Chapter Thirty-Four: The Dark Horse at the Box Office

“‘The Great Flood’ Becomes a Box Office Dark Horse, Mainstream Films Make a Comeback!” blared the headline of the New Yanjing Daily.

“‘The Great Flood’ Surpasses Thirty Million at the Box Office, Social Response Extremely Enthusiastic,” declared the main story in Southern Metropolis News.

After making national news broadcasts, the box office for “The Great Flood” skyrocketed, surging from a previous ten million. From the start of the Lunar New Year’s Eve to the end of the Spring Festival holiday, by the time work resumed on the eighth day, the box office soared to thirty-seven million!

Group screenings, once thought unlikely, started to become more frequent. Schools were unable to organize student viewings, but companies and public institutions could arrange for their staff to attend as a pre-holiday perk.

These group screenings were a mixed blessing: on the one hand, more tickets were sold—no complaints there—but the ticket prices were much lower. How much were group tickets at this time? At most, not more than five yuan apiece!

Still, the principle of small profits and quick turnover worked in their favor; at the very least, the number of viewers increased substantially—by over a million. No matter how you looked at it, a net increase of more than twenty-five million in just over two weeks made this film a true juggernaut of the New Year season. With thirty-seven million at the box office, it trailed only “Never Say Goodbye,” which had just over forty million, securing second place. For a time, the name Wu Xiang was on everyone’s lips in the Chinese film industry.

“There are no perfect, idealized protagonists here, no high-ranking officials spouting slogans, no wise and decisive leaders commanding from above. Instead, there are only heroes drawn from ordinary people, heroes whose stories are rooted in the lives of everyday citizens. That is the immediate impression ‘The Great Flood’ leaves me with, and it is also its most distinctive feature,” said renowned film critic Jiang Xiaoyu on a segment for the Movie Channel.

But critical reviews weren’t the end of it; Wu Xiang could never have dreamed that even the People’s Daily would publish an editorial.

“What Kind of Mainstream Films Do the People Really Need?”

Indeed, the film was a sensation—a roaring success.

Yet at this very moment, Wu Xiang himself was paying little attention to all this. He had returned to the capital, spending his days seeking out Han Sanping. What he wanted most was to thoroughly research the current domestic film market.

At present, most Chinese filmmakers only knew about the New Year’s film season, and that was only because Hong Kong movies had earned huge profits domestically, alerting the local industry to defend this territory. Back when Big Brother Long’s “Rumble in the Bronx” took ninety-five million at the box office during the season, countless Chinese filmmakers looked on with envy. But, in truth, it wasn’t until the end of 1997 that the industry began to take the New Year’s slot seriously—meaning that it had only been a focus for about a year.

It was certainly a belated realization—and a costly one at that—but domestic filmmakers did begin to learn the ropes of the commercial film business. Leading the charge was Feng Xiaogang and his team: “The Dream Factory” and “Never Say Goodbye” both achieved impressive box office numbers. But not everyone was following suit.

Take this year’s third-place New Year’s film, “Secretly, Joyfully,” for example. Created by Feng Gong as a side project while performing comic dialogues, it earned a strong reputation, resonating well with audiences from all walks of life. However, it wasn’t a commercially marketed film; its promotional push was lacking, resulting in a final box office tally of just nine million.

Nine million was enough for third place. “Secretly, Joyfully” was lucky; for a modestly budgeted film, nine million made Feng Gong laugh all the way to the bank. But not everyone was so fortunate. Take Zhao Bensan—Elder Zhao’s “Male Women’s Director”—and Teacher Chen Peisi’s “Three and a Half Good Men,” for example.

In terms of word of mouth, “Male Women’s Director” was still quite solid. With a pairing like Song Dandan and Elder Zhao, how could it go wrong? Add in Teacher Fan, and the laughs kept coming. Unfortunately, the four million invested in the film was not recovered at the box office, let alone any profit.

Compared to “Male Women’s Director,” “Three and a Half Good Men” fared even worse. Originally slated for release at the end of 1998, it was rescheduled to early 1999 due to stiff competition, immediately weakening its media momentum. Previously, Chen Peisi had been very vocal, challenging both “Never Say Goodbye” and “Male Women’s Director,” but the change in timing made it seem as though he’d lost his nerve.

Sometimes, it’s all about pride—for people and for films. The rescheduled release directly undermined the film’s publicity. But the story didn’t end there. After its release, “Three and a Half Good Men” received a decent response, earning over two hundred thousand a day at the box office—a respectable showing. Yet after just one week, the film vanished from city cinemas, relegated to suburban or rural venues.

Chen Peisi had invested heavily in the film, assembling a cast of stars from across mainland China, Hong Kong, and Taiwan—a formidable line-up for the late 1990s. But in the end, due to the release schedule, the film managed little more than 1.7 million at the box office—a total loss.

Why was the scheduling so unfavorable to the bald king of comedy? The answer was simple: Chen Peisi couldn’t stand certain practices in the cinema business.

The term “box office skimming” in later years would refer to one film siphoning ticket sales from another released at the same time. But at this stage, it meant cinemas underreporting their own ticket sales.

Cinemas underreporting their own box office? Stealing from themselves? Surely that’s a joke?

Not at all—they really did it. Regulation was still lax in this era. Forget the internet—computers were still a luxury. Many cinemas were unsupervised, some nominally state-owned but actually privately managed. Since box office receipts had to be split with distributors and investors, if I only reported fifty out of every hundred earned, the remaining fifty was mine to keep.

It was simple and easy—an almost effortless way to make money, and not even illegal. A “statistical error” could explain everything. With so many cinemas nationwide, it was impossible to catch them all.

The reason “Three and a Half Good Men” got such a bad release schedule was that Teacher Chen Peisi had publicly criticized cinemas in an interview. “The theater was packed when I went in incognito,” he said, “but the cinema insisted occupancy was below fifty percent. Isn’t that infuriating?”

Outspoken and forthright, Teacher Chen was a true man—but the direct consequence was that cinemas refused to give his film decent screening times, leaving it banished to the margins of the cities.

Hearing these stories, Wu Xiang was filled with emotion. It seemed he really was a lucky man. Han Sanping told him that, for “The Great Flood,” the cinemas had been honest this time; since the film depicted disaster relief efforts and heroism, no one had the heart to conceal the true numbers. In truth, cinemas couldn’t be entirely blamed—their own business wasn't good, and years of losses had forced them into these tricks.

As someone who had lived through another life, Wu Xiang quickly thought of many things. Take Stephen Chow’s “A Chinese Odyssey,” for instance. Many say it became popular due to pirated VCDs and its appeal to university students. When it was released, the box office was dismal—just five million nationwide—and most viewers left cursing the film.

But Wu Xiang distinctly remembered seeing the film in Shencheng, and the screening he attended was absolutely packed; even the aisles were full. No one cursed—everyone was too busy laughing.

Such is the nature of the market. The success of “The Great Flood” may have seemed straightforward, but in reality, it was like walking on thin ice. Wu Xiang, ever the carefree soul, barely registered the peril—an oddity in itself.

All one can say is that Wu Xiang made the right film at the right time, met many who helped him along the way, and proved the old saying true: the virtuous attract much support…