As the Venice Film Festival reaches its midpoint, reports on When Snow Melts It Turns Green have been emerging in an endless stream.
Hollywood Daily writes:
Li Shan’s coldness is as unwavering as ever. He places a world half-real and half-fictional within vast expanses of ice and snow, and beneath a motif steeped in romantic tradition, he peels away the stark truths of reality.
Time comments:
Under the outcry of politics, getting slogans heard is not difficult – what is difficult is how to touch the depths of the soul in a silent yet powerful way. What better medium than the art of cinema to bear this weighty task?
Vanity Fair praises the performances:
A delicate and miniature piece of Eastern cinematic architecture, brimming with restrained metaphors. We cannot conclude whether these metaphors are excessive or just right; the only certainty is that the lead performances will stand as its most enduring architectural pillars across time.
Screen International gives the film high overall praise:
When Snow Melts It Turns Green undoubtedly deconstructs its thematic motif. Li Shan, with his signature solid aesthetic approach, re-narrates the cliché of “saving the fallen woman.” Whether in the weight of the performances or the concision of the cinematography, the film far surpasses its peers. What stirs the soul are its explorations of love, marriage, and ethnic traditions – but the undercurrents of gaze, intervention, discipline, and alienation endow the film with a more enduring value. This seems to be a literary film – if such a word may be used – and on this foundation, the erotic scenes become the least consequential point of focus.
The Times offers a balanced view:
The story follows a formulaic structure, yet miraculously possesses a quality that moves the heart. When tragedy follows a path all too familiar, how the story is told and how details are arranged become crucial factors – they determine whether a coin finally lands on side A or side B.
Variety is effusive in its praise of the performances:
The lead actress’s ferocity, fragility, sensuality, and purity are deeply impressive – a seamless, integrated portrayal. Xueqing’s inner conflicts are brought to life through her burning, incandescent performance.
When the reports made their way back to domestic audiences, the foreign critics’ reviews – being overly formal and academic – produced a rather amusing effect of “speaking in ways that don’t sound like human language.” Yet the eagerly waiting fans cut straight to the heart of the matter:
[Got it. It means it’s great in every way, and the performances are especially outstanding!]
The premiere coverage arrived alongside the news of the Hong Kong release date. Behind-the-scenes clips kept surfacing, and a steady stream of anecdotes, interpretations, and reposts followed. The question of whether the film would see a release in mainland China also became a major talking point:
[The Venice Film Festival hit “Snow Melts into Green” has finally locked in a September 20 release date in Hong Kong, Macau, Taiwan, and Southeast Asian countries. As for a mainland China release, the production company has remained tight-lipped. During a media interview in Lido, when asked about the censorship review process, Li Shan appeared quite relaxed. He said they would make every effort to secure a mainland release and expressed agreement with the feedback and guidance from the film bureau. He also did not rule out personally editing a version for public screening.
The project faced numerous hurdles from the very start, which forced Li Shan to take a detour through Hong Kong as a workaround. At a press conference, he admitted that the final film bears little resemblance to the initial synopsis submitted to the film bureau. “If we had submitted the current story back then, it probably would have been approved straight away,” Li Shan said with a laugh, adding, “When Snow Melts It Turns Green is a film created through the collective effort of many, and it’s been a fresh creative experience.”]
Old dogs know their tricks – public opinion noted that Li Shan had spoken very tactfully. And so he should. What director worth their salt doesn’t know how to navigate the corridors of power?
With the release date set, fans buzzed with discussion:
[I’m going to Hong Kong to support the box office! Might as well make a trip out of it.]
[Hong Kong natives say: no fear.]
[Hope the screenings are decent. Hong Kong cinemas are already few in number, and they also have to protect local Hong Kong films.]
Some more casual fans chimed in:
[No money. See you on the cloud drive.]
[This film is aiming for awards anyway, so box office probably doesn’t matter, right? It’s a low-budget indie – it’ll recoup its costs easily with just a few screenings.]
[Planning to wait for streaming and Blu-ray.]
The distribution rights for Hong Kong, Macau, Taiwan, and Southeast Asia had been negotiated in advance. As for releases in other international markets, as well as streaming and Blu-ray distribution – those were precisely among Tiwen’s key priorities at the Venice Film Festival. This was business, and it was also a craft. Though Tiwen was new to the game, she didn’t shy away from the challenge – yet there were many undercurrents she had to navigate carefully. Fortunately, at a banquet, she met Gu Xiu, the president of GC Entertainment, and through his introductions, she came to know many of the influential behind-the-scenes power brokers in the Chinese film industry.
Tiwen applied herself diligently to learning – stocks, trading markets, revenue-sharing models – each a labyrinth of its own. This operated on a logic entirely different from filmmaking. Their conversations rarely mentioned film itself, yet every word revolved around it.
Another small salon for producers and financiers was held at a bar along the Grand Canal. The sound of piano and jazz vocals filled the air as Gu Xiu paused with her at the entrance. At the end of their casual chat, he said, “There’s a crisp, spirited quality about you.”
Tiwen caught his implication. “You’re saying I’m a young girl – easy to read.”
“Indeed,” Gu Xiu smiled. “Helping Ying Yin get out of his contract, investing in this film -those were moves that don’t follow the usual playbook.”
“If I only ever walk the paths my predecessors have trodden, where’s the fun in that?” Tiwen replied with a smile. “Since this is an industry in flux, perhaps miracles lie just beyond the beaten track.”
Gu Xiu placed one hand on the door handle. Before pushing it open, he stepped aside and said in his usual gentle, refined tone: “In that case, welcome to the industry of miracles.”
The door opened – and within that dark ambiance, a dazzling array of lights and colors unfolded. Tiwen stood at the entrance, paused for a brief, held breath, then stepped into the room that belonged to the producers.
…
On September 6th, frontline reporters once again published a feature story, detailing the grandeur of When Snow Melts It Turns Green at its North American premiere during the Toronto International Film Festival. Buoyed by the advance buzz from Venice, the film garnered unprecedented attention and trading interest in Toronto as well. Ying Yin attended the red carpet in Toronto before flying back to Venice that very night without pause.
Back at the Hôtel Excelsior, Shang Shao held her in his arms for a full ten minutes before she finally settled down.
“I’ve gotten lazy. It’s all your fault,” Ying Yin said, deflated. Her biological clock was in disarray – she was both exhausted and restless, her words tumbling out in a drowsy mumble.
Back in the Chenye days, she’d spent years moving seamlessly from one production to the next, and between projects there was an endless string of banquets, business engagements, and magazine shoots – her schedule packed to the brim. Yet she was young and driven back then, bold and unrelenting, and never once felt tired. One year, a new film release coincided with Fashion Week – she had to make appearances in Paris and Milan, shoot covers, and participate in roadshows across a dozen cities in China. Even her fans were astonished, wondering if some of her appearances were being handled by a body double.
Now, just a round trip to Toronto left her feeling utterly wronged, in need of a hug.
Shang Shao brushed aside the curls at her temple. There was no trace of fatigue or puffiness on her face – her complexion was still like flawless jade, skin smooth and taut over fine bone structure. So her sullen expression came across more as playful pouting.
Shang Shao knew full well she was putting on a show, found it endearing, and while kneading the acupoints at the nape of her neck, asked with a half-smile, “Have you gotten lazy, or have you gotten spoiled?”
Ying Yin bit her lip, her nose crinkling slightly as she looked up at him. “If someone dotes on you, it’s being spoiled. If no one does, it’s just being lazy.”
Shang Shao lowered his face to brush his lips against hers.
“Someone dotes on you.”
He had since learned how to attend to a woman – or rather, to attend to one woman in particular. He knew how to fill the tub with water at just the right temperature, knew which bath salts and essential oils she liked, knew how to mix a non-alcoholic goodnight drink, snap a sprig of rosemary, slice two wedges of fresh orange by hand, and finally place beside the tub a copy of Fundamentals of Investment Analysis – a most mood-killing companion.
When Junyi was first consulted by him, she was genuinely taken aback and stammered her way through explaining how the bath salts were used and how the essential oils worked. Back at home, the servants used to handle all that. Shang Shao looked at the array of bottles and jars in his hands, furrowed his brow slightly, and found it both baffling and amusing. “So her bath routine is this much trouble.”
He put in the bath salts, ran the water, and it turned a dreamy, shimmery blue.
Shang Shao: “?”
Junyi felt inexplicably embarrassed. How was she supposed to explain these little ritualistic touches that young women loved?
Stammering, she said, “Well… it’s, um… mermaid-inspired…”
Shang Shao: “…”
The heavens are unfair – a man who has always lived in privilege, when doing a bit of housework to attend to a woman, still managed to look more pleasing to the eye than others.
Especially those hands, with the wedding ring on his finger.
Junyi watched as he sliced the oranges on the rosewood cutting board – each piece even in thickness, his hands steady, every slice as if precisely measured. Once sliced, he arranged them on a plate with strawberries, then washed his hands and dried them carefully with a square paper napkin. Every item in the suite was exquisite – the thick paper napkins were printed with painted flowers and birds, clearly luxurious, and in his hands they seemed perfectly suited.
“I could have done all this,” Junyi said bluntly. “If I’m not around, just make a phone call and have someone else do it.”
Shang Shao smiled faintly. “I just wanted to experience the feeling.”
Junyi asked, “What feeling?”
“The feeling of an ordinary man.”
Junyi: “…”
After a moment of silence, she conceded and asked, “So, Mr. Shang, how do you feel now?”
Shang Shao picked up the fruit platter with one hand, placed a French ceramic-handled fruit fork on it, and said calmly, “Limited pleasure. Not as satisfying as giving her a jewelry capsule toy.”
A day later, Junyi asked with a mix of mystery and excitement, “So? So? Was she deeply moved?”
“No.”
“Ah?” Junyi was dumbfounded. “That doesn’t sound like her.”
Shang Shao thought for a moment. “Perhaps it’s because I placed a copy of Fundamentals of Investment Analysis beside the tub.”
Junyi: “…”
For heaven’s sake!
The whole “learn from your mistakes” thing only works if the man has actually suffered a painful lesson. But clearly, Shang Shao hadn’t.
Ying Yin lay sprawled across the cherrywood shelf of the bathtub. “I don’t want to read it. I don’t understand it.”
“It’s entry-level.”
One of his assistants – a finance major by training – had been entrusted by Chairman Shao to draw up a long list of entry-level recommended readings. Shang Shao went through them one by one and picked out this one as the most accessible, clearly structured, and comprehensively framed introductory text. Setting aside the two massive conglomerates Shangyu and Qili, the Shang family’s private assets were managed by three separate professional teams – but as the future matriarch, understanding these operations and rules was a required course for Ying Yin.
Ying Yin remained sprawled there, her fingertips submerged in the hot water, her body soaking among rose petals, her damp shoulders and neck exposed above the surface. She looked like some dying goddess of flowers, gazing at her own reflection on the water, and said with great pathos, “No one cares about me…”
Shang Shao leaned against the wall, holding a pocket-sized novel in one hand, and turned a page, saying calmly, “Reading and thinking will free you from your tension.”
Ying Yin was quick with her tongue. “I’d rather do…”
She stopped.
Shang Shao glanced down at her, snapped his book shut with a clap, and said, “That’s not out of the question either.”
Ying Yin quickly and obediently flipped open the pages, but the heat had already spread from her body to her neck, her earlobes, and finally to her face. Surely no one else had ever read a copy of Fundamentals of Investment Analysis with such a flushed face and crimson-tinged eyes.
Her nervousness wasn’t actually obvious – not even to Junyi, who was an intuitive creature by nature. When reporters asked her, she carried herself with grace, saying that the integrity of the work came first, that all the performances in this year’s competition deserved recognition, and that she would have no regrets no matter who won. A few days earlier, Tiwen had gone with them to Da Lv for Italian food, and right in front of Shang Shao, she’d asked Ying Yin if she was feeling nervous – and Ying Yin had played it off with flawless composure.
How on earth did Shang Shao manage to see through her?
After her bath, she had indeed flipped through some twenty to thirty pages of that book, putting on a convincing show of diligent study. Stepping out of the tub onto the bath mat, she dried herself off with excruciating slowness. Shang Shao took the towel from her hands, wrapped her up completely, and as he dried her off, he saw right through her distracted state of mind.
He swept her up in his arms without warning, making Ying Yin startle and wrap both arms around his neck.
“How many words did you actually take in?” he asked, knowing full well.
Ying Yin had no words to offer, so she just shook her head and nestled in close, reaching for his kiss.
Shang Shao held her and kissed her for a while, pressing her against the wall, his gaze already darkening. Between feather-light pecks, he asked, “Do you want to sleep, or do you want a distraction?”
Ying Yin pressed her cheek against his neck, thought for a moment, and still feeling weary, said, “Sleep.”
Lido Island is a long, narrow strip of land – once a tightly guarded military fortress, now a getaway destination for Europe’s wealthy. The long sandy beaches are either private or belong to hotels. Lying in bed, the sound of the waves came very close, rising and falling in a steady, lulling rhythm.
Shang Shao didn’t know exactly when he had fallen asleep, but he knew very well when he woke up – and what had woken him.
In the dim, grayish darkness of the night, the thin white duvet was slightly raised. From beneath the covers came a sound like a small rodent nibbling on sweet blades of grass.
Shang Shao laid one hand across his forehead and let out a deep, slow breath. When he opened his eyes, his gaze was already fully clear.
Of course, a certain part of him had actually come to attention earlier and faster than his mind had.
He threw back the covers, propped himself up slightly, and adjusted into a more convenient position. It must have been past midnight – through the floor-to-ceiling window, beyond the balcony, he could see the deep blue sky. Once his eyes adjusted, his vision returned. He squinted, watching Ying Yin’s movements, threading his fingers through her hair and brushing it back, then trailing his hand down from her cheek to gently cup her chin.
“Take it slow.”
His unhurried composure in such matters carried its own brand of seduction.
Ying Yin obediently turned her face, pressing against him, her lips brushing over his tattoo. But after only a moment, he pulled her up with force, and she tumbled into his arms.
Shang Shao pressed his large hand against her waist, his breath hot as he asked, “Couldn’t sleep?”
Tomorrow was the closing ceremony. Though the organizers had already given them a hint that they would have a place at the awards, the final results were still unknown – would it be a technical award, a screenplay award, the Volpi Cup, the Silver Lion, Best Director, the Golden Lion? Everything was still guesswork. On the eve of such a night, to say she had no stake in the outcome would be self-deception. Besides, when had she ever been without ambition? Her drive and aspirations had never been set aside.
Ying Yin nodded, letting out a soft “Mm.”
Shang Shao let out a small laugh, rubbing her lips with his thumb. “Why so nasally?”
He was asking knowingly, so Ying Yin pressed up to chase his kiss, sealing his lips. There was another layer of scent in her mouth – not hers – but mingled with her sweetness, it was intoxicating. Dangerously so. Shang Shao curled his tongue around hers, deepening the kiss, his hand gliding down the curve of her waist. The casual ease in his expression shifted with the tension in his arms, growing stronger, more commanding.
They had been married for half a year, and with their timing now settled, forgoing protection felt only natural. But this was the first time – before this, they had been careful, not wanting to risk any mishap, so precautions had been thorough from start to finish.
The long-missed sensation of skin against skin was almost too much for Ying Yin. Her brow furrowed, her red lips parted, and she let out a soft sigh.
She sat in his lap, perfectly fitted, completely filled.
“Is this how you want it?” Shang Shao murmured in her ear, pressing feather-light kisses.
“More.” She was fearless tonight.
Shang Shao closed his eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he let out a hot, ragged breath. “Let’s take it slow for now.”
He was afraid of hurting her.
After a while, the floodgates opened. Neither of them could quite tell who had lost control first.
Foreigners were used to soft beds – the more expensive the hotel, the softer the mattress, with thick layers of memory foam like clouds, cradling and enveloping anyone who sank into them. Ying Yin’s face was flushed and damp with sweat, and she no longer had the capacity to worry about her anxieties over fame and awards. Right now, she was more concerned with whether she’d survive the night – but her pleas came out fragmented, barely forming words, and every attempt to beg for mercy only seemed to fuel the fire.
It felt like dawn would never come.
Shang Shao brushed aside her sweat-dampened hair and whispered in her ear, “How about we name the baby Vanessa?”
At first, Ying Yin didn’t understand – until he bent her legs and added, “It’s close to Venice.”
Any reply she tried to make was shattered into broken, breathy sounds, leaving only indistinct moans. Ying Yin soon softened completely, clinging to Shang Shao with all her might. If, on this night before the awards were announced, a small life had truly come into being between them, then it would be a gift from heaven.
When the sea breeze swept in, dawn had indeed begun to show its colors – a deep, gentle blue. The scent inside the suite had grown thick and heady. Shang Shao stood by the balcony door, letting the wind blow through.
The breeze billowed his loose black robe. In the hazy light before daybreak, where sea and sky merged into one, his silhouette – sharp and composed, with downcast eyes – stood like a singular stroke of grace in the frame.
Ying Yin emerged from the bathroom and watched him for a while. Before she could even reach his side, Shang Shao had already turned to her.
“Are you cold?” He took her hand and drew her into his embrace.
“Vanessa is a girl’s name,” Ying Yin said softly.
“Mm.”
“How do you know it’s a girl?”
Shang Shao asked for her thoughts. “Don’t you like it? Or do you prefer having a boy first?”
“I like it. I want a daughter.” Ying Yin rested her chin on his shoulder. “And daughters take after their fathers.”
“What’s so good about taking after me?” Shang Shao’s lips curved gently upward. “Better to take after you.”
Ying Yin did not reply, answering instead with a lingering kiss.
“But it’s not up to us,” she said after the kiss, already planning ahead. “Maybe it’ll be a boy.”
Shang Shao looked down, smiled faintly, and replied casually, “There is no ‘maybe.’ What I want, I get.”
There was probably no one in the world more qualified to say that than him. He was a man deeply favored by heaven.
Ying Yin smiled, but playfully challenged him. “Really?”
“Really.” Shang Shao kneaded her earlobe, where a small red mole marked it. “Unless I myself am undecided.”
“About what?” Ying Yin couldn’t think of anything.
“What would you be undecided about?”
“For example…” Shang Shao lowered his head, his voice dropping along with it. “I’m a bit torn – whether it’s better to get you pregnant quickly, or take it slow and have more tries. Why don’t you teach me?”
