Chapter Eighty: Cleansing Brings Greater Health

After seeing Liu Qi off, Gu Zhi poured the remaining 650,000 yuan out of his bag in one go, piling it up on the table. That expanse of bright red cash was truly a visual shock—so much more tangible than a cold, impersonal bank card. No wonder the wealthy of old loved to carry wads of bills and wear thick gold chains. It really was rather crude.

Having experienced electronic payments, Gu Zhi now deeply understood just how inconvenient life without smartphones must have been. Stacks of banknotes like these were nothing but a burden. He couldn’t help but scorn himself—what was the point of withdrawing so much cash for no reason?

He quickly allocated the amounts for each red envelope, wrapping them up in several pieces of kraft paper. On the outside, they looked almost like sticks of plastic explosives. In a word: tacky.

Fifteen hundred thousand for Ning Hao, the director of “The Butterfly Effect,” who had been involved throughout the film’s production—his workload was in fact greater than Gu Zhi’s. Recently, he and Xing Aina had been shooting another film, likely funded by their own savings. Though neither had asked Gu Zhi for help, he thought it only right to lend some extra support.

Ten thousand each for Tang Wei and Liu Ye, the two leads who contributed equally to the film. He couldn’t show favoritism just because of his special relationship with Tang Wei; that would only breed resentment.

Five thousand each for Zhang Yishan and Yang Zi. The young stars had substantial roles and worked as hard as the adults; with the New Year approaching, it was only proper for an elder to give them a small red envelope.

That left 200,000, which Gu Zhi intended to divide among all the crew members present at the celebration banquet. Most of them belonged to Liu Qi’s production team under China Film Group. Building good relations with them might make it easier to poach talent once Liu Qi joined his company.

But divided among over a hundred people, each would barely receive 2,000 yuan—a world of difference compared to the main creators’ bonuses. In any film crew, the director and actors always played the central roles and therefore received the largest, most famous shares. By contrast, the ordinary crew members might as well have picked up their wages for free; if each one got even a thousandth of the total investment, it was considered generous.

The root cause was their replaceability. Ordinary staff—lighting technicians, camera operators, makeup artists, set workers—were all too easily swapped out. If they grumbled over low pay and slacked off, there were countless others outside waiting to take their place.

But directors and stars were a different story, especially directors. In China, a director was the core of a production—virtually irreplaceable. As a result, directors and celebrities claimed ninety-nine percent of the rewards, while the rest were left with mere scraps.

This was especially pronounced in China—more so in the era of rising “fresh-faced idols.” The poor quality of so many productions could often be traced back to their exorbitant fees. When one idol swallowed up most of a film or show’s budget, the crew had nothing left to produce a quality work; they could only churn out mediocrity, just to meet deadlines.

Of course, in many cases, these idols were merely tools for the big bosses behind the scenes to launder money. Such productions were never meant for audiences to enjoy.

If China’s film industry was ever to become truly commercial, it would need a complete system of industrialized production, with each part playing its role and receiving fair compensation, instead of the current mess of dysfunction and distortion.

Gu Zhi knew that thinking too much about it now was pointless. Even if he wanted to change things, it would take careful planning; acting rashly would do more harm than good. After some thought, he decided to withdraw another 350,000 yuan from the bank tomorrow, so that every crew member could receive at least a 5,000 yuan bonus. With the New Year approaching, this sum would serve as their year-end award.

He wasn’t putting it off out of laziness—it was just that the nearby bank branch, having already given him 750,000 yuan, had asked him not to return that day; if he needed more, he’d have to come back tomorrow.

The next day, after withdrawing the cash, Gu Zhi received a call from Liu Qi.

“My parents agreed!” she shouted excitedly as soon as he answered, and he could imagine her jumping for joy.

“Good. You’re at China Film today, right? Is Third Master around?”

“I’ll go talk to him in a bit. You’d better prepare yourself.”

Liu Qi, who’d just been over the moon, suddenly sounded deflated, her voice weak.

“I’m scared…” she even drew out the word on purpose.

“I’ve never seen you scared of me. Soon I’ll be your boss—just wait.”

After hanging up, Gu Zhi headed straight to Han Sanping’s office at China Film. Truth be told, he felt a twinge of anxiety himself. After all, Han Sanping was a giant in the industry—one of the most influential figures in Chinese film. Poaching someone from him was no easy feat.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Third Master, it’s me—Gu Zhi.”

He knocked softly, face grave, even slowing his breath by half a beat.

Not far down the hall, Liu Qi waited nervously by the corner, peeking toward the office and giving Gu Zhi a thumbs-up before quickly pulling back, terrified Han Sanping would spot her.

“Come in.”

Two minutes later, Gu Zhi opened the door and beckoned Liu Qi inside. His expression was stern and unsmiling, which made Liu Qi’s heart sink; her legs nearly gave out.

Just before stepping into the office, she’d resolved that if things went awry, she’d immediately switch sides and sell Gu Zhi out. Let Third Master scold him all he wanted—surely Gu Zhi wouldn’t blame her.

But two minutes passed and nothing alarming happened inside; in fact, occasional laughter drifted out, attracting the attention of colleagues nearby. Everyone had heard that Gu Zhi was trying to recruit Liu Qi—China Film’s rising producer and Han Sanping’s prized protégé. The whole office was distracted, minds focused on this one event.

Half an hour later, Gu Zhi and Liu Qi emerged from the office beaming, radiant with joy—happiness almost written across their faces. Their colleagues needed no explanation; Third Master must have agreed, even offered support. Otherwise, how could two people enter looking grim and leave so exuberant?

Liu Qi’s matter was settled, though she couldn’t immediately assist Gu Zhi. There were still myriad affairs at China Film for her to hand over, and the resignation procedures at a large company would take time.

Moreover, they still needed to find Han Sanping a reliable new secretary; that was his only condition. Gu Zhi promised on the spot to find someone even more dependable than Liu Qi.

These things couldn’t be done in a day or two; at the earliest, Liu Qi would be free after the New Year.

Gu Zhi knew there was no rushing her, and reminded her to finish her duties well and not damage her reputation with Third Master.

After leaving China Film that morning, he went directly to the Beijing Industrial and Commercial Bureau with his documents, only to learn that, with the New Year so close, they were no longer processing company registrations. He would have to wait until after the holiday.

Such were the rules; he had no complaints, though he knew that with a few connections, the matter could have been resolved easily. Still, some stubborn pride held him back.

“Who am I kidding with this moral high ground? The benefits just aren’t big enough,” he mocked himself as he walked away.

The company would have to wait until after the New Year; for now, the priority was to secure his people.

At noon, Gu Zhi invited Gao Yuanyuan to lunch.