Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Victory Banquet

Chen Ling had not expected that Huayi’s practice of booking entire theaters for private screenings would not only enrage countless netizens, but also rally the masses to his side. In the blink of an eye, his public image improved dramatically.

The online grumbling did nothing to dent the box office performance of “Earthquake,” which had already shattered the records for the fastest Chinese-language film to surpass one hundred million, two hundred million, and three hundred million yuan.

Although “Earthquake” was raking in tens of millions daily in a relentless box office sweep, it could not overshadow “Love in Thirty-Three Days” as it too soared past three hundred million yuan.

By the end of the month, “Love in Thirty-Three Days” had completed its full theatrical run and was officially pulled from cinemas. The final box office tally stood at 302 million yuan, setting a new record for a debut film by a rookie director.

This news quickly made headlines in film industry reports and, naturally, became a trending topic on social media. Chen Ling was subsequently interviewed by several news outlets.

“I’m a newcomer, both as director and actor—this is my first film and there are still many things I need to improve.”

“I am deeply grateful to my mentor for all the guidance.”

“As for new projects, I don’t have anything planned for now. I’d like to take some time off and return to school to further my studies and hone my skills.”

“There will certainly be a celebration banquet. I’ve already discussed it with Chairman Han from China Film Group.”

All the media present had been carefully briefed in advance, so nobody brought up the “Little Cannon” incident.

As for the celebration banquet, with the film’s resounding success, a grand event was inevitable. Even if Chen Ling had objected, China Film Group would not have agreed to forgo it.

As investor, director, and leading actor, Chen Ling’s attendance was, of course, obligatory.

The banquet was set to be held at the China Film auditorium, with Chairman Han himself making the arrangements for the evening two days hence. Not only would the entire production team be present, but China Film would also invite an array of stars, directors, and VIPs to show their support—a lively and bustling affair.

The media, naturally, would be out in force—this was left entirely in China Film’s capable hands.

The night of the banquet arrived swiftly. Chen Ling led his group from the university—the same cast and crew who were his fellow alumni.

His mentor did not attend, claiming to dislike such occasions, joking that if Chen Ling were ever to win an award, he would certainly make an appearance then.

Dou Xiao was also absent, having already begun the promotional tour for “Under the Hawthorn Tree.” With an investment of over seventy million yuan and enormous pressure to recoup costs, only a veteran like Zhang Yimou would dare to pour so much into an art film. Anyone else would have balked at the risk.

With neither his mentor nor Dou Xiao present, Chen Ling could only gather his remaining university friends and head out together.

Everyone was impeccably dressed, fully aware that opportunities to attend such high-profile events were rare—perhaps only once in a lifetime. The room would be filled with directors, producers, and industry figures, so all were eager to forge some valuable connections.

By the time Chen Ling and his party arrived, many guests were already present, including several photographers snapping away.

As soon as he entered, Chen Ling spotted a familiar figure—so striking among the crowd.

Her long black hair, usually left loose, was now elegantly pinned up with a hair stick, accentuating her delicate features. Clad in a black dress, she looked like a midnight sprite, captivating his gaze.

Chen Ling hadn’t expected Jing Tian to be there. Hadn’t her family forbidden them from meeting?

Meanwhile, Lu Zheng, who normally would have been by his side, was deep in conversation with Chairman Han, surrounded by a small crowd, oblivious to Chen Ling’s arrival.

But Jing Tian had already noticed him. At first, her gaze seemed evasive, but soon she was staring straight at him.

After a moment’s hesitation, Chen Ling approached.

“It’s been a long time,” he greeted her first.

“Yes... Yes, it’s been a long time,” she replied, stammering a little.

“How have you been?”

Up close, Chen Ling saw that she’d grown thinner, her jawline more defined than before.

“I’ve been... all right.”

“Did you finish shooting ‘Warring States’?”

“Yes, we just wrapped up. Congratulations on your award-winning film and its box office triumph.”

“Thank you.”

A silence fell between them—two people once so familiar, now at a loss for words.

It was only when Han Sanping arrived with a group that the awkward pause was broken.

A hearty laugh rang out before the man himself appeared.

“Well, look who’s here! Our hero has arrived,” Chairman Han said, clearly in high spirits.

“Sorry for being late, Chairman Han. Traffic was awful,” Chen Ling replied, warmly shaking Han Sanping’s hands.

The photographers snapped away—doubtless this shot would feature in China Film’s year-end report.

This was only the second time Chen Ling had met Chairman Han, but both men acted as if they were old acquaintances—seasoned professionals, after all.

“The banquet hasn’t started yet; we’ve only just arrived. Let me introduce you to a few people.”

With that, Han Sanping introduced several China Film executives. Lu Zheng needed no introduction, but among the others was Director Cao, who had personally represented China Film in investing in Chen Ling’s film, grinning from ear to ear—happier than Chen Ling himself.

Among the group, one figure piqued Chen Ling’s interest: Wang Changtian, the head of Enlight Media. Chen Ling hadn’t expected him. Enlight was mainly involved in film distribution, major commercial events, and television production—some of which overlapped with China Film’s operations.

For this film, distribution had been handled by China Film from the outset. There’d been no TV appearances, so Chen Ling had never dealt with Enlight.

Still, he didn’t dwell on it. Plenty of people at the banquet had little direct connection to the film. Even Huayi, who had recently sparred with him online, had sent a representative—Brother Xiao Ming, whose contract with Huayi was almost up and would soon start his own studio. Huayi sending him made sense. At this stage, Xiao Ming hadn’t yet developed his later reputation for being oily; he still came across as fresh and dashing—still handsome, though Chen Ling wondered if he’d already started wearing a wig.

The introductions were smooth; contacts were exchanged naturally—everyone there was keen to network, and Chen Ling, as a newly minted commercial director with a proven box office hit, was a prime target.

Even Wang Changtian, after all, was likely there for Chen Ling.

Soon, Chen Ling found himself surrounded by a crowd, collecting a stack of business cards and finally meeting many industry figures he’d only heard of before.

Perhaps it was his imagination, but Chen Ling couldn’t shake the feeling that someone’s gaze was fixed on him throughout these exchanges.

The banquet was about to begin, and everyone returned to their seats. At such events, seating was meticulously arranged; a mere investor would never be seated with minor cast members.

The film’s key creatives and stars were all at one table—so Chen Ling found himself once more seated beside Jing Tian.

The familiar scent of lily perfume drifted over—he hadn’t smelled it in months.

“Does your family know you’re at the banquet?” As soon as the words left his lips, Chen Ling wanted to slap himself. Of all the things to say...

Sure enough, the faint happiness in the girl’s expression vanished instantly, and she shot him an icy glare.

Realizing his blunder, Chen Ling rubbed his nose awkwardly.

Lu Zheng, seated nearby, noticed their interaction but said nothing, his expression unreadable—the mark of a true professional.

Sensing the awkwardness, Chen Ling refrained from forced conversation. His own heart was unsettled; better to say nothing than to put his foot in it again.

Fortunately, the banquet soon began, as always with opening remarks from the leadership.

Han Sanping was the first to speak. This year, he and China Film, like other state-owned studios, were under immense pressure.

The box office record was still held by a foreign film, and after the New Year, a slew of Hollywood blockbusters had swept in, leaving domestic films in ruins—many of them investments by China Film, with little to show for it.

Han Sanping had endured plenty of criticism in meetings.

Thankfully, the summer season saw a turnaround: first with the dark horse success of “Love in Thirty-Three Days,” then with “Earthquake” repeatedly breaking records. Despite criticisms of government bulk bookings, the box office numbers spoke for themselves.

“Earthquake” had little direct connection to China Film—it was more a product of China Film’s supportive environment. “Love in Thirty-Three Days,” however, was a different story.

First, it made China Film money. Even with only a twenty percent share, that was a sizeable cut of three hundred million yuan—far more than some big-budget productions managed to earn.

Just from box office receipts, not counting future rights or related profits, China Film would receive over twenty million yuan, not including what their own cinema chains would take.

Second, the film had uncovered a new commercial director. A successful director could keep delivering box office hits—like Ning Hao, for instance. So to Han Sanping, Chen Ling’s potential was far more valuable than a single project.

In the past, Han Sanping had placed his bets on big directors with big projects, only to be burned repeatedly by Hong Kong directors. Lately, he’d shifted focus to nurturing young mainland talent. Yet even Ning Hao, whom he’d pinned his hopes on, wasn’t especially prolific—his “No Man’s Land” still stuck in limbo, “The Great Gold Robbery” not even in production yet.

Thus, Han Sanping was eager for more new mainland directors to emerge, and Chen Ling was now his brightest prospect.

So, on stage, Han Sanping lavished praise on Chen Ling, declaring him the future of Chinese cinema.

Even with his thick skin, Chen Ling felt embarrassed—especially with his ex-girlfriend sitting beside him. He hardly dared lift his head.

After Han Sanping’s speech, Chen Ling was invited to the stage.

As initiator, director, writer, and leading man, his remarks were indispensable.

He thanked everyone deserving of thanks, then shared a few insights from making the film, keeping his speech short—never one for long-windedness.

Lu Zheng followed, speaking on behalf of Starlight Splendor, then the speeches concluded.

Next, staff wheeled out a large ice sculpture displaying the number 302,000,000—the film’s box office total.

Chen Ling, Jing Tian, Han Sanping, and Lu Zheng approached with small hammers, shattering the ice under the rapid-fire clicks of the photographers’ cameras.

Afterward, everyone mingled. Chen Ling barely touched his food, constantly pressed to drink. Most guests were there for him—including Wang Changtian, the president of Enlight Media, hardly a man with time to spare.

Overwhelmed by the endless toasts, Chen Ling felt his scalp tingling. He could drink, but this was too much. In the end, he feigned drunkenness—sometimes you have to play the game.

When the banquet finally ended, Chen Ling was helped into the car by his agent, Zhao Qian.

Let Jing Tian support him? Not with Lu Zheng right there.

As the event dispersed, every member of the crew received a generous red envelope—a share of the box office proceeds, distributed according to the investment proportions of Chen Ling, China Film, and Starlight Splendor.

For now, China Film would cover the advance; after all, Chen Ling wasn’t exactly flush with cash at the moment.