Chapter Eleven: A Brief Discussion on Hong Kong Cinema

Time slipped by in a hurry, flying past in the blink of an eye. Before anyone realized it, the year had drawn to its close.

On December 15, 1999, director Feng Xiaogang’s film “Sorry Baby” premiered in theaters. That evening, after dinner, Gu Zhi dragged his parents to the cinema together. Although he wasn’t particularly fond of Feng and his bombastic style, he had to admit that Feng’s early films were true classics—whether it was “The Dream Factory” or “Be There or Be Square,” both were well worth watching.

Even by 2017, these two films hadn’t lost their luster, still boasting a devoted following. “Sorry Baby” was no exception. This was Feng’s third New Year’s film, starring his favorite actor, Ge Da-ye, as the male lead and Wanwan actress Wu Qianlian as the female lead. With an exaggerated touch, Feng Xiaogang depicted the daily life of ordinary people; the entire film was steeped in the unmistakable flavor of Beijing—a true representation of the city’s unique character.

In more modern terms, the film was authentic and down-to-earth.

Before the millennium, many cinematic masterpieces had emerged from China. “Farewell My Concubine,” “To Live,” “Devils on the Doorstep,” “In the Heat of the Sun,” “The Dream Factory”—these were all works worthy of a prominent place in Chinese film history.

Yet no one could have predicted the decline that followed. As time went on, the quality of Chinese cinema deteriorated; bad films grew more numerous, and overall standards even lagged behind those of neighboring India and South Korea. For many Chinese moviegoers, the first rule was to avoid domestic films, unwilling to waste another precious minute. For a time, “domestic film” became synonymous with “terrible film.” To completely change this reputation would require the effort and dedication of generations of filmmakers.

Gu Zhi and his family sat in the theater for an hour and a half, thoroughly entertained, and left the cinema still savoring the experience. On their way home, they passed a newly opened Xinhua Bookstore. Although the shop was already closed, through the clear glass they could see neatly arranged books by the entrance.

One stack stood out: “The Chronicle of Wukong,” displayed in the most prominent spot, accompanied by a striking stand-up poster. Another stack, placed in a similarly favorable position, was a newly published book called “Infernal Affairs,” which had hit shelves just a month earlier.

“Infernal Affairs” and “The Chronicle of Wukong” had occupied the top two spots on the national bestseller lists in recent months, with bookstores across the country making every effort to promote them and reserving their best displays. These novels were not just acclaimed for their quality—the real sensation was that both had been written by the same person. This created a wave of discussion across the country, with everyone’s attention focused on the young author behind the books.

Both novels were published by the Guangming Daily Press, and the author was none other than Gu Zhi himself.

Gu Zhi’s second book had originally been slated to be “The Years Gone By,” but one day, while watching the movie channel on national television, he happened to see a long-missed masterpiece—a crime thriller directed by Wu Baige and starring Nicolas Cage, called “Face/Off.” The film used the device of “swapping faces” as its thread, telling a story of police and criminals exchanging identities and infiltrating each other’s worlds.

After watching “Face/Off,” Gu Zhi immediately thought of the Hong Kong crime classic “Infernal Affairs.” In reality, swapping faces is impossible, but swapping roles is not; there’s no need for surgery—just a switch of hearts and identities. Thus was born “Infernal Affairs.”

In essence, it was similar to “Face/Off,” but “Infernal Affairs” carried with it a distinctly Hong Kong flavor. The line, “If you live by the sword, you must pay the price,” became a widely quoted adage throughout the Chinese-speaking world. The success of “Infernal Affairs” sparked a wave of crime thrillers in Hong Kong, but none ever surpassed it. As the years went by, the golden age of Hong Kong cinema faded, and “Infernal Affairs” became its high-water mark. From that point on, decline set in.

Many later works found little audience outside of Hong Kong, and the same themes of undercover cops and criminal gangs were rehashed endlessly.

Before Gu Zhi’s rebirth, he had a friend in the film industry who once complained, “The heyday of Hong Kong film and television is long gone. Nowadays, mainland stars like Deng Chao, Huang Bo, and Zhang Ziyi command fees that put Hong Kong celebrities to shame. Hong Kong’s film industry may have collapsed, but they could’ve survived by tapping into the mainland market—perhaps even found new life. But instead, the Hong Kong crowd clung to their sense of superiority, teaming up with the Taiwanese to exclude mainland filmmakers. In the end, the mainland shut the door and played their own game, leaving Hong Kong cinema dead in the water. The mainland market works like this: ‘It’s only yours if I give it to you; if I don’t, you can’t force it.’ Director Wang Jing was among the first to enter the mainland market and wanted to promote some Hong Kong newcomers, but as soon as he mentioned their names and investors, he was flatly refused. The producers told him outright: ‘Make the film if you want, or we’ll find someone else.’ In the movies Wang directed in recent years, apart from Xiang Huaqiang’s son, how many Hong Kong newcomers have you seen? It’s always the same old Hong Kong actors at the top. Plenty of new talent is being trained in Hong Kong, but how many make it in the mainland? In Hengdian, a Hong Kong rookie earns just a thousand yuan per episode—if they don’t like it, they can leave. Showbiz is a ruthless market; if you don’t play by the rules, you’re out. For producers, profit comes first.”

Gu Zhi wasn’t part of the film world, so he couldn’t say how much of this was true, but it at least reflected the current plight and status of Hong Kong’s entertainment industry. Judging by Hong Kong’s attitude toward the mainland, Gu Zhi suspected that most of what his friend had said was accurate.

As for the fate of Hong Kong cinema, that was a conversation for another day…

After watching “Face/Off,” Gu Zhi was inspired to turn “Infernal Affairs” into a novel. It was similar in length to “The Chronicle of Wukong”—about 170,000 words—and included the entire content of all three “Infernal Affairs” films.

The movies themselves were not shot in chronological order: the second film covered the leads’ youth, the first saw Tony Leung’s undercover cop killed by Andy Lau, and the third had Andy Lau’s undercover gangster exposed and driven to suicide. The correct viewing order was thus II, I, III.

Gu Zhi, however, wrote his novel in a straightforward chronological sequence, sparing readers any confusion. Once finished, he immediately contacted He Jianping and sent him the draft.

Stunned by Gu Zhi’s speed, He Jianping decided at once to publish the book after reading the manuscript. He’d never seen a Hong Kong-style crime novel before—on the mainland, this was an untapped market. No such book had ever been published, making it a huge business opportunity, albeit one with significant risk.

If the book became popular, it would open a new genre and bring in huge profits, sure to inspire a new wave of writers. If it flopped, Hong Kong-style crime fiction might never be attempted again.

For Guangming Daily Press, it was a gamble, but He Jianping didn’t hesitate—he believed in Gu Zhi’s talent, and “The Chronicle of Wukong” had already given him plenty of confidence.

A month after publication, the results spoke for themselves: “Infernal Affairs” had sold twenty thousand copies in its first month—slightly below the debut sales of “The Chronicle of Wukong,” but still far beyond any other book of the season, with sales continuing to rise.

“The Chronicle of Wukong” itself had also become a sensation, selling over a hundred thousand copies in just four months and topping every major sales chart. The traditional Chinese edition had already gone on sale in Taiwan and Hong Kong.

In a matter of months, Gu Zhi had become a celebrated young author, known throughout the country.