Tiwen came to see Ying Yin around brunch time. When she arrived at the suite where Ying Yin was staying, Ying Yin was eating a flaky croissant. Chu Anni stood behind her with her assistant, the two of them wholeheartedly attending to her hair.
Tonight was the moment when the Best Actress award would be decided. Chu Anni had been deliberating for a long time over whether Ying Yin should wear her hair down in glamorous, voluminous waves to create a powerful aura, or put it up in an elegant, sophisticated chignon. When Tiwen arrived, they happened to be discussing exactly this, so Chu Anni invited her to offer an opinion.
Tiwen pulled out a chair opposite Ying Yin and sat down. “Put it up. It’s your Best Actress moment – you should look bright, open, and completely at ease.”
Ying Yin was already so nervous she felt like she was about to throw up. At Tiwen’s words, the croissant got stuck halfway down her throat. As she reached for some water, she said, “Don’t jinx it. There’s no basis for that.”
She had missed breakfast that morning. By the time she started feeling sleepy, it was already broad daylight. After getting into bed, Shang Shao had chatted with her for a while, until her breathing gradually deepened and lengthened in sleep. Perhaps even in her dreams she was worrying over who the Volpi Cup would ultimately go to, because her brows were tightly furrowed, and Shang Shao had gently smoothed them out, little by little.
She slept for several hours, until Junyi’s doorbell woke her at ten in the morning. After she ordered room service, Chu Anni arrived as well.
Tiwen noticed the tiredness on Ying Yin’s face and teased, “Didn’t sleep well last night?”
Ying Yin added more ice to her iced Americano and nodded. “I didn’t fall asleep until after five in the morning.”
She didn’t even try to pretend otherwise. Tiwen and Chu Anni exchanged a look, both somewhat surprised.
“I thought you genuinely didn’t care,” Tiwen said.
Ying Yin lifted her coffee. Using the act of swallowing to force her heart back down where it belonged, she finally looked at Tiwen and said seriously, “This is the closest I’ve ever come to winning at one of the Big Three. Why wouldn’t I care?”
Whether it was the quality of the film, the awards campaign, the critical reception, or the reviews in both Chinese and international trade publications, everything suggested that her chances were a case of all is ready but for the east wind. There were no Chinese members on the jury, but still – what if? What if the individual jury members’ priorities lay elsewhere rather than with the Volpi Cup? Or what if her performance was simply so overwhelmingly convincing that no one could find fault with it?
For that one-in-ten-thousand possibility, she had allowed herself to indulge in her desire to win – and in her ambition.
She wanted to become the third Chinese actress to win Best Actress at Venice. It might not be making history, but she wanted her name to be part of history.
“Maybe pretending not to care would look cooler,” Junyi said.
Ying Yin pressed her lips together. “I think being honest with myself would make me feel better. Do you think being this nervous, or caring this much, is a sign of weakness?”
“No.” Tiwen’s answer was immediate and firm. “Admitting that you’re nervous and that you care – I think that’s the more powerful thing to do.”
Then she changed the subject. “Where’s Brother Shao?”
“He went back to France.”
Something had come up unexpectedly over there, so he had taken a private jet there at eight that morning. No matter how things went, he would return to Venice before five in the afternoon.
Inside the Palazzo del Cinema, all the seats had already been assigned by section, each marked with the name of its respective film crew or actor. In the row reserved for When Snow Melts It Turns Green, directly beside the red velvet folding chair bearing the name “Yin · Ying” sat another chair, pressed intimately close to it, with the name “Le · Sheung.”
Tiwen took a sip of her coffee and smiled. “Then he really does have a busy day ahead of him.”
…
Just before the red carpet began, messages came flooding into Ying Yin’s inbox like snowflakes.
Ke Yu wrote: [I had a dream last night. Tonight, the Sala Grande will light up for you.]
The Shang family seemed to have coordinated their messages in advance, each of them using almost exactly the same wording: [Sister-in-law, wishing you every success tonight!]
And of course, if the saying involved a horse, then there had to be an actual horse. So Rich was entrusted with this important responsibility.
Lin Cunkang placed a little flower crown on Rich’s head and tied an absolutely beautiful pink bow around its neck. Rich stood proudly and spiritedly in the courtyard.
Not a single person spoke up for Rich – no one raised their voice to deliver the earth-shattering declaration that “Rich is a boy!” Instead, everyone happily took photos of him, edited them, and turned them into memes.
Wen Youyi ordered Shang Qingye not to work overtime that night. He was required to be home before Ying Yin stepped onto the red carpet. And since the award announcement would take place in the middle of the night back in China, Shang Qingye was also deprived of the opportunity to go to bed early.
…
By early September, Beijing nights had already begun to carry a hint of autumn chill.
Before entering the industry, Mai Anyan might have said that the stars in the sky looked like the lights of the human world. But after spending more than a decade – nearly twenty years – immersed in this arena of fame and fortune, when he looked up at the stars now, all he could come up with was nonsense like, “Those stars really look like the sequins and beaded embellishments on a female celebrity’s couture gown.”
A cigarette clenched between his teeth, he typed, deleted, and rewrote on his phone, over and over, until the cigarette had burned down completely.
Then someone called from inside. “Max!”
“I’m coming!” he answered.
The cigarette butt – and the last glowing ember with it – was hurriedly extinguished. He slipped his phone into his pocket and turned back to the male artist he was currently managing.
In the end, that message –
[Wishing you the laurels.]
– was never sent.
In fact, before those four words, Mai Anyan had written many other things. For example, that this was the day Ying Yin had come closer to her dream than ever before. Or about that year at the Turin Film Festival, when they had been young and full of fire, filling an award trophy to the brim with champagne.
They had raised that champagne-filled trophy and made a vow.
She had said that she wanted to become an actress who would make history in Chinese cinema.
…
Shang Lu’s WeChat message arrived the latest of all. He first sent a candid photo of Deep Water Bay late at night.
In the photo, the ground-floor living room had been carefully prepared, with countless soft cushions and throw pillows spread around. In the vase atop the Roman column, delicate golden irises – symbols of good fortune – looked fresh and dewy.
Since there was no domestic media coverage being broadcast live, the only option was to tune the flat-screen TV above the fireplace to a live broadcast from an English-speaking country.
Ke Yu had a glass of red wine in front of him, though he clearly had no time to drink it. Instead, he was patiently explaining the various sections and awards of the Venice Film Festival to Shang Qingye, going through them one by one. Mingbao was lying in Mingxian’s arms, growing sleepy from waiting for the awards ceremony. Her narcissus-like face hovered somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, just as it had when she used to stay up late on Lunar New Year’s Eve as a child.
In truth, there was nothing particularly interesting about staying up to see in the New Year. And even if there was, it certainly wasn’t something a little child with her hair still in pigtails could appreciate. Yet little babe would always drag her feet and refuse to go to sleep, either clinging to Shang Lu or resting in the arms of her eldest sister.
After sending the photo, Shang Lu crossed one leg over the other and typed expressionlessly: [If you don’t win an award, this is going to be very hard to explain.]
Ying Yin was already in the official car. Her palms were sweaty enough as it was; when she saw that message, she closed her eyes and immediately blocked Shang Lu.
The long official car pulled to a stop. Security opened the door, and she stepped out. Surrounded by an ocean of light created by countless camera flashes, she walked to the end of the red carpet and entered the movie palace that had borne witness to – and crowned – the legends of countless great actresses.
…
Once they entered the venue, a staff member led them to the designated seating area for the Main Competition and reported, “A staff member has already been sent to escort Ms. Ying’s husband in. He’ll be coming through the special entrance shortly.”
Hearing Shang Shao go from being referred to as “Mr. Shang” to “Ms. Ying’s husband,” Tiwen smiled and leaned close to Ying Yin’s ear. “Wow. My cousin is benefiting from your fame this time.”
Things had become slightly more complicated than expected, and it had taken some extra time to sort everything out. By the time Shang Shao’s plane took off from Lyon, it was already past three in the afternoon.
The festival’s official PR representative went to the airport to pick him up, only to find that the man was quiet but clearly in a tremendous hurry.
He had an entourage and bodyguards with him, and naturally, once they arrived at the Festival Palace, they were stopped outside the entrance. Even after they got inside, there seemed to be endless corridors and passageways to navigate. Shang Shao’s brows drew together slightly. He kept his emotions well under control, but his impatience was still unmistakable.
The PR representative reassured him, “There’s still some time before the awards ceremony. Ms. Ying has just finished the red carpet and taken her seat. You’ll make it in time.”
Shang Shao said nothing more, merely giving him a polite nod.
In the front rows of the central seating area, several of the Main Competition crews were chatting amongst themselves. Twenty-one films had been nominated this year, but only a handful of crews remained for the closing ceremony.
Ying Yin was talking to the Iranian actress Talis. Although they were competitors, Talis had nothing but praise for Ying Yin’s performance. Ying Yin responded with her usual bright and gracious composure, revealing only the occasional fleeting moment of distraction.
Only Shang Shao could understand what lay behind those moments when she seemed lost in thought: she was unsettled.
“Ying Yin.”
He stopped and called her name.
Ying Yin turned around. He seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, but his noticeably more hurried breathing than usual gave away the haste and anxiety with which he had made the journey. The moment she saw him, the tension in her expression visibly eased.
“You rushed here?” Ying Yin asked, stepping forward to embrace him.
In a foreign social setting, a hug was hardly unusual, especially between a married couple. Even so, she remained mindful of propriety and kept the embrace to no more than a single breath.
His warmth and scent lingered against her skin for only the briefest moment. When they parted, she let go and considerately said, “It’s fine if you’re a little late. There’s still plenty of time.”
“I was worried you’d be nervous.” Shang Shao looked at her, his voice softening.
He really was like a needle pinning down the restless sea of her uncertainty.
It wasn’t as though Ying Yin couldn’t carry on chatting and laughing without him. She had been perfectly composed. Perhaps, then, the meaning of his hurried journey lay precisely in those fleeting gaps in her composure – those moments of distraction that lasted even less time than a breath.
He filled the final gaps for her, even though those gaps were so tiny, so insignificant that they scarcely seemed worth mentioning.
…
The awards ceremony was incredibly short, lasting only an hour.
And yet the awards ceremony was also incredibly long. The closer they came to the announcement of the Volpi Cup for Best Actress, the more the second hand seemed like a drum, pounding relentlessly against Ying Yin’s heart.
Best Film in the Horizons section. Best Debut. Technical Awards in the Main Competition. Horizons Silver Lion. Best Screenplay. Best Young Actor.
The solemn, sweeping orchestral music played again and again.
“Did you know? The first year Mr. Ke went to Cannes, he won Best Actor,” Ying Yin suddenly said.
The applause in the auditorium was thunderous, and Ying Yin clapped along as she watched the winner of the Best Young Actor award take the stage.
“There was a mix-up that year. After the jury president announced his name, there was a commotion among the jury onstage. Later, they presented the Best Actor award again, and it ended up being a tie – the award went to him and another male actor. I think Mr. Ke was incredible. Even when the cameras turned on him in a situation like that, he remained completely composed. Later, with Goodbye, Angela, he won Best Actor at Cannes for the second time without any dispute, creating a miracle in the history of Chinese cinema. Even looking at the history of world cinema, there are very few cases of someone winning the same Best Actor award twice in such a short period.”
After saying all that, she let out a soft breath and continued, “Pretty incredible, right? Something similar happened at Venice, too. Mr. Ke’s film was also directed by Director Li. He played a playboy…”
Shang Shao took her hand.
Her voice abruptly fell silent. The palm clasped in his hand was icy cold and damp with sweat.
Cold sweat.
Onstage, the winner of the Best Young Actor award was delivering their acceptance speech.
Ying Yin held her breath for a moment, then found her way back to breathing. After taking a deep breath in and slowly exhaling, she laughed at herself.
“The next award is Best Actress, right?”
When Shang Shao asked this, Ying Yin gave a quiet “Mm,” lowering her chin slightly as she nodded.
After nearly an hour of agonizing anticipation, she was finally approaching the answer.
If the Austrian director on the jury, Ludwig, hadn’t given her that hint.
If the foreign trade publications hadn’t praised her performance so highly.
If the domestic media and marketing accounts hadn’t gone into a frenzy hyping up her chances.
Perhaps she wouldn’t have been left in such an impossible position.
Time flew by in the blink of an eye.
The Best Young Actor left the stage. A glamorous, well-known Italian television host took over and introduced the presenter for the Volpi Cup for Best Actress.
Jury President Martel returned to the podium. One hand rested on the microphone while the other unfolded the card bearing the winner’s name.
His face was utterly expressionless. As usual, the announcement was extremely brief. “The Cup for Best Actress goes to…”
His words came so quickly that Ying Yin had barely drawn breath, not even having had the chance to exhale, when she heard the second half –
“…Jeong Yoon-min, for Bloody Sunset.”
The uproar in the auditorium was unmistakable.
This was a major upset.
How could it be? Even if it wasn’t Ying Yin, surely it should have been Talis. But Talis’s Between Advance and Retreat had received such low scores that, all things considered, there was simply no way it should have gone to anyone but Ying Yin.
And yet, given the presence of a Korean filmmaker on the jury, the result suddenly seemed almost entirely unsurprising.
The applause hesitated for a second before gradually breaking out, swelling into a tide. It was as though everyone had suddenly been reminded that the television broadcast was still live, and that this prestigious awards ceremony had to continue.
No one knew what was going through the director’s mind, but after Jeong Yoon-min rose and walked onto the stage, the broadcast camera cut to Ying Yin.
She applauded properly, her hands still clasped together beneath her chin. When she noticed the camera on her, she didn’t even flinch. She simply and effortlessly curved her lips into a smile.
She had overestimated how difficult it was to maintain composure in front of the camera.
It wasn’t actually difficult. She just had to follow the momentum of her muscles and nerves and keep going.
“Give me a hug later,” Ying Yin said very seriously and softly, her eyes fixed on the stage. “Not now… They’ll film it if you do it now.”
There wasn’t a trace of expression on Shang Shao’s face.
After a moment, he said, “Okay.”
The whispers among the people seated in the Main Competition section never stopped.
Deep Water Bay.
Because they hadn’t been there in person to watch all the films, Shang Lu and Ke Yu swallowed their curses despite their shock, prudently reserving the right to comment as filmmakers. But with no one saying anything, the silence felt conspicuous.
It was Mingbao who spoke first. “Tiwen’s about to lose control of her facial expressions.”
When the broadcast cut back to the audience, the When Snow Melts It Turns Green crew happened to appear in the frame. Sure enough, Zhuang Tiwen’s face was dark with displeasure, while Li Shan, seated beside her, made no attempt whatsoever to hide the confusion written across his face.
The Volpi Cup for Best Actor.
Best Director.
The Grand Jury Prize.
The awards were announced according to the established schedule.
Only the final major award remained: the Golden Lion.
Normally, this was the most suspenseful award of every festival, as well as its highest honor. But today, at this point, there was little suspense left.
Dafu and the jury had kept their crew there for a reason. It certainly wasn’t to leave them empty-handed and publicly humiliate them in front of everyone.
Since they had missed out on every major award so far, the Golden Lion could only be theirs.
Soon, the German director and jury president Matt announced that the Golden Lion for this year’s Venice Film Festival would go to: When Snow Melts It Turns Green
“Congratulations.”
He applauded and stepped aside.
Kiriyama walked onto the stage and accepted the Golden Lion trophy. He paused for a moment before saying, “This is the fourth time I’ve stood on this stage, and the third Golden Lion of my film career. To be honest, I’m not excited in the slightest.”
The auditorium was completely silent.
Someone coughed several times. It was impossible to tell whether they were doing it deliberately or whether their throat really was itchy.
“I have always been willing to believe that cinema has no borders – or, at the very least, that its national and racial characteristics should be secondary, while its artistry and humanity should be brought to the forefront, above all else.
“Standing here, what comes to mind is Venice, the oldest film festival in the world, known as the father of film festivals – the…”
He turned back to glance at the screen and the golden Venice emblem.
“Its guiding principle is that cinema should serve serious art. Here, at the Palazzo del Cinema, countless independent directors, actors, and creators have walked these halls. Their devotion to cinema, their ambition, and their drive to push forward have become the brilliant ripples that shine through the long river of our cinematic history.”
The Chinese media outlets at the festival had already begun pushing out breaking news.
01:53 – Bloody Sunset: Jeong Yoon-min pulls off a surprise upset to win Best Actress at Venice; favorite Ying Yin suffers a disappointing loss.
02:04 – When Snow Melts It Turns Green wins the Golden Lion; Li Shan takes home the trophy for the third time.
02:06 – Li Shan delivers his acceptance speech, discussing cinema, art, and national borders.
Li Shan was a measured and diplomatic man. Facing more than a thousand faces in the audience, his silence seemed both fleeting and interminable, making everyone’s hearts tighten with anticipation.
But he still managed to bring his words back around.
“So I am deeply honored to represent Chinese filmmakers here and lift the Golden Lion for the third time.
“Although, when it comes to my own personal honor, this result has become rather difficult to stir much emotion in me, I would nevertheless like to thank the organizers, President Paolo, and Director Dafu for the invitation. I would also like to thank this incomparable and outstanding jury.
“The completion of When Snow Melts It Turns Green was made possible by the entire crew, as well as all the women whose names you see and those whose names you do not. For example, my daughter Lily; my former wife, Ms. Sun; my producer, Tina; my astonishingly brilliant supporting actress, Bai Lan; and, of course – my leading lady, Ms. Ying Yin.”
He extended a hand and gestured toward the wings.
“This is the Best Film award, not the Best Director award. So I would like to invite my fellow crew members to join me onstage and share this moment of honor together.”
“Ladies first.”
Tennessee, Old Fu, and Shen Ling all stepped aside along the aisle, making way for Tiwen, Bai Lan, and Ying Yin to go ahead.
Tiwen took Ying Yin’s hand and teased her softly, “A little warmer than I imagined.”
Ying Yin smiled. “It’s already fine. It only took a moment.”
She stepped onto the stage. Her black halter-neck gown was elegant and dignified, while her hair had been swept into a neat, high bun. Under the lights, her face looked both beautiful and pure, radiant and open.
Kiriyama handed her the trophy. Ying Yin accepted it and raised it together with Tiwen.
The audience responded with thunderous applause. Many people rose to their feet, and the cameras faithfully captured the moment. Quite clearly, the applause lasted longer than it ever had before.
At the very end of his acceptance speech, Li Shan said, “I love cinema because the vitality of a film does not lie in one particular moment, but in every screening and every showing it receives over the course of time. I believe that, in time, everything will eventually return to the path it was meant to take.”
Every word of his speech was transmitted back to the Chinese internet.
“Is he implying something? Is he throwing shade?”
“LOL, he’s not even being subtle anymore.”
“He may as well have written ‘I’m not happy about this’ across his face.”
“Li Shan really said it! In the interview after the ceremony, he straight-up said that, in his opinion, the Volpi Cup belonged to Ying Yin.”
“Jeong Yoon-min’s acting is good, but her win this year really does feel a little forced. I haven’t seen the film, but judging from the trade-press scores, Bloody Sunset is pretty middle-of-the-road.”
“At the closing-ceremony reception, Jeong Yoon-min said she was very happy, though also surprised. She said that going forward, she would repay everyone’s support with even better performances.”
“Fuck, she’s already won the award and she’s saying this?”
“Whatever. Aren’t all three major festivals like this? How many times have juries protected their own? The year Quentin was jury president, he straight-up handed awards to his own mentor and former lover. There were boos all over the venue. If you ask me, Chinese cinema really needs to stop putting the European Big Three on a pedestal.”
But was the Chinese-language film industry really as united against the European Big Three as it seemed? The various fanbases, busy tearing into one another, clearly had other things to say:
“Sister Yin went to the European Big Three four times and came away empty-handed all four times. I’m dying.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. LOL. She’s got two films that won Best Film at the European Big Three under her belt. You find me one comparable achievement for your fave.”
“Fans, don’t get so triggered.”
“Made such a huge spectacle of it all, only to come home empty-handed. This script looks awfully familiar.”
“Oh no, Sister Yin went through all that for nothing.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you? None of the trade publications said anything about her stripping off. Yet somehow, in your mouth, it’s just ‘stripping, stripping, stripping.’ Disgusting.”
“The Double-Star Best Actress fans are here again trying to shut everyone else up.”
“Stop being such sore losers. Talis went to the European Big Three four times too, and she didn’t say anything. Dafu has an Oscar for Best Supporting Actress under her belt, and I don’t see her throwing a tantrum.”
“Sister Yin’s entire life of being rejected by the European Big Three.”
“Is Sister Yin seriously going to retire with nothing more than the title of ‘Double-Star Best Actress’?”
“This is brutal. Even the haters are feeling sorry for her. I heard she didn’t even attend the closing-ceremony reception.”
Ying Yin had actually attended the reception. But since she didn’t drink at all, and she hadn’t won Best Actress, there was little reason for her to stay. As soon as she found a convenient opportunity, she slipped away.
On her way out, she ran into Jeong Yoon-min, who had just won Best Actress and had clearly just finished a media interview. They suddenly found themselves face-to-face in a narrow corridor, and it was a little awkward. Ying Yin smiled, and so did Jeong Yoon-min. After exchanging polite smiles for a moment, Jeong Yoon-min said, “I actually really like your performance…”
Ying Yin gave a slight nod and simply said, “Thank you.”
She brushed past her, walked down the long corridor, and pushed open an emergency exit. Under the faint green glow of the exit lights, her footsteps grew faster and more hurried until, with a bang, she pushed open another door.
The scent of the beach and waves felt sharp and cold in the night air, tinged with a damp, briny smell. Ying Yin took a deep breath. When she threw herself into Shang Shao’s arms, her body began trembling intermittently, as though she were terribly cold.
Shang Shao had just finished a phone call with Wen Youyi. They hadn’t wanted to disturb Ying Yin, so they could only ask him about how she was doing.
“I’m sorry for disappointing everyone.”
“Who’s disappointed? You’d better name names.” Shang Shao curved his lips and tightened his arm around her.
“But I made them wait so long in the middle of the night. Mingbao and the others are one thing, but Mom and Dad were so busy during the day…”
“They’re fine.”
Ying Yin tilted her head back and suddenly asked, “Will Mom be embarrassed tomorrow when she goes for afternoon tea?”
Shang Shao genuinely couldn’t understand the workings of her mind. He lightly tapped her forehead and replied casually, “If Xiao Wen doesn’t bring it up, no one will bring it up themselves. And if she does mention it, it’ll be because she’s proud of you.”
Ying Yin pressed her lips together. “I think it’s because I came too close to succeeding, so the disappointment feels that much greater.”
Her tone was remarkably objective.
“Honestly, film festival awards are always unpredictable. We already felt a little uncertain when the jury lineup was announced. It’s not that I’m saying there was some kind of conspiracy. If there were Chinese people on the jury, then of course they’d fight for a prize for a Chinese filmmaker. There’s nothing wrong with that…”
She paused. “And besides, we won the Golden Lion. That’s us, you know. That’s actually the biggest thing.”
Shang Shao listened quietly, placing his palm against her temple and covering her neatly smoothed black hair. Tonight, with her elegant styling, she really did look like a luxurious, graceful princess.
“Ying Yin, tell me what you really feel. Save those polite words for the reporters.”
Ying Yin fell silent. Her eyes gently closed as she rested her face against his chest.
“Hold me. Hold me. Just hold me for a little while first.”
Shang Shao wrapped both arms tightly around her, pulling her close, while pressing his lips to her forehead.
“I’ve imagined my acceptance speech so many times.” Ying Yin swallowed.
“What would you have said?”
Ying Yin stepped out of his arms and stood upright, clearing her throat.
Under the night sky, she was still wearing the same outfit from the awards ceremony, almost blending into the dark waves of the sea behind her.
“Thank you to the entire crew. Thank you to Director Li for pushing me so hard – even though you were ruthless. Thank you to Shen Ling for the story. Thank you to Tina for being so patient with every delay. And thank you to all the media and fellow filmmakers who have responded to this film with applause and thoughtful interpretation – instead of chasing sensationalism, adding fuel to the fire, and spreading rumors and baseless assertions.”
Ying Yin spoke softly but with a sense of release, looking at Shang Shao with the corners of her lips lifted high.
“And of course, last of all, I want to thank my husband. For his understanding, his tolerance, his extraordinarily noble character, and his boundless love for me…”
She couldn’t go on.
She pressed her lips tightly together and tried to hold herself together with a smile for a moment.
Then the tears suddenly spilled down her cheeks.
There was one more thing she had wanted to announce opportunistically in a later interview.
She and Ke Yu were going to establish a completely non-profit peer-support organization for actors. It would provide psychological counselling and support for actors who spent years moving from one film set to another without having received systematic acting training, and who suffered from the psychological strain of becoming immersed in their roles, public opinion, and all the hidden, toxic dynamics of film sets. Together, they would also explore and develop safer, more scientific approaches to acting.
It was only an initial idea for now, but she was willing to start with herself and extend that concern to others – to take a chance on making it happen.
Shang Shao took hold of her wrist and pulled her firmly back into his arms. “There’ll be a chance. Okay? You’ll have a chance to say it.”
His expression remained composed as he repeatedly kissed Ying Yin’s forehead. “Even though you missed out at Venice, there’s still a long awards season ahead of you. There’s the release, the box office, the domestic Academy Awards, the American and British Academy Awards, Toronto, the Golden Globes, Telluride…”
Ying Yin laughed through her tears. “You even know about Telluride?”
The film festival was incredibly niche. But the journey from Venice to Toronto and then on to Telluride in the autumn was an effective awards-season route for arthouse films seeking a path toward the Oscars.
If the Toronto International Film Festival, which welcomed nearly half a million visitors each year, was the loudest voice for North American premieres, then the little-known Telluride Film Festival, with an audience of only around six thousand, could be considered one of the strongest bellwethers for arthouse films in the Oscar race.
Although Telluride lists a North American premiere as one of its selection requirements, when faced with its commercially powerful competitor Toronto, whose dates are close by, Telluride has shown considerable flexibility – it can treat a Toronto premiere as a Canadian premiere rather than a North American premiere. That means even films that have already screened at Toronto can still be given an opportunity to screen at Telluride.
It was clearly something of an artistic sanctuary for many members of the Academy, which was why Telluride was so important for independent films hoping to make a serious awards run.
Hearing such an obscure name come from Shang Shao’s mouth felt strangely out of place. “Tiwen told me about it.”
“Why was Tiwen talking about that?” Ying Yin asked, bewildered. “Did she submit the film? Why didn’t she tell me?”
Film festivals were expensive. When Snow Melts It Turns Green was a quintessential arthouse film, and its mainland Chinese distribution was still undecided, so the return on investment remained highly uncertain. The red-carpet premieres at Venice and Toronto alone had already cost over a million US dollars. Telluride might be a tiny, niche festival, but it still cost money…
There were still tears on Ying Yin’s cheeks, yet she had already begun agonizing over the finances. “Am I about to lose my twenty million all over again?”
“No.” Shang Shao sounded utterly certain. “Your husband will make it up to you.”
“Don’t book another twenty-million-yuan private screening.” Ying Yin wiped away her tears.
“Okay.”
“That doesn’t mean you can book a thirty-million-yuan one instead,” Ying Yin added.
Shang Shao laughed. He bent a finger and gently wiped her cheek. “When did you become so precise? Hmm?”
“I can’t lose both the honor and the money.”
“Who says you lost the honor?” Shang Shao took her cool fingertips into his hand. “I believe your performance was completely natural, as though it were born from you. The greatest sound is silence; the greatest skill appears effortless. Although your competitors were all very strong, you were the only person whose winning it would have been entirely justified. The fact that you didn’t receive the award means the award landed crookedly – it doesn’t mean you were standing in the wrong place.”
After making his case at considerable length, he summed it up. “It’s the award’s fault.”
“You’re the kind of person who, when a child falls over, would say the road was bad and it was all the road’s fault.”
Shang Shao lowered his eyes at her and asked as though it were perfectly obvious, “Isn’t it?”
“…” Ying Yin flattened the corners of her lips, which were threatening to curl upward. “You’re so protective.”
“I’m simply stating the facts.”
“We definitely can’t let you teach children.” Ying Yin was already planning ahead. “You’d spoil them rotten.”
Shang Shao replied calmly, “We’ll have to teach them first and find out.”
Before they knew it, they had walked a long way down the beach.
There was no way Ying Yin was going to walk barefoot through the sand in high heels. She had taken them off, and Shang Shao was carrying them for her.
Along the way, they ran into all kinds of people – people speaking Chinese, people speaking foreign languages; acquaintances and strangers, people they had heard of and people they had never met. They all stopped to greet her.
“Please believe me – your performance was beyond reproach.”
“Please don’t regret the result. Things like this happen often. The truth and time will prove everything.”
“You’ve been my greatest discovery here in Venice these past few days.”
“When When Snow Melts It Turns Green is released in France, I’ll definitely ask my friends to go and see it.”
Ying Yin thanked them one by one.
The soft stretch of sand beneath their feet seemed to go on forever, but there were fewer and fewer people around. Finally, she stopped. Turning back in the sea breeze, she gave a crooked little curtsy with her bare feet and said theatrically, “Oh my God, they really do know how to recognize a gem when they see one.”
Shang Shao smiled with perfect gentility and asked innocently, “How come you only refuse to be reasonable with me? They’re discerning enough to recognize a gem, but when I say the same thing, I’m just playing favorites?”
Ying Yin bit her lip and looked at him for a moment before suddenly running toward him and throwing herself into his arms.
Caught completely off guard by the impact, Shang Shao let out a muffled grunt that dissolved into laughter. Then he dropped her high heels and wrapped both arms around her waist.
“Does that mean anything I ask for today will be granted?” Ying Yin asked, slightly out of breath.
“Mm.”
“Then… pick me up and spin me around.”
Shang Shao suspected he had misheard. Half laughing, he asked, “…What? Say that again.”
“You heard me.” Ying Yin lifted her chin. “I want you to. They always do it in movies.”
Shang Shao had no choice but to indulge her. He scooped her up in a princess carry.
She was terribly light – far too thin – and took hardly any effort to lift. He spun her around several times, and Ying Yin was the first to burst out laughing. She squeezed her eyes shut and curled into a ball, clutching at the front of his clothes.
“I’m so dizzy, so dizzy! Put me down! I don’t want to anymore!”
Once her feet touched the ground, she staggered straight into Shang Shao’s arms. “The whole world is spinning.”
Shang Shao was charmed by the seriousness with which she delivered those four words. He massaged her temples for her and asked, “Do you want to do it again?”
“You’re not dizzy at all?” Ying Yin asked in disbelief.
“I had special training when I was getting my sailing license.”
“That’s amazing.” Ying Yin said sincerely, “Then call me a fairy.”
Shang Shao cleared his throat and said blandly, “Let’s go back.”
“You don’t want to?” Ying Yin caught hold of his hand. “I know – you think I’m not worthy.”
“Fairy,” Shang Shao said expressionlessly.
Ying Yin pressed her lips together to suppress a smile, only for Shang Shao to pull her back into his arms.
“Feeling better?” he asked, lowering his head to look at her.
“No.” Ying Yin shook her head and fell silent for a while.
Strangely, she was trying so hard to keep the corners of her lips under control, yet they still trembled involuntarily. “Not better at all…”
She choked out the words, and suddenly the boulder that had been piled up inside her chest collapsed. With a sob, she burst into tears, then crumpled helplessly into his arms and began to sob uncontrollably.
She could accept any outcome. She could accept every victory and every defeat.
But she needed time to do that…
She needed time.
Shang Shao stopped trying to reason with her and stopped trying to comfort her with words. He simply held her tightly, giving her almost-collapsing body something to lean against.
“Maybe I really just don’t have any luck with awards.” Her eyelashes were clumped together with tears.
“Don’t use someone else’s mistake to define yourself,” Shang Shao said gently and calmly.
“You’re right.” Ying Yin was very receptive to his advice and nodded. But then, completely beyond her control, she hiccupped. “But I still need to… need to cry for a little while…”
Despite the strong sea breeze, she cried until she was damp with sweat, eventually sitting down right there on the sand.
“I didn’t cry when it was Angela, because you weren’t there.” Her eyes were blurred with tears.
“I didn’t know you back then.”
Ying Yin’s heart ached terribly. She frowned, the tip of her nose bright red. “You came too late.”
“My fault.”
“But even if you’d been there, it wouldn’t have helped.” Ying Yin picked up a handful of sand. A tear clung precariously to her lowered eyelashes, hanging there without falling.
She swung between calm and capricious, self-motivation and giving up, dejection and fierce determination.
In the end, Shang Shao carried her back to the hotel.
It was deep into the night. The lively reception had long since dispersed, and as he carried her on his back, he still remembered to hook her high heels over his fingers.
The next morning.
The service at the Excelsior Hotel was impeccable. A stack of more than a dozen Italian newspapers, English-language newspapers, and international trade publications was placed neatly on a tray, freshly pressed and perfectly arranged, and presented to Ying Yin alongside breakfast.
The newspapers devoted entire pages to the Venice Film Festival, which had come to a close the previous day, with separate sections covering the surprise result in Best Actress.
Quotes from Ying Yin’s earlier interviews had been reworked and featured prominently, taking up more space than those devoted to the winning actress, Jeong Yoon-min.
One English-language outlet even asked whether, given the competitive nature of film festivals, it was time to consider making the processes of film selection, nomination, and competition more scientific, systematic, and fair.
Ying Yin had already let everything out the night before, and by morning, her state of mind was remarkably calm. As for the sarcastic jabs and mocking comments circulating online in Chinese, she expertly ignored them, not even bothering to look.
“The Golden Lion is a good result,” she said brightly, stirring milk into her coffee. “I’ll make money. Tiwen will definitely negotiate a great international distribution deal. The red carpet is over too, so I can finally get some proper rest…”
Shang Shao handed her the iPad.
Completely unguarded, Ying Yin glanced at the enormous bold black headline:
[The Uncrowned Queen]
The subtitle read:
[A Regrettable Loss of the Volpi Cup, Foreign Media Stunned | Ying Yin Heads to Telluride as When Snow Melts It Turns Green Sets Its Sights on the North American Awards Season]
Ying Yin promptly sprayed milk everywhere with a “Pfft.”
“Who said I’m going to America?! I’m going home! Going home… right?”
Shang Shao unfolded a napkin and calmly wiped his hands. “Tiwen has a budget of thirty million. It’ll be difficult for her to explain herself to Shang Qingye if she doesn’t spend it all. I’m going to Africa. You… don’t push yourself too hard.”
