mijobooks Chapter 206 Closed-Door Screening: Two Minutes of Dimensional Reduction Attack
Chapter 206 Closed-Door Screening: Two Minutes of Dimensional Reduction Attack
The following morning at 9:50.
Piazza della Signoria, Milan.
The rain stopped, the air was damp and cold, and a thin layer of water glistened on the stone bricks of the square.
Police tape was put up in front of the Cinema Arlecchino, with four armed Italian police officers standing on either side, their epaulets gleaming in the morning light.
Michael Horton got out of the Mercedes, glanced at the scene at the entrance, straightened his tie, and stepped into the theater.
There was no popcorn or Coke in the screening room.
The red velvet seats had a faint musty smell, and the edges of the armrests were worn and old.
Only seven invitations were sent out, and six people showed up.
In addition to Horton, the head of acquisitions from Fox Searchlight, the Asian representative from Miramax, and the selectors from the Berlin and Venice Film Festivals were also present.
Pierre Durand sat in the middle of the third row, his briefcase on his lap, his hands crossed, his fingertips touching the edges of the leather.
These six individuals control over 80% of the distribution channels and influence in the global independent film market.
They are usually wary of each other, but they can argue until they're red in the face at parties over a good notebook.
Today, however, it's unusually quiet.
Everyone is sizing up their peers, calculating each other's bottom line, and also calculating what they can offer.
9:55.
Chen Yan entered the screening room through a side door.
He changed into a well-tailored black shirt, with the cuffs rolled up to his elbows, revealing the smooth muscle lines on his forearms.
Wu Gang followed behind him, a bit of white bandage peeking out from under his jacket on his right shoulder, his shoulder not swaying as he walked.
Su Wan stood behind the glass window of the screening room, holding several documents, her fingertips pressing against the metal clasp of the folder.
Chen Yan walked to the big screen without taking a microphone.
"Everyone."
Chen Yan's voice rang out in the screening room, his pure London-accented English without a single accent.
"Thank you for accepting the arrogant invitation of an unknown person."
He made no small talk, no introduction of the plot, and no mention of Tivita Digital.
"The next twenty minutes are rough cuts from 'The Wandering Earth'."
He glanced at the faces in the front row, speaking slowly.
"There is no background music, no color grading, only the most original soundtrack and visuals."
He paused for half a second, then turned to look at the exit.
"After you've finished looking, the door is over there."
"Those who want to leave, don't bother seeing them off."
"Those who want to stay, let's talk business."
Chen Yan turned to the side and made a hand gesture.
All the lights in the screening room were turned off.
There was no opening sequence, and no dragon logo.
In the darkness, the dull, heavy metallic clanging of gears rolled out from the depths of the speaker.
The metallic thud cut in from the left rear, pushing all the way up to the right front along the top of the audience's heads.
The seat started to vibrate.
The big screen lights up.
There was no bright natural light in the scene, only glaring red flashing alarm lights.
Underground city riot.
The handheld and shoulder-mounted camera shook violently, directly shattering the inertia of Hollywood's steady narrative.
There were no elaborately designed martial arts routines in the footage.
A group of people in tattered winter clothes were fighting like beasts in a narrow steel tunnel over half a compressed biscuit.
Blood splattered on the rusty pipes.
Someone was pushed into the water, and bubbles rose up from the bottom in strings.
The main light source was cut off, and a large area of darkness swallowed the end of the passage, leaving only the alarm light flashing on and off, making people's chests tighten.
Michael Horton gripped the armrest of the seat, his palms pressed against the cool wood grain.
The visuals were so realistic that he could almost smell the rust and blood seeping from the screen.
This was nothing like the colorful, graceful Chinese martial arts films he had imagined.
This is a raw, violent aesthetic.
The scene then cuts to the ground.
A panoramic view of the planetary engine, rendered by Weta Digital, unfolds.
A steel behemoth ten thousand meters tall spewed out a dark blue plasma beam that burned through the gray clouds.
The camera rapidly pans down from 10,000 meters above the ground, passing over the frozen Great Wall and the frozen Oriental Pearl Tower, finally hovering in front of a 120-ton heavy transport vehicle.
Lin Qingqiu has made his appearance.
She was wearing a 60-pound metal exoskeleton, without makeup, and her face was covered in machine oil and ice shards.
She climbed the sloping ice, and with each exertion, the hydraulic rods of her exoskeleton emitted a strained hiss.
The camera zoomed in, giving her a close-up of her face.
Those eyes didn't hold the terrified screams of Hollywood actresses facing disaster, nor did they show any deliberate display of strength.
Only Easterners possess the obsessive instinct for survival and the yearning for the starry sky above.
The sluggishness caused by physical gravity made every movement of hers feel like a struggle.
Pierre Durand's breathing became heavy, and his interlaced fingers slowly loosened.
He had seen countless excellent actors, but the power that Lin Qingqiu displayed at this moment completely shattered the stereotypes that Europeans held about Eastern women being weak and submissive.
This is a kind of wildness that grows from the wasteland.
The transport vehicle started up on the ice field, its twelve wheels crushing the ice.
The roar of the engine reached its peak, and the air in the screening room vibrated.
The twenty-minute segment contains no lengthy dialogue explaining the worldview.
Chen Yan used the most direct and violent audiovisual language to forcefully insert a grand concept involving Earth's wandering into the minds of these six top European and American buyers.
The image freezes on the moment the transport vehicle hurtles towards Jupiter's storm.
The screen went dark.
No one spoke in the screening room.
There was no applause, no conversation.
Only heavy breathing could be heard rising and falling between the seats.
The purchasing manager at Fox Searchlights had his mouth slightly agape, and the pen in his hand fell onto the carpet without him even noticing.
Michael Horton leaned back in his chair, his shirt soaked with sweat.
His proud Hollywood industry standards suffered a direct confrontation from the East in the past twenty minutes.
Hollywood couldn't make a work that so perfectly blends heavy industrial science fiction with the tragic grandeur of Eastern collectivism.
The lights came on.
Chen Yan remained standing in front of the big screen, waiting for his prey to speak.
Pierre Durand was the first to stand up.
Ignoring the wary glances from the other film selectors around him, he walked past the front row seats and straight up to Chen Yan.
He unzipped his briefcase, pulled out a specially made envelope with a gold palm leaf logo, and handed it to Chen Yan with both hands.
"Mr. Chen."
Pierre's voice couldn't contain his excitement.
"On behalf of the Cannes Film Festival Selection Committee, I formally invite 'The Wandering Earth' to be the opening film of the Special Presentations section of this year's Cannes Film Festival."
He pushed the envelope forward another half an inch.
"We don't need to watch the whole film."
"Twenty minutes is enough."
Upon hearing this, the others could no longer remain seated.
The film selectors in Berlin and Venice looked grim.
Cannes took the lead by offering the highest level of treatment to the opening film, which elevates the film's artistic value to a whole new level.
Michael Horton stood up and kicked the pen off the floor.
"Director Chen."
He strode forward and stood in front of the Fox searchlight supervisor.
"Sony Classics is willing to pay eight million US dollars to buy out the North American distribution rights for 'The Wandering Earth'."
He stared at Chen Yan, speaking faster.
"We can sign the contract now."
"Eight million?"
The head of Fox Searchlights squeezed through, his face already grim.
"Horton, you're insulting this movie."
He turned to Chen Yan, his palm pressed against his chest.
"Director Chen, Fox is offering ten million, plus five percent of the North American box office revenue."
The prey has become the hunter.
Chen Yan did not accept Pierre's envelope, nor did he respond to the offers from the two Hollywood labels.
He turned his head and looked at the glass window of the projection room.
Su Wan pushed open the door and stepped out. The sound of her high heels hitting the ground drew everyone's attention.
She walked up to Chen Yan, and facing this group of men who controlled the fate of global cinema, her aura was in no way inferior.
"Everyone."
Su Wan placed the documents on the first row of seats, pressing her fingertip against the top contract.
"Buying out the copyright is impossible."
She looked up, her gaze sweeping across the faces of Horton and the Fox executive.
"We only discuss a guaranteed minimum plus global revenue sharing."
"The bottom line is a guaranteed $12 million, plus 10% of the global box office revenue."
"If the number is below this, everyone can go back to the hotel and rest."
As soon as he finished speaking, Chen Yan's phone vibrated in his pocket.
He glanced at the caller ID; it was an unfamiliar number from Beijing.
Chen Yan answered the phone, and a frail yet steady voice came through the receiver.
"Director Chen Yan, I'm from the Film Bureau."
There was a pause on the other end of the phone, followed by a soft crackling of electricity.
"There's been a problem with the censorship of 'The Wandering Earth'."