlier was blood smeared across the lenses of his glasses. He appeared tense, even panicked, but beneath that anxiety, a faint, excited smile flickered across his features. He kept washing his hands in a basin, the red blood on his skin swirling together with the water, spiraling down the drain. As the camera drew closer, the water grew redder and redder, until the bold characters “The Judge” appeared in the midst of the crimson flow.

From the very start, the film gripped the audience’s curiosity. How had he gotten himself covered in blood? How could such an honest face wear such an eerie smile?

The entire movie diverged sharply from the original right from its opening. There was none of the joking police officers or heroic detectives—only the simple happiness of Wu Mengda’s character, Ah Jian. His career was going well and he’d just been promoted. His wife was pregnant and about to give birth. At work, colleagues envied his achievements; after hours, he strolled hand in hand with his wife through the park, savoring romance. Happiness in life could hardly be more complete. The beginning caught everyone off guard, so brisk and bright, each shot radiating warmth and beauty. If not for that first scene, many would have thought it was a romantic love story.

“How could this be a Category III film? The censors must be blind!”

“I never knew Hong Kong could look so beautiful. I should take my wife to the park sometime.”

“This is so boring. Did the director lose his mind, making some kind of art film?”

“That female reporter is really gorgeous. Nothing else is interesting at all—it’s not even exciting.”

“That cop’s name is hilarious. Even the superintendent calls him ‘Ah Gor.’”

Sitting in the back row, Yan Xu listened to the audience’s chatter, a faint smile lingering on his lips. Whether praise or insult, he was well prepared for such reactions—they were exactly what he intended. Without the warmth at the start, there would be no shocking contrast later. He wanted to whet the audience’s appetite to the fullest.

He glanced at Zhou Huimin and Wu Mengda beside him. Both stared intently at the screen, visibly tense—it was their first time seeing the full cut of the film. Hearing the criticism from the audience below, they grew anxious.

“It’s all right, don’t be so nervous.” Yan Xu patted Zhou Huimin’s arm, comforting her. “Your performance as the reporter was a real success. See? Lots of people have already remembered you.”

After twenty minutes of warmth and harmony, just as the audience’s anticipation had been brought to a peak, the story made a sudden, sweeping turn. The bright hues of the film shifted to darkness. Especially when Ah Jian’s pregnant wife was dragged by a taxi, the crowd erupted in curses. All the long buildup finally paid off in that instant.

The tragic death of his wife—two lives lost—left Ah Jian utterly shattered. His fleeting happiness became only memories, his family broken in an instant. As the song played, Zhou Huimin’s “Devotion for Love” quieted the atmosphere in the theater. Everyone was submerged in Ah Jian’s grief and Zhou Huimin’s singing. Yan Xu could even hear occasional soft sobs from women in the audience.

With this turning point, when Ah Jian killed his first taxi driver in a clumsy, bloody scene, the audience felt not repulsion, but a surge of excitement. Some even cheered his actions—a man ought to have such blood and fire. The panic after the killing, his frantic scrubbing of blood, and the fierce smile born of vengeance fused perfectly with the film’s opening scene.

These reactions brought a faint smile to Yan Xu’s lips; he had achieved exactly the effect he envisioned.

ps: This update was a bit late. I worked overtime until two in the morning yesterday and have only just gotten up!