Chapter Forty-Two: The Love Beneath the Hawthorn Tree

After lingering only briefly in the circle of industry heavyweights to make his presence known, Chen Ling quietly withdrew. As he did, he spotted Liu Yifei accompanying her mother. The two of them had just shared a meal together a couple of days ago, so it would be only proper to greet her now.

“You’re here too, junior,” Liu Yifei said, her voice bright with both surprise and delight as she noticed him. Clearly, their recent dinner had brought them closer.

“Hello, senior. Hello, ma’am. The lead actor, Dou Xiao, is a good friend of mine and also starred in my previous film. I had to come,” Chen Ling replied politely, walking over to greet them.

Liu Yifei’s mother frowned at her daughter’s casual address. “Mind your manners—this is a public occasion. You should call him Director Chen.”

To Chen Ling, such formalities were of little consequence. “It’s alright, ma’am. The film hasn’t started shooting yet, and we’re not on set. There’s no need for such formality—‘junior’ feels far more natural than ‘Director Chen’ anyway.”

“If Director Chen is free, you must come to our home as a guest. I have a few bottles of fine wine in my collection—I’d love to treat you to them,” Liu Yifei’s mother offered. It was clear she was trying to make amends for having called her daughter home during their previous dinner. Her concern was understandable: a young woman dining alone late at night with a man, especially given her daughter’s background in her last film, left her with a less than favorable impression of those in the music industry.

“I’m afraid I’ll be hard pressed to find the time before the film starts. Tomorrow, I need to go to Venice to discuss the film’s rights. Chairman Han from China Film has already urged me several times,” Chen Ling replied. He wasn’t particularly interested in visiting Liu Yifei’s home; dining privately with her was one thing, but he could sense the hint of wariness in her mother’s eyes. He didn’t quite understand why she was so guarded—after all, he wasn’t a bad person.

“Yifei has always been a mischievous child. If she ever acts out of turn, I hope you’ll be understanding, Director Chen.”

“You’re too kind. As classmates, it’s only right that we look out for each other,” Chen Ling replied.

Liu Yifei, seeing that her mother wasn’t watching, stuck out her tongue playfully—a silent protest against being called mischievous, though she dared not voice her objection. The sight made Chen Ling chuckle inwardly; she was certainly an amusing girl.

“Director Chen, has the start date for our project been set?” Liu Yifei’s mother, who doubled as her manager, asked. It was her duty to coordinate her daughter’s schedule properly.

“We just signed the final contract with China Film yesterday. As long as the auditions go smoothly in the next few days, we should be able to start shooting before the October holiday,” Chen Ling replied after a moment’s thought. With Chen Zhixi joining the project, everything was progressing much faster than before; starting before October now seemed entirely feasible.

“Yifei has read through the script several times already and has even written out detailed character notes. She won’t let you down,” her mother praised.

Chen Ling offered his own words of praise in return. Compared to Liu Yifei’s simplicity, her mother was clearly much more calculating.

After a few more minutes of conversation, a staff member came to inform them that the premiere was about to begin, and everyone made their way into the theater.

At premieres like these, seat assignments are always determined by the organizers, strictly according to each guest’s standing in the industry. Anything less would be considered odd. The first row was reserved for the main cast and crew, as well as the titans of state-owned and private enterprises. The second row kept seats for the senior directors and major film investors—the so-called “patron daddies” whose positions could not be treated lightly.

Chen Ling found himself assigned to the fourth row—a prime spot for a newcomer who had only directed one film. He’d noticed earlier that Liu Yifei and her mother were seated even farther back, not because their status was low, but simply because there were so many big names present tonight.

Hardly had Chen Ling settled into his seat when someone in the row ahead turned around to greet him.

“Hello, Director Chen. I’m Ning Hao—nice to meet you.”

Looking at the man before him, closely cropped hair and a rugged, intimidating face, it was hard for Chen Ling to associate him with the title of “great director.” Nevertheless, he returned the greeting politely—after all, Ning Hao was his senior.

“Hello, I’m Chen Ling. It’s a pity I never ran into you while recording at Bad Monkey. I didn’t expect we’d meet here.”

Though Ning Hao looked gruff, his smile was surprisingly warm and approachable. He was perhaps a bit tanned from working on set recently.

“I’ve heard Lao Fan mention you often, and I’ve wanted to meet you for a while. But I’ve been busy filming The Great Robbery and haven’t had the chance. I rushed back just for this premiere,” Ning Hao explained.

“I haven’t seen him in a while either. I heard he’s been quite busy?” After returning from Taiwan, Chen Ling hadn’t seen Fan Zheng; every time he called, Fan was tied up with work.

“Well, he was nominated for the Golden Melody Awards recently, so there’s been a lot of demand for collaborations. By the way, I read your new script—it’s brilliant. If you ever have another project that’s a good fit, let me know,” Ning Hao said with genuine appreciation.

Chen Ling felt a bit awkward—after all, he’d more or less snatched this opportunity from under Ning Hao’s nose. Still, he nodded and replied, “I’m sure we’ll have the chance to work together in the future.”

The two chatted quietly while the main cast was being interviewed on stage, but as the film began, they fell into a comfortable silence, turning their attention to Zhang Yimou’s latest art house film.

In Chen Ling’s view, Under the Hawthorn Tree stood apart from other art films. There was little pretense or obfuscation; compared to Zhang Yimou’s previous works, the cinematography was stripped of superfluous color. There were no elaborate or gimmicky shots—just simple, straightforward storytelling, delivered with gentle patience. Such an approach demands a director’s true storytelling prowess; if done well, this kind of understated, steadily unfolding emotion can be devastatingly powerful.

To craft an art film in which every step of the plot tightly grips the audience’s emotions—such skill is rare indeed.

By the time the credits rolled, soft sounds of weeping could be heard throughout the theater, mostly from women, whose hearts are often more moved by sentiment than men’s.

Chen Ling’s assessment: This was an art film that anyone could understand—a rarity. Such films might not break box office records, but they’re perfect for awards season. In fact, the rights sales might well exceed the domestic box office.

If Love is Not Enough had sold overseas rights for seven million dollars, what could Zhang Yimou’s new film command? Chen Ling could scarcely imagine.

He’d always assumed that art house directors didn’t earn as much as those making commercial blockbusters, but after learning about rights sales, his perspective shifted. The value of directors making art films was not necessarily lower; licensing fees didn’t require splitting profits with theater chains—just a bit of tax.

“After Breakup Buddies, should I try my hand at an art film too? Maybe I could win a couple of major awards.” The idea tempted him—earning both money and acclaim, what could be better? He’d just have to choose the right story.

When the film ended, the main cast, led by Zhang Yimou, returned to the stage for the press conference. Zhang Yimou answered the press with calm restraint, refusing to make grand proclamations or controversial statements like some directors at other premieres.

In Zhang Yimou’s words: “I’ve simply told a story with the language of film. Everything I wanted to say and express is already there. Once the film is released, whether it’s praised or criticized, whether the box office is high or low—it’s all up to the audience.”

That kind of composure alone was worthy of admiration. In comparison, the likes of Chen Kaige and his ilk would never measure up.