Chapter 1: The First Pot of Gold

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On July 2, 2001, Li Wenyu descended the stairs of the dormitory building and passed by the duty room, where a familiar voice rang out from within, “Xiao Li, your letter has arrived. You’ve asked me five times in the past ten days—finally, I’ve brought you some good news.”

Delighted, Li Wenyu turned to see the fifty-something dorm manager handing an envelope through the window. He took it politely, “Thank you, Uncle Liu.”

After exchanging a few more pleasantries, he glanced at the return address, which was from Hong Kong Island. His confidence grew; he turned and returned to his dorm upstairs. The four-person room was empty. He opened the envelope and read, and after a few minutes, he struck the mattress twice in joy.

The letter came from Zhang Guorong of Hong Kong Island, perhaps written by the man himself, or perhaps by a staff member adopting his tone. The content praised the script Li Wenyu had sent, “Tsuen Wan by the Sea,” saying it was excellent and offering to purchase it for 150,000 Hong Kong dollars.

If Li Wenyu had further ideas, such as joining the crew or observing filming, he could call the provided number.

Li Wenyu set the letter aside, poured a cup of warm water and drank it down, then gently clapped his hands, “After more than a month since rebirth, I finally secured my first bucket of gold. 150,000 Hong Kong dollars in 2001? That’s no small sum. Most likely, Zhang Guorong himself really likes this script to offer such a high price.”

“For a newcomer screenwriter in the industry... Even with the best script, rather than being plagiarized or usurped, if you send it out, it often becomes someone else’s work. If they actually buy it, offering you ten thousand yuan would already be considered generous.”

Once again, he marveled—Zhang Guorong, whose tragic suicide in 2003 led to an internet legend that may have been exaggerated, truly had a sterling reputation.

If you sent this script to any film company in Hong Kong or the mainland, putting aside plagiarism and other tricks—like releasing pirated versions first and then making them ‘official’—what’s the highest price this script could fetch a rookie from the literature department at the Beijing Film Academy, class of ’99?

As someone reborn, Li Wenyu had mailed “Tsuen Wan by the Sea,” which was, in its original timeline, filmed as “Manchester by the Sea” in 2015 and released in 2016. It had a production cost of eight million dollars, grossed forty-seven million in the US, and swept the Oscars with awards for Best Actor, Best Director, Best Picture, Best Supporting Actor, Best Supporting Actress, Best Original Screenplay, and a slew of nominations...

In the end, it walked away with trophies for Best Screenplay and Best Actor!

You say awards require maneuvering, connections, and money? Zhang Guorong and a circle of renowned Hong Kong directors have deep ties at Europe’s three major film festivals. If the script is good enough, it’s all down to the networks of people like Guorong or sunglasses-wearing Wong.

The script is bleak from start to finish—deeply distressing but never healing. The protagonist is a zombie-like handyman, fixing pipes and toilets, drifting through each day, alternating between silence and rage.

He’s a marginal figure, barely noticed, until his brother dies and leaves him a teenage nephew to care for. Only then does the narrative reveal why the protagonist is so broken.

Once, he was adored and cherished by his family and friends—a normal, happy man. But his carelessness at a party led to a fire that killed his children. He froze himself off from the world, refusing any contact, essentially self-destructing.

In this story, when the protagonist returns to Tsuen Wan to care for his nephew, he enters a cycle of love and redemption. Yet, unlike most films where characters emerge from shadows to embrace the world anew, here the sadness returns to its origin.

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It’s all about realism: some regrets in life, once they happen, can never be undone. They cannot be compensated for or replaced.

It was the summer of 2001. If forty-five-year-old Zhang Guorong wished to turn this script into a film, he lacked nothing in terms of funding, connections, or acting skill.

Li Wenyu, as a reborn soul, had other cheats at his disposal. There were many ways to earn his first gold, but as a twice-lived extra from the literature department at Beijing Film Academy, he decided to send certain scripts to people who wouldn’t screw him over...

At least on July 2, he received genuine affirmation: 150,000 Hong Kong dollars!

150,000? He could open an internet café—those were money-printing machines—or buy an apartment. Right now, Beijing’s housing prices were just a few thousand per square meter. It wouldn’t climb until the Olympic boom; still, there were years left to choose.

Even after the Olympics, there’d still be bargains during the real estate winter.

But Li Wenyu recalled that the easiest move was to buy stocks. The world was in the throes of the dot-com bubble. Old Ding at the pig farm had taken NetEase public, and the stock plunged from $15.5 to $0.5 a share.

It nearly drove Old Ding to spit hundreds of mouthfuls of blood.

By 2004, three years later, NetEase stock was over $70 a share—140 times higher. If you invested 150,000 Hong Kong dollars this year, by 2004 that would be 21 million.

In 2004, Big Penguin listed in Hong Kong at 3.7 dollars a share...

Li Wenyu lit a Red Plum cigarette, happily ran off to make a call. The letter from Zhang Guorong had asked if he wanted to join the crew or observe the shoot. Of course he did.

The director department at Beijing Film Academy’s class of ’99 hadn’t recruited students. Those about to enter their junior year were mostly famous for the cinematography department’s Ning Hao, followed by a smattering of talent from the literature department.

He had a roommate, Old Wang, who wouldn’t become famous but still did better than Li Wenyu.

Li Wenyu went downstairs again, handed Uncle Liu in the duty room three packs of Red Plum as thanks, chatted briefly, then exited the building. A round-faced young man approached with a smile, “Old Li, when are you going home for summer break, or are you staying in Beijing to look for opportunities?”

Speak of Old Wang, and there he was—a future ordinary screenwriter, but one who could at least run with a few crews and earn a living as a mid-tier worker.

Li Wenyu smiled, “Let me make a call first. We’ll talk later.”

Old Wang nodded, “Alright, let me know if you decide to go home—we’ll go together.”

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After a few casual words, Li Wenyu went off to make the call. Many students stayed in the dorms over summer, some running with film crews.

……

Around ten in the morning.

Li Wenyu wandered the campus of Beijing Film Academy, once again marveling at the legendary reputation of Ah Rong. The phone number left in the letter was indeed his own. When discussing joining the crew or observing filming, Zhang Guorong promised to cover his airfare, accommodation, and meals—

All-inclusive.

There was none of the usual script-selling nonsense: no advance payment of two or three installments, no endless script revisions during shooting, no waiting for the film to finish and possibly never seeing the final payment. Just one sentence: “What’s your account? I’ll transfer the money.”

Did he want Hong Kong dollars or RMB?

Zhang Guorong also asked if this was a script written specifically for awards. He felt the script was 90% complete and excellent, with a good chance at Cannes, Berlin, or Venice if filmed well. Zhang Guorong himself had been a jury member at the Berlin International Film Festival in 1998.

Last year, Gong Li was chair of the Berlin jury!

Whether they’d win depended on how they maneuvered.

Li Wenyu didn’t deny it. He planned to fly to Hong Kong for the first time over summer break to learn on set. If “Tsuen Wan by the Sea” went into production, regardless of box office, if it won Best Screenplay at the Hong Kong Film Awards or any of Europe’s big three...

Afterwards, if he submitted scripts again, the chances of being plagiarized or having pirated versions released first would drop dramatically.

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