Huayu: This director is pretty strong.

Chapter 176 The Arrogant Cheap Stake, The Night of the Golden Lion's Coronation

Venice, Lido Island.

At three o'clock in the afternoon, the blinds in the conference room on the top floor of the Exelcio Hotel were half closed, and the sea light was cut into narrow, bright white lines that fell on the long walnut table. The four cups of espresso had long since lost their heat, and thin brown rings remained on the rims of the cups.

Pierre leaned back in his leather chair, his fingers clasped in front of his stomach. To his left sat two silent French independent filmmakers, while to his right sat the copyright manager of the German film company Constantin, his cigar box open, inside which lay several neatly cut Havana cigarettes.

A neatly bound English letter of intent was pushed in front of Chen Yan, the pages making a clean rubbing sound as they pressed against the table.

Pierre spoke first.

"Six million euros, Chen, this is the highest level of sincerity we can offer. We'll buy out all the distribution rights for 'Thunder' in Europe and North America. We won't touch a single penny of the revenue sharing in mainland China."

Chen Yan looked down at the letter of intent; the silver lettering on the cover appeared cold in the light from the window.

Su Wan sat beside him, opened her notebook, and the nib of her pen hovered on the paper, not falling.

"Mr. Pierre, the score for 'Thunder' in last night's program was 3.8." She looked up, her speech crisp and controlled. "After Harvey's elimination, this film is now the hottest contender for this year's Golden Lion. Six million to buy out the entire European and American market—that price is way off the market rate."

The German copyright manager let out a short laugh through his nose, picked up a cigar cutter, and slowly cut off the cigar head.

"The market? Ms. Su, Harvey's downfall is certainly a good thing for you." He struck a match, the flame flickering twice in the wrinkles around his eyes. "But for a Chinese-language crime film to get into European and American theaters, it's not as simple as getting a few film critic scores. Public opinion is one thing, but audiences paying money is another."

The match went out, and he took a puff of his cigar, the smoke spreading across the table.

"Besides, we're not unaware of the trouble you've encountered in China. Lu Haiming's case has been reopened; do you think the interest groups behind him will just sit idly by and wait to die? Director Chen, you desperately need cash flow to go back and put out the fire. Six million euros, arriving within forty-eight hours, is enough for you to finish this battle."

The meeting room was quiet for a moment, then the air conditioning blew down from above, causing the lower right corner of the letter of intent to curl up slightly.

European capital never operates on goodwill. They have investigated Yanying Culture's accounts, felt the tight financial situation in China, and calculated that Chen Yan must take money back to settle things now.

This six million euro offer is not a quote, but a chain handed over while the situation is dire.

Pierre sighed, moved forward half an inch, and adopted a tone of conversation like an old friend.

"Chen, know when to quit while you're ahead. The European distribution network isn't as simple as you think. Without our help, 'Thunder' wouldn't even have gotten five hundred screens. Take the money back home, clean up your mess, and that's a win-win situation."

Chen Yan still didn't respond.

He reached out and picked up the letter of intent; the paper was thick, and the edges were digging into his fingertips.

The next second, the paper tore in the middle with a crisp sound, and several people in the conference room looked up at the same time.

Pierre's amiable expression vanished, and the German manager's hand, holding a cigar, froze in mid-air, the ash lingering at his tip, reluctant to fall.

Chen Yan put the torn letter of intent back on the table, placing the shredded paper next to the coffee cup.

"Pierre, you made a mistake today."

He stood up and buttoned his suit jacket.

"Six million can't buy 'Thunder,' nor can it buy me bowing my head."

"Chen Yan," Pierre's voice rose, the chair leg scraping against the carpet with a dull thud, "You're too arrogant. Once you walk out that door, no other company in Europe will take this film. Are you planning to take a few reels of film back to China and go head-to-head with those predatory capitalists?"

Chen Yan rested his hands on the edge of the table, leaning over to look at the publishers around him.

"You think the plate Harvey left behind is only for you to divide?"

He released his grip, his tone remaining calm.

See you at the closing reception.

The door was pushed open, and light from the corridor flooded in. Chen Yan left his seat immediately.

Su Wan closed her notebook, capped her pen, and followed him out.

The thick carpet swallowed the sound of footsteps, and the conference room door behind him closed, leaving only a muffled trailing syllable in Pierre's suppressed French.

"Have you made contact?" Chen Yan asked.

Su Wan held her phone in her palm; the screen was still lit.

"Jonathan, the acquisitions director for Lionsgate North America, arrived in Venice half an hour ago. I sent an email in your name, and he replied, expressing interest in 'Thunder'."

Chen Yan stopped by the window, the coastline outside the glass was whitened by the afternoon sun.

With Harvey taken away, Miramax's distribution machine was crippled, leaving a huge gap in the North American independent film market. Lionsgate and Miramax have been battling for so many years, they wouldn't let go of the opportunity to take a bite out of it.

"Tell Jonathan that Gaumont and Constantine have made offers." Chen Yan looked at the white sails rising and falling in the distant harbor. "He needs to know that he's not the only company eyeing this prize. If they want to fill the theater void left by Harvey, they shouldn't be knocking on the door with tentative offers."

At 8 p.m., the Venice Film Festival closing reception.

The crystal chandelier illuminated the hall brightly, champagne glasses clinked lightly, gowns brushed against the carpet, and reporters and film producers moved among smiling faces. The air was filled with the smells of alcohol, perfume, and freshly ironed suit fabric.

Pierre, holding a wine glass, searched for Chen Yan in the crowd.

He wasn't in a hurry.

Chinese-language films have always had limited leverage in overseas distribution, especially considering Chen Yan still has a tough battle to fight domestically. A young director tearing up a piece of paper at the negotiating table doesn't mean he can truly withstand a cash flow crisis.

There was a sudden commotion at the entrance to the hall.

A tall American man walked in with several assistants. His gray hair was neatly combed, he had broad shoulders, and he took long strides. People kept shaking hands with him as he walked.

Pierre saw the face clearly, and his wine glass swayed slightly between his fingers.

Lionsgate, Jonathan.

Jonathan didn't linger in the crowd; he walked straight through the hall to Chen Yan, who was in the corner.

"Director Chen."

He extended his hand, his palm broad and thick, with the directness characteristic of Americans.

"I've seen 'Thunder,' it's ruthless and beautiful. Harvey, that old bastard, is rotten to the core, but he's always had a good eye. The things he tries to suppress are usually valuable."

Chen Yan shook hands with him, then stepped aside to introduce Su Wan to him.

The negotiations took place in a corner of the reception. There was no conference table or spread-out contract, only bubbling champagne in glasses and a series of price quotes that weighed heavily on the recipient.

Pierre and his German supervisor quickly squeezed through, and Pierre immediately tried to get into the office.

"Jonathan, the North American market isn't as forgiving of this kind of subject matter as you think."

Jonathan glanced at him, skipping all the pleasantries.

"Pierre, Miramax is down. It's time to change the rules for independent cinemas in North America."

He turned to Chen Yan.

Lionsgate offered ten million US dollars to buy out the North American rights.

Pierre's face darkened.

"Gaumont will contribute eight million euros, with the entire European region bound together."

The German manager took the cigar away from his mouth and stopped his dismissive smile.

Chen Yan held a glass of champagne, letting the two financial tycoons raise their bids in front of him.

This is the situation he wanted.

Harvey's move wasn't just about opening a few theaters or releasing dates; it was about creating an entrance to an entire collapsed old order. Whoever seizes it first will be able to shift the landscape of independent films in their favor.

"The two of you."

As soon as Chen Yan spoke, several pairs of eyes from a corner of the party simultaneously turned towards him.

"I won't split 'Thunder' into smaller parts, nor will I sell it off cheaply. I want a simultaneous global online release. Fifteen million euros."

Pierre took a breath, his lips tightening.

Jonathan's brows furrowed slightly.

The German manager shook his head first.

"This price has exceeded the historical record for any Chinese-language film sold overseas."

Chen Yan placed the cup on the waiter's tray beside him.

"Plus 20% of the North American box office revenue."

Jonathan stared at him for a few seconds.

The 3,000 screens left vacant by Harvey are burning through cash every day. If "Thunder" can ride the wave of the Golden Lion Award to enter North America, it will bring more than just box office revenue; it will also give Lionsgate the right to take over the discourse power in the independent film market.

Jonathan finally nodded.

"Fifteen million is fine. But I want exclusive, full rights for Europe and North America."

After he finished speaking, he turned his head to look at Pierre.

"You're out."

Pierre's face was grim. The champagne bubbles in his glass were still rising, but he didn't drink any more and turned away from the crowd.

Chen Yan picked up his wine glass again and clinked it with Jonathan's.

"It's a pleasure working with you."

10 p.m., the main hall of the cinema.

As the closing ceremony entered its final stage, the noise from the audience gradually subsided, and the red lights on the cameras lit up one by one.

Marco Müller stood in the center of the stage, the spotlight shining on his shoulders, holding the last envelope in his hand.

"The Golden Lion, the highest honor at this year's Venice International Film Festival, was awarded to......"

He opened the envelope, glanced at it, and then looked up at the first row.

"Thunder! Directed by Chen Yan!"

Applause erupted from the front row and quickly filled the entire hall.

Chen Yan stood up, but did not immediately walk onto the stage.

He turned around and looked at Zhao Xiao in the back row.

Zhao Xiao, wearing that old suit, sat with his hands on his knees and his back ramrod straight. Because of the previous moral controversy, the jury, in an effort to balance the pressure, had removed him from the Best Actor list.

Chen Yan walked up to him and placed his hand on his shoulder.

"Come on, let's go up on stage."

Zhao Xiao raised his head, his Adam's apple bobbing.

A controversial actor who was not selected is not entitled to stand on the podium for the highest award according to the rules.

Chen Yan didn't explain, but just repeated it again.

"Walk."

The two walked onto the stage side by side.

Marc Muller handed the heavy Golden Lion trophy to Chen Yan, and the flashes from the audience went off in quick succession, the white light sweeping across his face.

Chen Yan did not immediately walk towards the microphone.

He turned around and, in front of hundreds of media outlets worldwide, placed the Golden Lion trophy into Zhao Xiao's arms.

A low gasp rose from the audience, and the sound of camera shutters clicking incessantly from the press section.

Zhao Xiao held the trophy, the veins on the back of his hands bulging, his eyes reddened by the lights. He looked at the reporters below the stage who had once judged him with headlines and columns, his lips moved, but he couldn't utter a word.

Chen Yan stood in front of the microphone.

"This trophy belongs to the truth of film."

His voice was amplified and carried throughout the hall.

"It proves one thing: in the face of art, the hypocrisy and arrogance of capital are worthless. Thank you, Venice."

The applause rang out again, lasting even longer than before, and some people even stood up in the second-floor stands.

One o'clock in the morning, at the Lido Island villa.

The celebration banquet was still going on, the champagne tower was full, and the crew members cheered in the living room. Some people hugged Zhao Xiao and wouldn't let go, while others raised their glasses and shouted until their voices were hoarse. The sea breeze outside the window made the curtains flutter.

Chen Yan stood on the balcony, his suit jacket draped over the railing, the collar of which was lifted by the wind.

Su Wan pushed open the glass door and came out. Her face was paler than the light inside the room, and she was holding a black encrypted satellite phone in her hand.

She walked up to Chen Yan and pressed a shallow mark on the edge of the machine with her fingertips.

"Chen Yan".

Chen Yan turned around.

Su Wan handed over the phone, her speech abruptly halting, though her tone remained strained at the end.

"It's a call from Sister Lin. Something happened back home."