It’s not unheard of for mainland Chinese directors to bypass domestic censorship, abandon local studios, and head straight overseas – but most directors and actors who do so end up in a difficult position.
On the surface, there may be no obvious repercussions. The creative team might even win awards overseas and return in glory. But when it comes to getting future projects firmly established and well-received back in the mainland, things get tricky.
Invisible barriers will descend – transparent yet unyielding. They leave you scrambling, powerless to fight back, unable to cry out.
Li Shan is willing to tackle such themes and scales at the end of his artistic life. For one, he relies on his status and a lifetime of accumulated influence, wanting to go head-to-head with the system, even if it means a hard landing. For another, when you’re already at the edge of the end, what’s there to hesitate about?
“Eleven or twelve years ago, you could still go overseas with Floating Flower. Now, a film of a similar scale can’t even get approved for a project,” Li Shan said, weighing a celadon fairness cup in his hand, his smile undiminished. “It just shows – if you want to do something, do it early.”
In the year Floating Flower was filmed, Ying Yin had just turned seventeen, playing a high school girl. One day after school, she went to a classmate’s house to borrow his homework. There she met his foster father, a sculptor. The classmate had a secret crush on her, and starting that day, he often invited her over to do homework, check answers, and study together.
What he didn’t know was that in the small tiled kiln shed behind his house, his classmate and his middle-aged, taciturn foster father had already moved from locking eyes to touching, and from touching to embracing.
The kiln fire burned red and hot. In silence, glistening with sweat, they left red clay dust all over her white cotton school uniform.
This was a complex and provocative film: the unconscious gaze and malice of villagers in a remote mountain village; a forbidden, cross-generational love; innocence and seduction; the insularity of home versus the clamor of the wider world.
“The ponds here are round and square. The rivers out there are tangled and winding.”
She didn’t want to go. He wanted her to.
And in the end, that flower drifted down the clear river, away from the mountains, far from her kiln.
In this film, love, morality, good and evil, seduction – all of it feels blurred, hard to define. There is little dialogue. Only the glow of the kiln fire and the tangle of bodies remain sharp and vivid. So people never know whether he truly loved her. They only know that after she left, the little red clay flowers he carved with his own hands sank, one by one, to the bottom of the river.
Ying Yin made this film and became the muse of many art-house directors. But she never again took on a role of the same scale. She drifted through comedies, action films, and slice-of-life dramas, avoiding sexually charged scenes and nudity. It took her five years to erase the label of “carnal desire” from her name.
The next time she took on a film with such themes was later, with Shen Ji, in The Bitter Beauty.
Shanghai is a golden dream from which Li Meijian can never return. The small harbor island is the bitter, beautiful place where Li Meijian finally falls – where she is killed by the hand of the military officer she loves, a blood rose blooming from the bullet in her chest.
Shen Ji couldn’t get out of character. Ying Yin understood. The dead are free of cares; the living endure a lingering pain.
“Since even getting a project approved in the mainland is a problem, then…” Ying Yin was silent for a long time before asking, “What are you planning to do?”
“I’m in talks with production companies in Hong Kong and Taiwan, as well as international distribution agents. But to be honest, progress hasn’t been smooth,” Li Shan admitted.
“Why?”
“Because they all want to cast their own choices for the male and female leads. You know, I can compromise on supporting roles, but for the leads – I will only cast who I truly want.”
Li Shan is an internationally renowned director, a regular guest at Europe’s three major film festivals – Cannes, Venice, and Berlin. With no limits in commercial performance, awards, or critical reception, landing a lead role in his film is like ascending to heaven on flat ground.
Now, for the sake of an art film, this man who rarely begs is having to plead with everyone. And the vultures of capital, catching the scent, naturally want to have their way with him – otherwise, they wouldn’t deserve to call themselves “capital.”
Ying Yin smiled slightly. “Everyone knows you have a habit of going over budget on your films. And this one clearly isn’t going to make much money. It does take some guts to invest.”
As she spoke, her gaze flickered sidelong toward Zhuang Tiwen, a hint of amusement in her eyes.
Li Shan, oblivious, replied calmly, “So that’s why I need to lock you in first before I can continue negotiating. Having you attached to the project gives them some sense of security – and keeps them from getting any bright ideas.”
“No audition?” Ying Yin gave a soft, knowing smile. “Last time you said we’d audition before the New Year.”
“I did invite a few other actresses, but you’ve always been my first choice. If you say yes, I can skip the rest of the auditions.” Li Shan eased his way through the conversation with practiced nonchalance.
Ying Yin looked thoughtful and gave a slight nod. Then, after a moment, her gaze and tone shifted. “So… about that previous propaganda film…”
“What about it?”
“I want to know the start date and the shooting schedule.”
Li Shan glanced up at her, pausing mid-motion as he poured the tea. “If you have conditions, you can state them directly.”
“I want the role of that female revolutionary.”
“I told you – with you playing her, the cost of convincing the audience would be too high.”
“Would it really be worse than Ruan Ye’s facial contortions all over the screen?”
At that, the others at the table let out a soft laugh.
Li Shan had heard something about their trending online drama, but he didn’t pay much attention to it. He let out a slight laugh and changed the subject. “You’re practically from the same school of thought. Is the bad blood really that deep?”
“Not at all. I’m not targeting anyone personally – just speaking the truth.”
Ying Yin was lightly serious, her tone casual yet firm. “She’s young. Since she shines in period romantic dramas, she should cherish her time and stick to them – it’s a service to the audience, really. Film has its own strict demands. A single point of dullness on TV becomes ten points on the big screen. For such an important, high-budget production with such a great team, shouldn’t we aim for perfection?”
Kuriyama let out a noncommittal grunt of a laugh. “Go on.”
“Besides, her relationship with Song Shizhang is already public knowledge. Song Shizhang is a major producer. Everyone understands that you and the director have to consider his feelings. But it’s a pity to let an actress whose romantic scandal is all over the news play such an important revolutionary role. I imagine the higher-ups have their thoughts on that, too.”
A subtle, ambiguous smile lingered at the corner of Ying Yin’s lips. Her expression was so soft that Li Shan almost believed her fleeting ambition was just his imagination.
When the paparazzi would catch Ruan Ye and Song Shizhang together was beyond Ying Yin’s control. But since the photos surfaced before the cast was officially announced, it would be a waste not to take advantage of the perfect timing.
Across the table, Shen Ling, who had been silent until now, looked up with a flicker of surprise in her eyes.
She was sharp.
The film’s cast was originally supposed to be announced last week, but the announcement was postponed because of Ruan Ye’s trending scandal. The creative team and producers were now debating whether she was suitable for the role. Song Shizhang, however, seemed ready to risk everything for his lady love, stubbornly insisting that no one else could play the part.
“You’ve had your fair share of scandals too,” Li Shan countered.
“But as it turns out, my rumored relationship with Song Shizhang was fake. They’re the real deal.” Ying Yin smiled easily.
Li Shan was still thinking. The teahouse fell silent for a moment. Meanwhile, Ying Yin quietly and seamlessly withdrew her sharp edge, shifting her entire demeanor.
“Mr. Li, you’re not being fair.”
Her voice was soft, just the right amount of subtle reproach.
Li Shan was a bit taken aback, caught off guard.
When a beautiful woman complains, she always invites sympathy.
He smiled. “How am I unfair?”
“You know full well how risky this film is. Even you, with your status, felt the need to find yourself a propaganda film as a safety net. But you won’t allow me to find a reliable insurance policy either.”
“The production schedules of these two films…” Li Shan started to refute, but stopped mid-sentence.
She wasn’t wrong. Although the production and release schedules of the two films were completely staggered, that was precisely why it could serve as an olive branch of goodwill.
“The role you want – the scenes are compressed together, estimated to take about a week and a half to shoot. Production starts in January,” he said casually, switching to a businesslike tone. “Do you have any problem with that?”
“No problem,” Ying Yin took a deep breath and said with conviction, “Let me do it.”
It was settled.
“Then for this film, When Snow Melts It Turns Green…”
“One million for both films. Buy one, get one free.” She spoke with the finality of someone burning their bridges.
Li Shan paused, a look of amusement and intrigue in his eyes. “At that rate, you’ll be eating nothing but the northwest wind next year.”
“Not at all.” Ying Yin smiled sweetly. “If the main gig doesn’t pay, the side gig will. If the east doesn’t light up, the west will.”
And on the side gig, the west that would help fill the gap left by her losses – Shang Shao had already been waiting for her at the seaside estate for two hours.
He had wrapped up his business at seven, declined both a dinner invitation and a salon event, and arrived home at 7:45… only to find that no one was waiting for him.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Shang Mingbao, standing at 1.6 meters tall, was shadowing him like a persistent tagalong – hard to ignore even if he wanted to.
Mingbao had dinner with him, chattering nonstop for a full fifteen minutes, until Shang Shao put down his chopsticks and called her “Babe.” “Either shut up, or get out.”
Mingbao pursed her lips around the tip of her chopsticks, shooting him a sideways glance. “I have some contract-termination news. You want to hear it? Five million.”
She had learned to name her price on the spot ever since that jar of gemstones – like hard candies – had completely overturned her worldview.
Just think – she had once begged and cajoled over a five-million debt, having to find the perfect auspicious day just to justify buying a pair of shoes that cost a few hundred thousand. And yet her big brother, without even a blink, could drop tens of millions on marbles just to make some actress smile.
No comparison, no harm!
“I already know she terminated her contract,” Shang Shao said calmly.
Seeing that she hadn’t hooked him, Mingbao shook her head with unhurried composure. “Well then, I have a little piece of gossip – one you absolutely must hear.”
“What?”
“Ten million.”
Shang Shao couldn’t be bothered with her. He lowered his gaze and sipped his tea. “Out.”
“Eight million.”
Shang Shao remained unruffled, focusing only on his tea.
“Five million.” Shang Mingbao gritted her teeth, her confidence visibly deflating. “Can’t go any lower…”
“Eight hundred thousand.”
“…”
Only then did Shang Shao look up at her.
With one hand holding the saucer and the other holding the cup by its handle, he curled one side of his lips into a smile. His posture, legs crossed, was elegant and entirely at ease.
“Outdated news isn’t worth much. You have one minute. Think it over.”
Shang Mingbao slammed her fist on the table and shot to her feet. “You…”
Shang Shao gave a slight nod, indicating that she was free to walk away if she didn’t like it.
But Mingbao was a good girl who knew when to bend. Even a scrap of meat from a fly was still profit…
“Deal.” She pouted and cursed under her breath, “You bastard.”
Lin Cunkang, who had overheard the whole exchange, suppressed a smile and transferred the eight hundred thousand out of the account.
“Spit it out.” Shang Shao tapped the edge of the table with two fingers. A sliver of wrist bone was visible beneath the cuff of his white shirt, and the sapphire crystal of his watch reflected a cold gleam. He truly looked the part of a hard-to-please capitalist.
“There’s a romance film in talks with Ying Yin. You’re screwed – you’ll be sending your wife off to shoot a film where she falls in love with someone else.” Shang Mingbao’s tone was gleefully malicious.
“Don’t call her that.” Shang Shao gave her a glance, his voice languid but corrective.
“Tch.” Mingbao mumbled but didn’t dare push further. “The info is real, though. My sources are everywhere. And this director is a big deal.”
“That’s a good thing for her.” Shang Shao remained completely unmoved, lowering his gaze to pour himself another cup of tea.
It was just a romance film. The fact that Babe thought something like this could rattle him only proved she was still a little girl.
“Huh.” Mingbao let out a meaningless monosyllable and shot him a sidelong glance. “When I said ‘a big deal,’ I didn’t mean his track record. I meant the way he coaches actors. His last romance film was twenty or thirty years ago. To get the male and female leads into character, he locked them in a room together and made them spend twenty-four hours alone, just the two of them.”
Shang Shao: “…”
“And he has extremely high standards for his work. For a single kissing scene, if the atmosphere isn’t right, he can do twenty NG takes. You know what NG means, right? It means kissing over and over and over again. Twenty times.”
Shang Shao: “…”
“Of course, because he’s such a great director, the films he makes are nothing like those light romantic comedies. Maybe the explicitness will be very bold, the intensity very high. When it’s released, the whole world will be shipping them, you know.”
Shang Mingbao raised an eyebrow. “These CP fans never fade away. Twenty years later, they’ll still be heartbroken over it. In their hearts, that male actor will be the one Ying Yin truly loved – and the person standing beside her in real life will just be a settlement, someone she didn’t love enough.”
When she finished, Shang Shao’s face was expressionless.
The porcelain teapot made a soft clink as it touched the marble tabletop. His movements were deliberately slow, yet somehow inexplicably tense.
Shang Mingbao, after all, was his own sister, emboldened by that bond. She pressed her lips together, barely suppressing a grin, her eyebrows dancing with glee.
Hmph. You drove the price down from ten million to eight hundred thousand. You heartless capitalist – let me show you what it means to strike where it truly hurts.
After delivering her venomous blow, she finally put on a facade of false comfort. “But none of this really has anything to do with you, since you’re just playing around with actresses anyway. It’s not like you’re planning to go very far with her.”
Shang Shao, however, didn’t address her last remark.
His tall frame sank into the armchair. He sat in silence, his fingers resting on the blue-and-white porcelain teahandle, thoughtfully and slowly rubbing the gilded carving at the tip.
“The two leads you just mentioned…”
After a long while, he finally spoke, his tone casual.
“They got together after filming ended, but broke up later. Even after twenty or thirty years, they’re still the pair that most people believe were the most perfect match for each other…”
For some reason, Shang Mingbao’s words grew slower and softer as she went on.
Suddenly, under the weight of the oppressive atmosphere, she no longer dared to look into Shang Shao’s eyes.
But Shang Shao didn’t say anything more. He simply rose from the sofa and glanced at his watch. “Almost ten o’clock.”
Lin Cunkang stepped forward. “Time to rest?”
“She’s supposed to come over tonight. Did she get held up on the way?” Shang Shao held out his hand. “Phone.”
A look of obvious surprise crossed Lin Cunkang’s face.
“What’s wrong?”
“She’s already home. I saw on Junyi’s Moments that she seems to be studying a script.”
Shang Shao paused, unsure what to feel.
“Let me see.”
Lin Cunkang pulled up Cheng Junyi’s Moments. In the photo, Ying Yin was wrapped in a blanket, comfortably nestled in the dark green velvet cigar chair in the study, completely absorbed in a thin volume in her hands. The soft light of the brass floor lamp dotted the depths of her eyes with starlight.
It seemed she had completely forgotten about him – gone straight home without even asking whether he had finished work, whether he was free.
Shang Shao’s breathing was deliberately slow and measured, but laced with a hint of restlessness that he suppressed.
He first recalled the memory of kissing her for the first time on this very chair, then crooked two fingers at Lin Cunkang. “Give me a cigarette.”
He placed the cigarette between his lips and dialed a number. Lin Cunkang stepped forward, struck the flint wheel of his lighter, and cupped his hands to light it for him.
Shang Shao rarely required such meticulous service from him. But now, wanting both to smoke and to make the phone call – his restlessness and desires both stirred by her – his two hands could hardly manage both.
The phone rang for a while before being hurriedly answered.
Ying Yin’s voice came through with a nasal tone. “Mr. Shang?”
She had been crying again just moments ago, a ball of tissues crumpled in her hand, her eyelids still red. Afraid that he might notice something unusual in her voice, she tried her best to sound calm.
Shang Shao was silent for a moment, then asked, “Why didn’t you come over?”
“Come over… where?” Ying Yin sounded confused.
“Didn’t you say this morning that you’d come see Rich tonight?”
Even though it had been him talking unilaterally, she had dazedly hummed in agreement – which counted as a yes.
Ying Yin thought for a moment, vaguely piecing together a memory. “Rich is fine. I’ll go see him when I have the time.”
Shang Shao was even more silent this time.
“Mr. Shang, if there’s nothing else…” Ying Yin was eager to hang up.
She had only read two lines of the script, and her eyes were already welling up with tears again. She couldn’t keep talking – she would give herself away.
“There is something.” Shang Shao cut her off coldly.
“Mm…?”
“Fine, forget Rich. But what about me? Don’t you want to see me?”
