Chapter Two: Who Is the Real Trash?

Before his rebirth, Gu Zhi’s field of study was English literature. From undergraduate years all the way to his doctorate, he had immersed himself in the culture and knowledge of the English-speaking world. Back then, both his parents had earnestly urged him to choose this major, hoping to mold him into an international talent. Gu Zhi himself could hardly claim to love English, but he had to admit that his solid foundation in the language contributed greatly to his years as an overseas student and, later, to the process of reviving his family’s business upon his return home.

Many in China have disliked English since childhood, yet the undeniable truth is that America, after all, remains the world’s most powerful nation. For both individuals and the country at large, learning English is essential. If China hopes to surpass America, it must first understand it thoroughly—study its advanced technologies, absorb its strengths, put them to use, cast aside the dross, and remain vigilant. Know yourself and know your enemy, and you will never lose a hundred battles. Thus, whether in 1999 or in 2017, English was both vital and useful.

During his student years, apart from study and socializing, Gu Zhi’s greatest passion was consuming novels, movies, television series, variety shows, and entertainment gossip—in short, anything connected to the world of arts and entertainment fascinated him. Whether domestic or foreign, whether indie or mainstream commercial blockbusters, he delved into it all. He had watched at least 90% of Douban’s top 250 films, and a similar percentage of IMDB’s top 250, leaving out only those few that failed to pique his interest. In literature, his reading ranged from web novels to science fiction, from domestic and foreign classics to Nobel Prize winners, totaling nearly two or three hundred books. There were also countless high-quality TV dramas, variety shows, and more.

Before his family’s misfortunes, Gu Zhi spent tens of thousands of yuan every year on entertainment. Even after returning home, he did his best to preserve these expenditures, though he compressed them considerably over time. In his view, money was earned, and mere thrift was but a drop in the ocean compared to his family’s massive debts—an effort of little significance.

Gu Zhi’s ambition was to join the entertainment industry, to build an empire of his own, to export culture abroad and see Chinese films dominate foreign cinemas, just as foreign films reigned over the box office at home. Every time he saw the domestic entertainment industry churning out trash, he felt both scorn and heartache. In his previous life, he had neither the time nor the capital to participate in the industry. Most of China’s film and television resources were tightly held by various capital interests; few quality works emerged each year, all shackled by investors and hijacked by the pursuit of star power and market metrics. Audiences longed for works that were both popular and well-crafted, but too often, all they saw was garbage.

Not long before Gu Zhi’s rebirth, the renowned Chinese director Feng Xiaogang once said, “China produces so many trashy movies—could it be because there are too many trashy viewers?” On the surface, he seemed to be blaming poor-quality audiences for the sorry state of domestic cinema. In truth, though, he was simply stirring the pot, using controversy to generate buzz for his new film, “Youth.” Yet wasn’t that statement itself the height of nonsense? While Feng, the master of bombast, filmed commercial movies he claimed to disdain for the sake of box office returns, he also produced art films so dreary that no one watched them, serving up cinematic excrement to audiences. When the box office failed to meet his expectations, he’d turn around and berate viewers as trash who refused to watch his so-called masterpieces. It was the classic case of eating the meat in the bowl and then cursing your mother as soon as you put down your chopsticks. If the films were truly good, would domestic audiences not vote with their feet?

Before Gu Zhi’s rebirth, Wu Ping’s self-directed and self-starred film “Wolf Warrior 2” had just been released. Wu Ping spent two years making this rare, earnest, and ambitious work, one which balanced a coherent plot with Hollywood-caliber spectacle. The film’s many intersecting elements—war, action, drama—ensured it could attract fans of many genres. Unquestionably, this was a top-tier domestic production that met the standards of Hollywood’s film industry.

According to Feng Xiaogang, China’s “trash” audiences supposedly couldn’t appreciate real cinema. But “Wolf Warrior 2” delivered a resounding slap in the face to such notions. It took only four hours after release to break 100 million yuan at the box office, 300 million in 25 hours, 600 million in three days, 1 billion in 85 hours, and 1.5 billion in five days. It outperformed Warner Brothers’ “Dunkirk” by a factor of two, becoming the first domestic film to top the global weekend box office. All the major box office tracking sites were predicting it would break the 3 billion yuan record set by “The Mermaid,” becoming the highest-grossing domestic film ever. In China’s current film world, few directors pour themselves into their work, but Wu Ping was making films as if his life depended on it—how could audiences not support him?

Many viewers even went back to the cinemas two, three, or four times just to support this outstanding film. They had waited too long—far too long—for a truly heartfelt domestic production. All that pent-up frustration finally erupted with the release of “Wolf Warrior 2.” Chinese audiences used their box office receipts and their hard-earned cash to shout out: “We are not trash audiences—the real trash are those self-indulgent directors who care for nothing but cashing in!”

Now, Gu Zhi had been reborn, transported back to 1999. He did not know what the final box office tally of “Wolf Warrior 2” would be, but he was determined not to see China’s entertainment market turn into the same colossal garbage heap as before, where only one good work emerged every few years.

“In my previous life, faced with a declining entertainment market, all I could do was sigh from the sidelines and quietly contribute to box office figures. But now that fate has given me a second chance, I will utterly transform China’s entertainment industry, upgrade the entire sector, and send every rotten work packing!”

Clenching his fists, his eyes burned with an extraordinary light, a confidence unlike any other rising within him, his presence becoming all the more distinguished. As a man reborn, he had faith. In his previous life, he had toiled endlessly for the sake of the family business. Now, knowing the trends of the future, he had no doubt he could guide his mother Lin Zhi’s business to even greater heights.

But the clothing industry alone could never satisfy Gu Zhi’s ambitions. Just the capital required to enter the entertainment world was a staggering sum. Since he had resolved to change China’s entertainment industry, he could not allow himself to end up shackled by capital interests. China was not incapable of producing great works, but in catering to so-called market demands and the endless web of investor connections, capital often ended up ravaging a work beyond recognition. Even as a director or screenwriter, one could only bow to the will of the investors. Without money, you couldn’t make a film; with money, you were held hostage by capital. Such was the tragedy of China’s creative class.

Gu Zhi was not so naïve as to think that a mere store of knowledge from his past life could change the entire entertainment industry. The one who ties the bell must untie it. For him, the most fundamental and practical solution was to make himself the largest source of capital. Then—to hell with those meddling investors! Anyone who tried to manipulate his work could eat excrement for all he cared!

For three days since his return, he had pondered this problem, and now, at last, he had formed a rough plan in his mind. But all of it rested on one premise: first, he had to persuade his parents.