Chapter 12: The Main Competition Section

Under normal circumstances, after a film is completed and submitted for review, it is quite common to wait three to five months before receiving the results. Sometimes, the film is simply returned with a rejection notice, without any explanation of what went wrong—that is truly the most tormenting part.

When it comes to film censorship, Beijing Film Academy has no advantage; it remains a group under close scrutiny. Most banned films domestically are created by Beijing Film Academy teachers or alumni, and they tend to be quite stubborn about it: “This is how I make my film; you censoring folks know nothing about art!”

Take, for example, the renowned director Tian Zhuangzhuang, who, when filming “The Blue Kite,” submitted a script for approval that was different from the one actually filmed. Naturally, after the film was completed and submitted for review, it was not approved. But Tian was indifferent—he took the film straight to international film festivals. The authorities were furious and banned him from directing for ten years.

Interestingly, that ban was officially documented at the time. It’s said that the obstinate old Tian framed the document and hung it proudly in his room, boasting about it—an extraordinary display of stubbornness. Since then, even when directors are banned, no official documents are issued.

For instance, after Jiang Wen was told he was banned from directing, he went to the relevant authorities to ask, “Why don’t you give me the official document? Do you look down on me, Jiang Wen?” Presumably, he wanted to emulate Tian’s approach, but everyone had been scared off by Tian’s example, so no documents were given.

These audacious directors are capable of anything. Cao Yang once saw that framed document at Tian’s home; it must be quite a collector’s item. Although Beijing Film Academy people have no advantage in censorship, if the school pushes for it, with high-level leaders personally involved, and if the film has no issues, the review process can be remarkably swift.

In this case, it took only sixteen days for the film to pass censorship without any revision requests. This means “Alone by the Sea at Night” can now be legally and properly submitted to international festivals.

Cao Yang was delighted upon hearing this and approached Tian Zhuangzhuang. “Senior, our film passed censorship. Do you know any selectors who could help us?”

Tian was puzzled. “Why do you need a selector?”

Now it was Cao Yang’s turn to be confused. Didn’t one need a selector from the Chinese-language section to recommend the film before it could enter the Berlin Film Festival? It was said that a strong selector’s recommendation could guarantee entry into the main competition.

He sought out Tian because Tian had also participated in Berlin; his film “The Great Eunuch Li Lianying” had entered the main competition and even received a consolation special encouragement award.

Don’t underestimate such special awards. Winning one means either your selector is powerful, or your connections are strong.

“Isn’t a selector’s recommendation required in Berlin?” Cao Yang asked.

Tian wanted to turn and walk away; he wasn’t sure if this kid was deliberately provoking him. Then he remembered Cao Yang was still a student and might not know better. Still, he couldn’t resist giving him a kick.

“You don’t need any damn selector. You’re a student; this is officially a student practice film. The school cares much more than you do. Why worry? Just wait for the notification.”

Cao Yang nodded, realizing this was new to him. Even in his previous life, though he had been in the circle for a long time, he had never encountered anything so “high-level.” He only knew that having a good selector meant halfway success.

“How is Li Xiaoran doing? What did Teacher Lin say?”

“There’s nothing new—same old routine: help her manage her emotions, find distractions, socialize more, make friends, and see you less. Three to five months, and she should get over it.”

Tian spoke without much emotion. To him and other directors, actors getting emotionally involved in their roles was normal—nothing to make a fuss about.

Many actors fall in love with their co-stars during filming. Does that mean they truly love each other? Not a chance.

Some films or TV series are shot over six months or longer, with the leads constantly together, acting out romances. The male lead’s character is often perfect, and if you invest emotionally, it’s inevitable to feel sparks fly—because in reality, you don’t find such perfect men. Every imagined virtue is embodied in the male lead, making it impossible not to get emotionally involved.

“You shouldn’t blame yourself. Did Li Xiaoran’s agency say anything? This is very common. Acting methods differ—there’s the method acting camp and the experiential camp. Unless you have exceptional talent, if you want to portray a character well, you will eventually get into the role.”

“The difference is, method actors build a mental wall and can exit the role faster. Someone like Li Xiaoran, who never studied acting, unless she develops a fixed acting style where every role looks the same, finds it easy to get in but hard to get out.”

“You’re still inexperienced. After you shoot a few more films and see more, you’ll understand.”

Tian Zhuangzhuang comforted Cao Yang to prevent him from feeling discouraged.

“Alright, got it, Senior.”

After some thought, Cao Yang added, “The Central Academy of Drama really teaches well. No wonder Lü Leping and Xu Fan can get out of character so quickly.”

Tian froze for a few seconds, then kicked him again.

In the following days, Cao Yang stopped worrying about the film and didn’t inquire about the school’s procedures, focusing solely on his classes and considering his next film project.

When the school’s winter break arrived, Cao Yang had some clarity but remained hesitant. After all, he wasn’t sure if the actors could handle the emotional immersion required for the next film. Careful consideration was needed.

After the break, Cao Yang returned home. His parents were delighted for the first few days, treating him to good food and drink—this lasted three days.

After three days, his mother started nitpicking: complaining about his late mornings, untidy room, and lack of cleaning—nothing was satisfactory.

Then his father got involved, and whenever Cao Yang was scolded, it always ended with blaming his father.

Eventually, his father asked when school would start and suggested it might be good to return early after the New Year.

Finally, on the 17th—the traditional Northern festival known as the Kitchen God Festival, or Little New Year—Cao Yang was called up early by his mother, who ordered a thorough cleaning of the entire house, with Cao Yang as the main force.

Around three in the afternoon, Cao Yang received a call from Hou Keming with great news: “Alone by the Sea at Night” had been selected for the main competition at the 51st Berlin International Film Festival.

Immediately, his phone rang nonstop—calls from Tian, Teacher Situ, Wang Jinsong, Ding Jiali, Sun Honglei, and even the coal boss’s mistress.

Most importantly, Xie Fei called.

On the phone, Teacher Xie said that three Chinese-language films had been selected for the main competition this year—Wang Xiaoshuai’s “Beijing Bicycle at Seventeen,” and a film by Wan Wan called “Love You, Love Me.”

Wang Xiaoshuai was from the 1985 class of the directing department. His mentors were former department chair Zheng Dongtian and current chair Xie Xiaojing.

This meant Wang Xiaoshuai had strong connections at the school and was considered a core member of the directing department.

Zheng Dongtian and Xie Fei had a good relationship.

Both had already spoken with Xie Fei. The school’s stance was clear: these were insiders, so do your best to support them all. Ideally, all should be pushed forward, but at least ensure one wins a major award.

Additionally, Wan Wan’s side had also sent someone to request assistance from Xie Fei’s close friends, hoping Xie Fei would give extra attention.

Xie Fei was quite troubled.