Chapter Seventy-Eight: The Division of Profits

That night, nothing unspeakable happened between Gu Zhi and Tang Wei. As expected, he spent the night on the sofa. Thankfully, the winter in the capital city came with central heating; otherwise, that night might have frozen him to death.

Gu Zhi wasn’t without wicked thoughts—yet they hadn't even kissed, so jumping straight to the final step seemed unrealistic. There was another crucial reason: he hadn’t prepared in advance. The house lacked even the most basic safety products—how could they proceed with anything indescribable? If, by some mishap, things went too far, the consequences would be unimaginable.

At dawn the next day, Tang Wei got up and returned to school. It was the end of the semester, and a mountain of tasks awaited her: final performance evaluations, exams in Marxist philosophy and moral studies, all concentrated together. The Lunar New Year was early this year, scheduled for January 24th. In just over half a month, the school would break for vacation. This period was the peak of exams, and the Drama Academy was no exception.

With Tang Wei gone to school, Gu Zhi found himself with unexpected leisure. The movie’s publicity campaign had wrapped up; all that remained was to wait for the Valentine’s Day premiere after the New Year. The main crew members were already on holiday. Tong Dawei had gone to the Shanghai Theatre Academy, Gao Yuanyuan was temporarily idle at home, not taking any new commercials, occasionally inviting Gu Zhi or Liu Qi out for a meal and a chat.

Both she and Liu Qi were natives of the capital, and after working together in the crew, they'd become close friends. Whenever they had free time, they went out together, sometimes inviting Gu Zhi along.

The beginning of 2001 was peaceful.

Since arriving in the capital on April 1st last year, Gu Zhi had been busy almost without pause, rarely enjoying a break. Now, finally granted a short holiday, he wished for nothing more than to lie at home and sleep every day.

He hadn’t returned home for a long time. With the New Year approaching, it was time to go back and celebrate. Going home—that was the meaning of the Spring Festival.

Every year, migrant workers returned home with a year’s wages—their fruit of hard labor, the sole capital for supporting their families.

Strictly speaking, Gu Zhi was just another drifter in the north; if he couldn’t settle his accounts, he couldn’t go home. Otherwise, he would have left the gloomy, five-degree-below-zero capital long ago, returning to embrace the sunny, twenty-degrees warmth of his hometown, Shenwan.

He had no desire to venture out for dinner with girls in this bitter winter! Wasn’t it cold, Yuanyuan, the big sister?

It wasn’t until January 7th that Liu Qi arrived at Gu Zhi’s home, carrying a bank card, while he was curled up writing a script.

"Still so diligent, busy creating?" she asked.

"Getting next year's script done early means finishing early. How come you’re free today? Didn’t go out with Yuanyuan?" Gu Zhi noticed Liu Qi’s face was flushed red from the cold. As soon as she entered, he brewed her a cup of hot tea to warm her up.

Though the house was heated, the wind outside howled incessantly—Liu Qi had probably come straight from the China Film studio, and the north wind she’d faced along the way was tough to digest.

"It’s all because I have to bring you money. Third Master insisted I deliver it personally, as if the company had no one else. On such a cold day, too." Liu Qi removed her scarf, tossed it casually onto the sofa, and wrapped her hands around the tea cup for warmth. While complaining about Han Sanping, she also demanded snacks from Gu Zhi, making herself at home, as if she were in her own place.

Gu Zhi had known her for a year, and was long used to her ways.

"You could’ve just called me quietly and let me pick it up myself—I wouldn’t tell Third Master."

Liu Qi shook her head. Complaints aside, she always carried out the tasks assigned by Third Master earnestly. It was precisely this attitude that had led Third Master to groom her as a producer for China Film.

"Just stay home and focus on creating. Here, this is for you." She took a bank card from her pocket and tossed it lightly to Gu Zhi.

"The total box office figures just came out a few days ago, and the dividend arrived so quickly? That’s efficient. How much is inside?" He caught the card and toyed with it in his hands, feeling a small thrill inside.

His first film—from shooting to release and then to its withdrawal—spanned nearly eight months. Today, he finally received tangible feedback.

"Well, with New Year coming, our factory pushed for the payment to come early, so everyone could go home and have a good holiday," Liu Qi said, sipping her tea. "As of December 28th, ‘The Butterfly Effect’ had a total box office of 79.83 million."

"What a pity—just a bit short of 80 million."

The data had been published in film industry magazines recently. Last year, only ‘Life-and-Death Choice’ surpassed 100 million to top the charts; ‘The Butterfly Effect’ was next highest, followed by Feng Xiaogang’s ‘Endless,’ at 33 million.

‘Endless’ had premiered in December the previous year and wasn’t withdrawn until the following February, so its box office was counted into last year.

Gu Zhi remembered that, at the time, he was still in Shenwan, and his family had contributed to the box office.

Fourth place was Feng Xiaogang’s ‘A Sigh,’ at 28.7 million.

Feng’s two films together totaled just over 60 million, while ‘Life-and-Death Choice’ was an officially-organized, state-themed movie, incomparable to others. In truth, ‘The Butterfly Effect’ was the most successful and profitable film of the year. The only regret was rampant piracy—otherwise, it might have reached 90 million.

"It is a pity, but you’ve already earned plenty," Liu Qi said, casting a contemptuous glance at Gu Zhi, then explaining, "Out of that 79.83 million, 3.3% is taxed, and there’s the 5% Film Development Fund. Then the theaters..."

"Wait, I always hear about this 5% Film Development Fund—what’s it actually used for?"

Gu Zhi thought it was perfectly natural to pay taxes on film earnings, but he’d never understood the purpose of this fund. He hadn’t been in the film industry long and had never heard about where the money went—there was an air of opacity about it. Now was the perfect chance to ask an insider from China Film.

"This rule was issued by the Film Bureau in 1990. The fund is managed by the State Administration of Radio, Film and Television, mainly used to subsidize improvements in rural grassroots film screenings and to support and reward the production of children’s and state-themed films."

"Every film released and screened must pay it—it’s equal for all. Every year, quite a few films receive subsidies from the fund; many projects that no one invests in are only produced thanks to the fund. At least, China Film has many such cases each year."

Liu Qi gave a simple explanation. At her level, she didn’t know much, nor could she grasp all the fund’s destinations. She didn’t bother if Gu Zhi understood or not, and continued her previous topic:

"53% of the box office goes to the theaters and cinema chains. China Film, as distributor and producer, gets the remainder, minus an 11% commission, 5.53 million in publicity expenses, and full reimbursement for printing costs..."

"Alright, alright, just tell me how much is in the card. I trust Third Master."

Liu Qi was just as glad not to explain further. She nodded and said, "10.754 million."