Chapter Seven: Preparations for Filming

"Are there any other conditions? Just lay them all out!" Guangtou Qiang looked at Yan Xu and waved his hand.

"If the box office earnings from the film are below two million, I won’t ask for a penny. But if the box office reaches two million, I want a ten percent share. If it reaches ten million, I want twenty percent." Yan Xu stated his remaining terms—clear accounts even among brothers.

In Hong Kong, the box office revenue from a film is divided among taxes, cinemas (meaning the theater chains), and the production and distribution companies. After a film is released, the majority of box office revenue goes to the cinemas, which can take fifty to sixty percent, or even more. The production and distribution company usually receives only thirty-five to thirty-eight percent of the box office, and that’s for standard films. For smaller companies like theirs, the share is typically around thirty percent, and for low-investment films, it can drop to as little as twenty-eight percent.

Of course, there are exceptions. Major film studios producing blockbusters don’t sign such revenue-sharing agreements with cinemas. In their case, they get seventy percent in the first week, sixty percent in the second, and so on in decreasing amounts. But very few films run in theaters for more than three weeks, so these companies are at least guaranteed over fifty percent. Small companies like Baizhan are obviously not entitled to such terms. For them, investing half a million in a film means the box office must at least reach one and a half million just to break even—and that’s not even counting promotional costs.

In the United States, the revenue split is much more favorable to the production and distribution companies—the higher the film’s quality, the greater the share, with the maximum reaching as high as ninety percent in rare cases.

Actually, the profits for the production and distribution companies do not come solely from box office earnings. A significant portion is from ancillary industries—soundtracks, toys, apparel, merchandise, books, household goods, and so on. These products rely mainly on the film’s popularity and influence. For small companies like theirs, the only real ancillary income comes from audio-visual products. If the movie is good, these alone can bring in profits equal to half the box office revenue.

"Ten million? Are you mad?" Ji Mao exclaimed, as if hearing a fairy tale. Last year’s highest-grossing film was Jackie Chan’s "Project A," which only made nineteen million. Among Hong Kong-produced films, fewer than ten have ever crossed the ten-million mark; though this year, eleven films have already done so, with "Aces Go Places" almost reaching thirty million. Still, ten million remains a major milestone for most directors.

"I doubt you’ll get a single cent," Gui Dong shook his head. In his view, Yan Xu was being foolish—a script for thirty thousand was enough to cover a year’s living expenses. For small companies like theirs, not to mention ten million, even having two or three films break past three or four million in a year would be rare—and those were usually cooked numbers for money laundering.

"Are you really that determined?" Guangtou Qiang looked at Yan Xu. If the film reached two million at the box office, even after giving up ten percent, the company would still earn four hundred thousand, and with audio-visual sales, perhaps five or six hundred thousand. If it hit ten million, the company’s ten percent share would be a million, with another million or more from audio-visuals. These terms were not disadvantageous to the company; in fact, they might even profit. At worst, if the film made less than two million, Yan Xu wouldn’t take a dime.

"Yes," Yan Xu nodded.

"Once you’ve decided, there’s no taking it back."

"I won’t regret it."

"Alright then. Ji Mao, prepare the contract!" Guangtou Qiang, seeing Yan Xu’s resolve, no longer pressed the matter.

**********************

Shooting a film is not as simple as just talking about it. The camera equipment belonged to the company, so Yan Xu didn’t even need to pay rental fees. But the film stock itself couldn’t be used for free. Even at the lowest price, Yan Xu estimated it would cost at least twenty thousand.

Finding a police station and Lin Guoyu’s home was easy—just rent two ordinary apartments. Although housing prices in Hong Kong were starting to rise, they weren’t outrageous yet, and Yan Xu didn’t need any grand mansions. Since the protagonist’s home needed to look somewhat messy and humble, renting both locations could definitely be kept under ten thousand.

The main props—a taxi and the police car for arresting Lin Guoyu—were even simpler. Hong Kong’s countless car rental companies could provide all kinds of vehicles at very reasonable rates.

With these basic arrangements, Yan Xu was confident he could keep costs under fifty thousand.

The remaining budget, aside from miscellaneous possible expenses and twenty thousand set aside for post-production, would mainly go to the staff. While the crew could mostly be drawn from the company’s own people and paid a modest fee as a favor, it would still require at least ten thousand.

As for the actors, most of the male roles could be filled by company friends, who’d be satisfied with a meal and a few drinks. The eight female roles—the protagonist’s stepmother, his sister, the female police officer, the prostitute from his first encounter, and the four murdered women—could easily be played by the brothel girls managed by the pimps in the local underworld. Just on the street below Yan Xu’s place on Qinzhou Road, many such women were under their control. And since this wasn’t one of those low-budget gangster films, there’d be no real guns or much nudity—at most, a brief topless scene. If the film succeeded, the girls might even become famous and leave their current line of work. Five thousand would suffice for their pay.

However, a few roles would still need to be cast from outside—the childhood versions of the protagonist and his family, as well as the protagonist’s father, roles that couldn’t be filled by underworld associates.

Most important of all was the male lead. The whole film rested on his shoulders. If the script accounted for fifty percent of the film’s success, then the male lead was responsible for more than half of the remaining fifty percent. Every plot point revolved around him, so his acting needed to be solid.

In Li Xiuxian’s version of the film, Ren Dawa’s performance was the highlight—especially his air of menace, which sent shivers down the audience’s spines with every gesture.

Right now, though, Ren Dawa was still a newcomer, having acted in only a few films and not yet famous. Even so, he’d starred in over a dozen features. After returning from Taiwan, his fees had skyrocketed. He now appeared in several TVB dramas, and his current rate was far beyond what Yan Xu could afford. For a production with such a small budget, hiring him was simply out of the question.