Chapter Forty-Four: Imagining the Consequences

"Absolutely not!" Han Sanping refused firmly and without hesitation.

This was pure folly. The role of a director in a film is self-evident. For a minor writer, who has only participated in a single movie as a screenwriter, to now wish to become a director—it would be treating the entire Chinese directing industry as a joke. If China Film actually did this, it would be a move condemned by all. It's likely that every director in the country would come forward to denounce them.

If Gu Zhi were to become a legitimate director at this moment, it might be acceptable if his film failed at the box office. But if it became a hit, it would slap every director in China in the face, especially those so-called Fifth Generation directors who graduated from the Beijing Film Academy.

A high school dropout who never systematically studied directing, still a minor, producing work superior to that of trained directors—how much criticism would the film academies face? What kind of social pressure would that create?

Thinking further, if a high school dropout could, in the blink of an eye, become a renowned writer, and within a year a famous director, then the doubt cast upon the film academies would be just the beginning. If someone with ulterior motives decided to stir up trouble, the entire Chinese education system could come under fire.

The notion that "studying is useless" has always been a noisy undercurrent in China, especially since the Reform and Opening Up. In the current millennium, the profits yielded by the population dividend are considerable, allowing some with little formal education to become wealthy.

Coupled with certain influential public figures who keep promoting the idea that education is pointless, many students who could have continued their studies instead gave up early, entering society in pursuit of quick success.

People always see only the top of the pyramid, never the countless bodies buried underneath.

When Gu Zhi first arrived in Beijing, he had already publicly stated his view on dropping out of school, but he still faced considerable criticism, and so did the country's educational system.

If he took another step forward now and became a famous director, it would be as if he were positioning himself as the adversary of the entire education system.

Dropping out—leading to “success”; studying—leading to a life of servitude. People would accuse the education system of being rigid, brainwashing students, and stifling creativity. Wouldn’t he become a living counterexample?

Gu Zhi’s current fame far exceeded that of Han Shao in his heyday. His influence was immense.

At that point, even if Gu Zhi didn’t want to, he’d be forced into the role of adversary. How great would the impact be? What chain reaction would it trigger? How would it all end? What would become of him?

A chill ran through Gu Zhi, his hair standing on end involuntarily.

Just imagining it sent a shiver down his spine.

Perhaps because he’d just finished filming "The Butterfly Effect," his imagination was running wild, conjuring all these scenarios in an instant.

"I don’t agree either," Liu Qi chimed in, trying to persuade him. "Even if you want to be a director, wait until you’re an adult. It’s too soon right now. It’s not appropriate."

Her thoughts weren’t as complicated; she simply believed that as a director, Gu Zhi would struggle to command respect on set. Even if the crew didn't say it out loud, they would certainly grumble in private.

"Sorry, I let my imagination run away with me," Gu Zhi replied with an awkward chuckle, scratching his head in embarrassment.

After considering it, he realized his idea was indeed too naive.

Han Sanping’s stern expression finally softened. He nodded and said gravely, "I know you’re not content with just being a screenwriter, but you’re still too young. Your reputation and influence are both enormous."

"Some things are not better done early. If you stand out too much, you invite trouble. This isn’t the right time. Gain some experience in the crew first. In a couple of years, I’ll personally support you as a director."

He punctuated his words with two strong pats on Gu Zhi’s shoulder.

"Thank you, Third Master."

"Alright, I’ll have China Film quickly arrange the crew. I’ll find a director. As for casting, you and Xiao Qi should take charge. You two understand the characters in this story far better than I do."

Gu Zhi nodded, then suddenly recalled something.

"Third Master, this is a romance film. I’d like to release it on Valentine’s Day next year. That gives us about four months. Do you think that’s doable?"

"The schedule is tight, but if we aim to finalize casting by early November and hold a launch ceremony, we can start filming right away."

"Great."

After finalizing their plans, Gu Zhi prepared to leave China Film, with Liu Qi accompanying him to the door.

"Should we wait until the director is confirmed before casting? What if we find actors the director doesn’t like, and he refuses to shoot?" Liu Qi asked as they walked.

Gu Zhi laughed out loud.

"Xiao Qi, we’re both the investors here. The director works for us. We’re not hiring a big-name director like Feng Xiaogang or Zhang Yimou; why worry about whether he likes it or not?"

"We’re not inviting some revered master we have to tiptoe around. If the director’s unwilling, we’ll just hire someone else. There are plenty of TV directors eager to make films. Finding someone is not a problem. For this project, the director’s opinion doesn’t matter—what matters is realizing my vision. If all else fails, I’ll go find Hao Ge."

As the only person in this world who had seen "My Sassy Girl," every scene was vivid in Gu Zhi’s mind. For this film, the director’s role truly wasn’t that important.

In the Chinese film industry, directors have always wielded too much power. Everyone in the business wants to direct: cinematographers, screenwriters, actors, writers, hosts, singers—everyone wants to be a director, even a five-foot-tall strongman.

Few are content to spend a lifetime working in lighting, sound, editing, or production, let alone special effects, makeup, or costume departments. Crews are unwilling to invest in these areas, and directors rarely give them their due. Relying solely on acting to immerse audiences is a tall order.

A healthy film industry should have clear divisions of labor, with each department performing its role. Even directors shouldn’t wield excessive power. In Hollywood, many directors are simply there to oversee filming; they don’t even have final cut rights. Only a handful of superstar directors do.

In large-scale co-productions like "The Great Wall," Zhang Yimou was purely a director; he could offer opinions on the edit, but the editing itself was done by professionals.

"The Great Wall" is a product of a mature Hollywood film industry—Zhang Yimou was brought in for his reputation, to boost box office prospects. Even if another director had been hired, the film wouldn’t have changed. Zhang Yimou was merely the packaging; the essence was predetermined.

The Chinese film industry is still far from this level of industrialization. The main reason is that, in the early days, films rarely made money. Any success was attributed solely to the director, which greatly hindered the industrialization process.

That’s why, if Gu Zhi is going to make a film, he must bring in his own capital. Whether it’s the director or the producer, no one on the crew should think of themselves as the boss. Everyone should simply fulfill their responsibilities.

After listening to Gu Zhi, Liu Qi thought for a moment and realized that the director’s opinion really wasn’t that important.

Then, recalling the way Gu Zhi had just addressed her, her face suddenly darkened. She delivered a playful punch to his back, twisting hard for good measure.

"Who gave you the right to call me Xiao Qi, Gu Zhi?"

"…"

As they reached the door, Gu Zhi remembered something else.

"By the way, let’s not cast actors from Taiwan or Hong Kong. I want to use only our own actors."

Times had changed. With the resounding success of "The Butterfly Effect," once casting for this project began, who knew how many actors would be eager to recommend themselves.

The selection pool was much larger now, but Gu Zhi still wanted to make use of mainland talent whenever possible.