Chapter 236: A Difficult Situation

Huang Qun was really different from before—perhaps because of his position in government, his indifference had faded significantly. At that moment, he smiled slightly, thinking that it was indeed as guessed by those above: Xiao Ran and the others would find it hard to accept this. The only thing that surprised him was that Xiao Ran still wanted to argue about the censorship system.

To some extent, the censorship system had already been made quite open; what remained was the bottom line for the Party, the state, and society. In Huang Qun’s view, a rational and successful businessman like Xiao Ran should have no reason to cross this bottom line.

Xiao Ran was also well aware that although the authorities allowed private enterprises to enter the theater industry, few of them had the funds to do so. The key point was that no matter which company built theaters, they would eventually be absorbed by larger companies—this was an inevitable outcome.

So, he dared to bet his own wealth that those who invested in theaters would either be state-owned enterprises with rigid systems and management or wealthy young men with connections. Neither of these was the kind of partner Xiao Ran wanted—especially the former, as he remembered well that if left to them, they would lose as much money as they invested.

Huang Qun smiled as he glanced around before saying, “Then if you have any opinions, feel free to share them. The central government will consider them!”

Pan Disheng and the others once again focused their attention on Xiao Ran. Xiao Ran chuckled and nodded at them before saying, “It’s simple. Distribution shouldn’t be monopolized by China Film. As for theaters, I hope the restriction can be lowered to 51%. If we can’t gain control, our investment will be meaningless. Finally, there’s the censorship system—we’ll discuss that later!”

Huang Qun thought silently. Indeed, the central government didn’t intend to let China Film continue to monopolize distribution. It was obvious even to a blind person—in terms of distribution power, not to mention Meifeng, even Debao, Tianluo, and Taihang were far stronger than China Film. In terms of balancing and controlling this, both China Film and Yindu could handle it, plus a pro-continental figure like Xiao Ran—so the problem wasn’t really big.

What needed further consideration, according to Huang Qun, was the theaters. The central government indeed intended to keep control over them. However, he still thought this move was mainly a test. Since distribution rights had already been allowed, it would be difficult to control even theaters, let alone film companies.

He had a premonition that the crux of this dispute wasn’t theaters or distribution but the censorship system. He knew well that this was essentially the central government’s bottom line, and if Xiao Ran still had demands in this regard, then…

Huang Qun nodded indifferently. He wasn’t here to make decisions but to gather opinions. “Are there any other issues with the censorship system, Mr. Xiao? You should know we’ve already made significant concessions! Don’t make things difficult for us.”

Xiao Ran smiled lightly, glanced at Lei Kaitai and the others, then said, “It’s simple. I think there are some misunderstandings in defining what constitutes feudal superstition and violence and bloodshed. Otherwise, many themes from China’s five-thousand-year history won’t be able to be presented!”

Pandisheng and the others were greatly surprised; they never expected Xiao Ran to say such things. In fact, they had no objections to the censorship system and didn’t understand why Xiao Ran was fixated on it. Huang Qun was even more puzzled—what inevitable connection did it have to China’s five-thousand-year history? “What’s the connection?”
“It’s simple!” This “simple” seemed to have become Xiao Ran’s catchphrase, one he simply couldn’t shake: “We all know ghosts don’t exist. And under today’s definitions, this theme is doomed never to be released on the mainland, right? There are no gods in the world either. Don’t forget—how many myths and legends exist in China’s five-thousand-year history? These are all excellent themes. If we want to promote Chinese culture, this is a great starting point!”
Pandisheng and the others’ eyes immediately lit up. This was indeed a good theme—Xiao Ran was essentially reminding them of this. But soon they became confused again: if these themes were so good, why hadn’t Xiao Ran invested in them?
Huang Qun immediately understood Xiao Ran’s meaning and couldn’t help but sigh bitterly. This was indeed a big problem. But Xiao Ran wasn’t done speaking—he had so much more to say. It was this so-called feudal superstition that had stifled so many filmmakers’ creative thinking.
What angered Xiao Ran the most was “The Big Boss.” To be released on the mainland, it had to have some crucial scenes cut, leading to widespread criticism after its release there. Yet, the full version went on to win Best Film at the Golden Horse Awards. There’s no comparison between a complete film and a truncated one.
Although that film did contain themes of karma, it essentially promoted the idea of people striving for goodness. To have such a film cut was simply unacceptable—no wonder Chinese cinema ended up in its current state. By that logic, since religions also preach karma, shouldn’t those be deleted too? (Sinful, sinful—just discussing the matter, not an attack.)
“What counts as bloody violence?” Xiao Ran stood up and stared at Huang Qun. “You must know Wu Yushen’s name. In his film ‘A Better Tomorrow,’ there’s that scene where Tony Leung Chiu-wai goes blind—definitely a bloody scene. By this definition, that scene would have to be cut, making the film incomplete. A censorship system that restricts creative thinking isn’t what we want!”
Huang Qun was speechless. He had also appreciated that film, and the ending scene was indeed bloody in a sense. If it were cut for that reason, it would indeed be incomplete. After sorting out his thoughts, he asked, “So what solution do you have?”
Xiao Ran smiled. If the central government couldn’t solve these problems, he was willing to give up the mainland market. Otherwise, if Hong Kong cinema lost its imagination and creativity, it would die slowly, without even Hollywood needing to intervene.

“It’s simple. In terms of feudal superstitions and the like, we need a more relaxed environment that fosters creativity, which requires the central government to be somewhat open on this matter,” Xiao Ran said with a light laugh. It wasn’t that he didn’t take the mainland market seriously; rather, he knew well how to conceal his emotions. “As for bloodshed, violence, and pornography, I think a rating system is absolutely necessary!”
“Films inevitably touch on some social issues, and these aren’t so much attacks. In such cases, films actually observe and interpret things from both the perspective of public opinion and that of the people involved.” At this point, Xiao Ran couldn’t help but feel disheartened. Hollywood’s greatest advantage over Hong Kong films now was that it could openly criticize the ruling party and the military in its movies, whereas Hong Kong films could never do such things.
Xiao Ran suddenly felt frustrated by the idea of confronting Hollywood, which made him feel like a failure. He had already lost to his own people even before the battle began. This struggle was extremely difficult. The censorship system had rendered countless themes untouchable, and he knew it would be hard for the central government to lift these restrictions—this was why he was depressed.
This depression wasn’t unfounded. He believed that the “Guhu Zi” series would never pass censorship, and even films that questioned certain city or county governments might not get approved. The Hong Kong police provided significant support for films; even if a film criticized the police, they would still help. But on the mainland, not to mention criticizing them, even accusing police of corruption could lead to severe retaliation.
Why was this? Because the Hong Kong police understood that movies were just movies, while on the mainland, where movies were seen as a means of propaganda, it was… (he didn’t dare go further.)
Huang Qun thought for a long time. He could understand the meaning behind Xiao Ran’s words and admitted it was important. But he knew he didn’t have the authority, and these matters were so sensitive that he didn’t even dare touch them.
So, he changed the subject: “President Xiao, regarding the rating system you mentioned, we have indeed considered it. There’s a lot of debate. Some people think that implementing a rating system would encourage people to watch pornographic and violent movies, which could cause great harm to society in the future!”
Xiao Ran let out a long sigh. He knew this would be the outcome. The global porn industry had a market value of at least tens of billions of dollars per year. What did that mean? Demand created the market—couldn’t they even understand that?
“R-rated movies aren’t porn!” Xiao Ran was exhausted. Suddenly, he felt like giving up everything and retreating with Lin Qingxia and the children. He had never felt this tired facing any difficulty before. “Oscar once awarded Best Picture to a completely X-rated movie, ‘Midnight Cowboy’!”
Huang Qun sighed softly. He was also in a difficult position. After gaining widespread recognition from the Hong Kong film industry, the central government had regarded Hong Kong films as leaders in revitalizing national cinema. Yet, there were still countless obstacles, which disappointed this vice minister who wanted to make a difference.

Pandisheng and the others were all stunned. It was only after Xiao Ran’s detailed explanation that they realized the intricacies involved. Under such circumstances, there really wasn’t much room for Hong Kong-produced films to thrive—what was the difference from giving up on the mainland market?
“Never mind, I’ll bring these up with my superiors!” Huang Qun regained his composure and handed another document to Xiao Ran. “This is a draft for the culture and media industry. Take a look!”
This draft was exactly what Xiao Ran wanted; other companies hadn’t gone this far yet. After skimming through it, he saw that it allowed Hong Kong capital to invest in the mainland’s media industry and gain full control—except for news media.
In the television sector, ATV and TVB were also allowed to operate in Guangdong and Guangxi, with the possibility of expanding gradually if things went well. Music production was also permitted, with full control allowed. In short, these drafts regarding culture and media satisfied Xiao Ran greatly. The only issue was movies—after all, that was the core industry of Mirage!
“I don’t have any objections to these. The key lies in movies!” Xiao Ran said with a bitter smile. It had been a long time since he had exposed his emotions so openly to outsiders. “If the central government doesn’t provide us with sufficient support and openness, in just a few years, Hong Kong-produced films will decline rapidly!”
These words stunned Pandisheng and the others once again. Huang Qun even frowned, thinking Xiao Ran’s words were overly dramatic. Hong Kong-produced films already had a very strong market worldwide—how could they possibly decline?
Xiao Ran now fully understood the reasons behind the decline of Hong Kong films in history and finally grasped why those film company owners were so distressed. “As you all know, France is about to introduce a law targeting Hong Kong films. I believe other countries and regions will follow suit in three to five years.”
“We’re aware of that, but it doesn’t seem like a big problem,” Yang Qi said, staring curiously at Xiao Ran, who was still smiling bitterly. “They can only restrict a certain number of films—not completely ban them!”
“Sigh…” Xiao Ran’s long sigh seemed to infect everyone, making them nervous. “Hollywood releases around twenty films globally each year, with only forty in regional markets. How many films does Hollywood produce each year? Much more than Hong Kong. If those other films aren’t shown overseas, how can they make money?”
Yang Qi was the first to realize the deeper meaning behind Xiao Ran’s words, and he was shocked. Xiao Ran’s sad gaze swept over them, and his mournful voice echoed in their ears: “So far, Hong Kong has managed to release less than ten films globally, including in North America. If North America isn’t included, it’s only thirty. Including regional releases, it’s only sixty.”

“And now, 150 films are produced in Hong Kong each year. Excluding 20% to 30% of them, which are experimental or artistic films, that means there are still over a hundred commercial films that need to be released to make a profit!” Xiao Ran couldn’t help but smile bitterly. It was only now that he realized just how important the mainland market was. “And the average investment in these films is 25 million, which simply isn’t recoverable in Hong Kong! This means at least 40 to 50 films lose money every year.”
Huang Qun listened quietly. He understood well that such professional matters were better left to experts like Xiao Ran to explain. Xiao Ran smiled bitterly. “Do you know why those films can’t be released? First, it’s impossible for us to distribute them everywhere. Second, these films are too Sinicized. Just like there are always many locally oriented films in Hollywood that struggle to be released!”
“Don’t forget that aside from those films released globally, which are true commercial blockbusters, many films released in regional markets also lose money. Because the local markets can’t support them, they don’t yield much return there, and they may not succeed in other regions and countries either! Even commercial blockbusters might not cover their costs. We’re essentially losing money just to gain market share.”