weddingnovel Chapter 146 The Hammer on the Screen Shatters the Arrogance of Capital
Chapter 146 The Hammer on the Screen Shatters the Arrogance of Capital
The seat beneath Pierre vibrated violently.
Dust fell from the ceiling.
Thomas was sitting in the fifth row, near the aisle.
He was wearing a brown tweed suit.
He had a two-thousand-euro envelope that Harvey's assistant had slipped to him in his pocket.
According to the plan, he should get up and leave the stage ten minutes after the start of the game.
And I'll write a negative review in tomorrow's Cahiers du Cinéma column.
Thomas raised his left wrist.
The watch hands point to 8:12.
He pressed his hands on his knees, preparing to push himself up.
The scene on the screen switched to a fixed long shot.
Lin Qingqiu's fingers were stuck in a crack in the granite.
The rough gravel cut her palms.
Fresh blood flowed down the cracks in the rocks.
It dripped onto the gray gravel.
There was no background music.
The only sounds were Lin Qingqiu's heavy breathing and the rustling of cloth against the stones.
She bit her lower lip.
The teeth penetrated the epidermis.
Blood beads seeped out.
She put all her weight on her right arm.
Bones and muscles are taut under the skin.
The scar, with its flesh turned outwards, twisted as the muscles contracted.
Chen Yan stood in front of the mixing console.
My finger rests on the low-frequency slider.
He pressed the slider down.
The wind at the quarry subsided.
Lin Qingqiu's panting was highlighted.
Thomas heard a cracking sound as if a bone had dislocated.
He looked down at his hands.
Sweat beaded on my palms.
He raised his head.
Look back at the screen.
Lin Qingqiu's right hand fingers were twisted into an odd angle.
She did not stop moving.
Hold your right wrist with your left hand.
With a forceful snap, it broke open.
The sound of the bones realigning was transmitted through the speaker.
Thomas shut his mouth.
He swallowed hard.
He forgot his mission to leave.
He forgot about the two thousand euros in his pocket.
Thomas's thigh muscles were taut.
He stared at the pale forearm on the screen.
He stared at the screen.
Thomas released his hands from his knees.
Lean back against the chair.
One hundred and twenty minutes later.
The screen was switched to complete black.
The projector stopped working.
The carbon lamp went out.
The screening room was plunged into darkness.
Fifteen seconds have passed.
No one speaks.
No one got up.
Pierre stood up.
He raised his hands.
Slap it hard.
Applause echoed through the empty screening room.
A publisher on the right also stood up.
Join in the applause.
Third row, fourth row, fifth row.
All two hundred French publishers stood up.
Applause erupted.
It drowned out the sound of the sea breeze howling outside the passage.
Chen Yan unplugged the headphone cord.
He hung the headphones on the metal pusher.
He turned to look at the audience.
Pierre looked at Chen Yan.
Clap your hands together forcefully.
The edges of the palms are reddish.
Martinez Hotel, penthouse suite.
Harvey sat on the leather sofa.
He was holding a half-full glass of whiskey.
The blond assistant pushed open the door and entered the room.
High heels clattered on the Persian carpet.
Thomas did not leave the game.
The assistant stopped in front of the coffee table.
"Two hundred publishers applauded for ten minutes."
Harvey gripped the glass tightly.
The veins on the back of his hand are bulging.
He looked up.
Pour the whiskey down your throat.
Ice cubes hit the side of the cup.
It makes a crisp sound.
"Contact the editor-in-chief of The Hollywood Reporter."
Harvey smashed the empty glass on the coffee table.
"I'll take the front page of tomorrow's morning paper."
The assistant opened the notebook.
Pull out the pen.
"Use the third version of the press release."
Harvey stood up.
"This film sells the suffering of the lower classes and caters to the stereotype of the East as backward."
"Should we utilize European film critic resources?"
The assistant asked.
"Buy out the entertainment sections of France's three major newspapers."
Harvey walked to the floor-to-ceiling window.
"Destroy the commercial value of this film before the copyright trading market opens."
"They're just a bunch of independent publishers who scavenge for scraps."
Harvey turned around.
"Without my permission, they can't get screenings from even one chain of cinemas."
"Do we need to conduct public relations efforts specifically targeting Chen Yan personally?"
The assistant asked.
"unnecessary."
Harvey straightened his tie.
"Focus on the film itself. Tell European audiences they are watching a fake Oriental spectacle."
Harvey took a cigar from the inside pocket of his suit.
The assistant struck a match.
Bring it close to the tip of the cigar.
Smoke rose.
It obscured Harvey's face.
Nine o'clock the next morning.
Cannes Film Festival, copyright exchange center.
Sunlight streams through the glass dome.
It was reflected on the white display board.
Yanying Culture's booth was in the most remote corner.
Zhang Yuan placed a stack of newly printed brochures on the long table.
The brochure cover features a black-and-white still of Lin Qingqiu wielding a hammer.
Su Wan was wearing a gray business suit.
Standing in front of the display board.
He was holding a roll of double-sided tape.
A copy of that day's Hollywood Reporter lay on the corner of the table.
The front-page headline, printed in bold black, read: "Broken Bridge: A low-quality suffering show pandering to the West."
The accompanying photo shows Lin Qingqiu's profile with her scar visible on the red carpet.
Chen Yan pulled out the folding chair.
Sat down.
He took the newspaper.
Turn to the second page.
The article took up the entire page.
"Harvey moved very quickly."
Su Wan tore off a piece of double-sided tape.
"He blocked the mainstream media coverage."
"Mainstream media don't buy tickets."
Chen Yan threw the newspaper into the wastepaper basket.
"Audience members buy tickets."
Zhang Yuan looked at the newspapers in the wastepaper basket.
"These bastards are lying through their teeth."
Zhang Yuan loosened his tie.
"They said in the article that Lin Qingqiu's scars were made with low-quality special effects makeup."
Lin Qingqiu sat at the very edge of the long table.
She was wearing a black sports jacket.
Zip it up to the top.
She rolled up the right sleeve of her dress.
The dark red scar was revealed.
"Would you like me to do an interview?"
Lin Qingqiu asked.
"No self-proof is required."
Chen Yan looked at the brochure on the table.
"Proving oneself is an act of the weak."
Chen Yan picked up a bottle of mineral water.
Unscrew the bottle cap.
"The work itself is the evidence."
Chen Yan took a sip of water.
"I contacted the president of the French Independent Film Critics Association last night."
Su Wan stuck the double-sided tape on the display board.
"They saw the sample footage."
"What did they say?"
Chen Yan asked.
"They stayed up all night writing a letter."
Su Wan took a printed document out of her briefcase.
The logo of the French Independent Film Critics Association is printed at the top of the paper.
Below are the autographs of sixty film critics.
Su Wan posted the document in the center of the display board.
The document, written in French, reads: "The most penetrating realistic work of the early 21st century. We reject the hegemonic interference of Hollywood capital in the pure film."
"This letter has been sent simultaneously to all independent cinemas in France."
Su Wan flattened the edges of the paper.
"Harvey's press release became a pile of waste paper."
Pierre walked over from across the aisle.
He was wearing yesterday's gray trench coat.
He was carrying a black briefcase.
Pierre stopped in front of the booth.
My gaze fell on the joint letter on the display board.
"Gaumont Cinemas has decided to add 300 screens."
Pierre opened his briefcase.
"This is a new film scheduling agreement."
Su Wan picked up the contract.
Turn to the signature page.
"You withstood Harvey's pressure."
Su Wan looked at Pierre.
"It wasn't us."
Pierre shook his head.
"It's that joint letter. French audiences don't accept Hollywood's aesthetic hegemony."
Pierre took a pen out of his pocket.
He handed it to Su Wan.
"Sign it."
Pierre said.
"This is your victory."
Su Wan pulled out the pen cap.
Write your name in the signature field.
The pen tip glides across the paper.
It makes a rustling sound.
Noon.
The Martinez Hotel, seventh-floor corridor.
The elevator doors opened.
A dozen or so men in suits poured out of the elevator.
They were holding folders.
He wore an exhibitor's badge around his neck.
The carpet in the hallway absorbed the sounds of hurried footsteps.
The crowd stopped in front of suite 704.
The man at the front raised his hand.
Knock on the dark brown wooden door.
The door made a dull knocking sound.
The elevator doors opened again.
Five more publishers stepped out of the elevator.
The corridor became crowded.
Various accents of English and French mingled in the air.
Someone held up the contract in their hand.
Someone tried to squeeze to the front.
The fabric of the suit rubs against each other.
Leather shoes stepping on the carpet.
The wooden door to suite 704 was tightly closed.
There was no sound coming from inside the door.
At the end of the corridor.
Harvey's assistant stood at the entrance to the fire escape.
She held up her phone.
Press the shutter button.
The screen froze on a scene of more than a dozen top European publishers blocking Chen Yanfang's door.