Chapter Sixty-Six: Meeting the Parents (Part Two)

Chapter Sixty-Six: Meeting the Parents (Part II)

After sitting down, Zhang Le felt a bit like he was undergoing an interrogation by three judges, though his strong mental fortitude kept him from feeling truly ill at ease.

A calm and steady heart—this was something Zhang Le always reminded himself to keep. Yet, facing his girlfriend’s parents for the first time in either of his lifetimes, how could he truly remain unruffled?

Yang Xiner tried to win over her grandfather with acts of cuteness, hoping to draw his attention away, but it was clear that neither of her parents were to be so easily distracted. Both Yang Guomin and Li Fang kept their eyes fixed on Zhang Le. Yang Mingwei, on the other hand, watched the scene with a hint of schadenfreude in his smile.

“I heard you were the top scorer in the college entrance exams in Bashu Province. Why didn’t you go to Yanda or Qinghua, and instead chose the Film Academy?” Yang Guomin broke the silence first.

“It was mostly about passion! Back in high school, I developed a deep interest in films. Perhaps I was a bit of a hot-blooded youth, too. Watching Hollywood films dominate the box office here while Chinese films fell by the wayside, I felt a surge of frustration. That’s why, against everyone’s advice, I insisted on applying to the Film Academy,” Zhang Le replied with a smile.

“Against everyone’s advice? Did your family object to your choice?” Li Fang frowned slightly as she asked.

“My family respected my wishes. The ones who objected were mostly teachers and friends,” Zhang Le replied, still smiling.

My family respected my wishes—ha! When it comes to me and Yang Xiner, you all should respect her wishes, too!

“Are our country’s films really that bad?” Grandfather Yang suddenly asked.

“Of the top five films at the box office, only one is Chinese—and it’s in last place. That’s ‘Waiting for Homecoming,’ the one that came out last year, which Zhang Le starred in. He even wrote and composed the theme song. The other four are all Hollywood movies, which is to say, American films,” Yang Xiner interjected.

As for why Zhang Le had chosen the Film Academy over Yanda or Qinghua, it was true he was passionate about film. But all that talk about being frustrated by the dominance of Hollywood and wanting to fight back was, for the most part, a story told for Grandfather Yang’s benefit.

I want to contribute to Chinese cinema because our national films are struggling—what a lofty and patriotic ideal! If they want to make me switch careers, they’ll have to think twice in front of Grandfather Yang.

For Grandfather Yang’s generation, who had devoted their entire lives to their country and people, pushing aside everything for the sake of catching up with foreign powers—military, economic, scientific, international status—they could hardly accept hearing that their nation’s films were being routed and left in ruins. Especially for someone who had spent a lifetime in the military, such words were deeply sensitive.

Yang Xiner wanted to laugh—Zhang Le was clever, borrowing the authority of her grandfather to stifle her mother’s objections!

She glanced gratefully at her brother, Yang Mingwei. No doubt, had it not been for his earlier reminders, Zhang Le’s answer might have conveyed the same sentiment, but it certainly wouldn’t have been worded so effectively. The meaning might be the same, but the impact was completely different.

“Good, it’s right to be spirited and indignant! Young people should be bold and compete with the foreigners,” Grandfather Yang said, looking at Zhang Le with approval.

“He’ll definitely accomplish it, I believe in him,” Yang Xiner added, glancing at Zhang Le. “Grandpa, you probably don’t know, but his very first film, with just a few million in investment, has already made over a hundred million at the box office in just a few days, causing quite a sensation both in sales and word-of-mouth.”

“Oh? Can a single film really make that much at the box office these days?” Grandfather Yang asked curiously.

“The top five films have all grossed over five hundred million, with the highest nearing a billion. And of those top five, Hollywood movies occupy four spots—imagine how much money that is!” Yang Xiner said. “Meanwhile, our films perform abysmally in North America and elsewhere. Once, the British made money off us with opium; now Americans do it with their movies. Just a handful of films, and tens of billions leave our country! Worse than the money itself, though, is how their films spread their values, challenging our own culture.”

“Xiner, aren’t you being a bit alarmist?” Li Fang frowned, clearly realizing what was going on. Judging from her father-in-law’s expression, it was clear that using Zhang Le’s career as an excuse to object to this relationship was no longer viable. She glanced at Yang Mingwei, her look making it obvious she suspected what he had told them on the way over.

“Maybe comparing it to opium isn’t quite right, but it’s a fact that America uses its films to spread its values worldwide. If our film industry can’t catch up, our domestic market will end up just like North America—Hollywood’s backyard,” Zhang Le said.

“I may not know much about film, but I do know you can’t judge a movie solely by its box office returns. Zhang Le, you’re a film student—am I right?” Li Fang asked.

“Of course, box office numbers alone can’t measure a film’s worth,” Zhang Le replied, smiling. “But a film’s box office does show its influence—the higher the numbers, the more people see it, and the greater its impact.”

“So, from what you’re saying, you chase box office success more than the art of the film itself? Aren’t you worried people will accuse your films of reeking of money?” Li Fang pressed.

“I do prefer commercial films over art films,” Zhang Le admitted with a smile, ignoring the trap his future mother-in-law was setting for him. “I think art films are for a select few, while commercial films are for the masses. Besides, I want to make films that earn money from foreigners. That’s why I’m more interested in commercial cinema. Of course, if I can balance both art and commerce, that would be ideal.”

“Have you never thought of making a film that wins prizes abroad, bringing honor to the country?” Li Fang asked again.

“Auntie, I don’t think you’ve seen the films that win awards at foreign festivals, have you?” Zhang Le shook his head. “Most of them can’t even be shown here. If you watched them, you probably wouldn’t want me making that kind of movie.”

“People online joke that, to win awards at foreign film festivals, Chinese directors just need to highlight our country’s worst aspects—the poorer, the grimmer, the better. Adding biting criticism helps, too. Stories about poverty, backwardness, bleakness, cruelty, and so on. Such awards aren’t worth having,” Yang Xiner added with a wry smile.

“Xiner’s words may be a little harsh, but it’s true we have such directors here,” Zhang Le continued. “Personally, I don’t like making art films just to win awards. I believe that winning a foreign trophy can never compare to actually making money from foreign audiences. Awards are an honor, yes, but for Chinese films to break into international markets is far more important for both the industry and the nation. Hollywood dominating our box office is our shame. But if Chinese films were to top foreign box offices, that would be our glory—a far more tangible glory than any trophy.”

“Can we talk about something else? I don’t really understand all this about movies. Can we discuss something where I can actually join in? Otherwise, I feel completely left out here,” Yang Mingwei suddenly interjected, breaking the momentary silence left by Zhang Le’s speech.