Chapter 48: A Little Surprise?! [Please Continue Reading]

After some time, Li Wenyu stepped out of the teaching building carrying a leather suitcase. He politely saw off the two teachers and the real estate developer from Shanghai, then took a sip of water and looked around. The house deal was settled; now he just needed to produce the design plans, which required on-site inspections, along with various other design drawings. It was going to be a busy period.

However, with his brain capacity boosted to 141 points through fitness, learning completely new skills from scratch was no longer an issue. More importantly, after mastering over 80 points in directing skills, his ability to create master-level storyboards and scripts had also become very strong. True design work demanded a lot of mental effort. Copying was a different matter—he could simply gather a few professional designers, provide the concepts and frameworks, and let them handle the execution.

Just then, his phone rang. Seeing it was Zhang Guorong, he answered. On the other end came a bright laugh. “Ayu, the revenue shares from the mainland and Hong Kong Island cinemas have arrived. Do you want Hong Kong dollars or RMB? Or should the mainland earnings stay in RMB and Hong Kong in HKD?”

Li Wenyu thought for a moment and smiled, “Let’s take the mainland’s earnings in RMB.”

Brother Rong agreed readily, “Wait for a little surprise from me.”

They chatted briefly more. After Berlin, Brother Rong’s “Let Me Embrace Happiness” officially began production. He asked when Li Wenyu’s “Sound Mixer” would start filming, and then they ended the call.

The Spring Festival had passed. Zhang Guorong’s company on Hong Kong Island, the Xiang family, and Huayi Brothers were all eager. By January 4th, the entire core creative team had basically been finalized. Those key creators had each been working hard on the scripts for a month and a half.

Li Wenyu put away his phone and headed home. His two-courtyard siheyuan within the North Second Ring Road, as well as a spacious four-bedroom apartment near the Third Ring Road, were both undergoing renovation. He would be moving in by this autumn or winter, no longer needing to stay in hotels with Pang Bing or rent places.

On his way home, a group of junior disciples caught up with him again. He endured small talk for half an hour. Just as he was about to leave, his phone rang once more. Answering it, he realized it was the new financial manager from Time Media Group, who had joined only a few days earlier.

The company account had received a remittance of over 11 million RMB from Zhang Guorong’s company, along with 5 million Hong Kong dollars.

After hanging up, Li Wenyu’s expression was one of confusion.

This wasn’t in line with the original contract!

Originally, the contract stipulated that the mainland box office gross would be collected, then a percentage paid to the National Film Development Special Fund Committee as a special fund, followed by a percentage of business tax. The remaining box office revenue was split 35% to Zhang Guorong’s production and distribution side, and 65% to the cinema chains.

China Film further collected a percentage as distribution fees. What Brother Rong finally pocketed was the real net income. Li Wenyu’s 10% cut was 10% of Brother Rong’s net profit.

The same percentage applied to the new film, “Sound Mixer.” It was the profit in the hands of the production investors; he took 10%.

But now, it was clearly different. Over 11 million RMB meant a box office of 121 million RMB for “Shatan,” nearly a tenth of the total revenue. Brother Rong’s share of over 30% gave Li Wenyu nearly a third of that. The 5 million HKD was similar; the total box office in Hong Kong Island was 63 million HKD.

On top of this, Li Wenyu only contributed the script—a one-time deal for the seaside Tsuen Wan script. After filming wrapped, he had already received a 50,000 RMB bonus. After winning awards, he got another 1 million.

Just as he was about to call to discuss this again, he received a text: “I’m not superstitious, but Ayu, you really bring me luck. The new project, once done, will head straight to Cannes. Even if we push it to the limit, Cannes might at best give us a double Best Actor award. Two Best Actor awards in a year—that’s worth all my artistic life.”

“Regarding money, the new project can’t give you that much. Three companies are investing. I’m no good businessman; I’m just a singer and actor.”

“Otherwise, when negotiating for the cinema shares, I wouldn’t have settled for just 35%. I heard Director Zhang’s partners always fought for 40% or more, but I barely had a few talks with them.”

“As you said, we’ve been winning for over half a year. Even Ah Hua, who envies my investment, has almost spat blood a few times. Your career is just starting and you need money—consider this a small favor investing in your future life.”

Li Wenyu was speechless but thought it best to send a thank-you message.

With an extra ten million in the mainland, he could accomplish more. As for the low share of production and cinema revenue, even when Zhang Yimou made “The Flowers of War,” the company was still betting against the cinemas: if the box office was below 500 million RMB, the producer would get 45%. Above 500 million, 41%. That was the 2011 revenue-sharing ratio.

Thinking it over, Li Wenyu waved at Dong Xiang and Cui Peng, who hadn’t gone far yet. “Dong Xiang, Old Cui, come here.”

The two stopped and ran back, smiling. Director Li was not only the powerful figure deciding whether they could join the crew to learn, but also the source of money for paid online commentators and the major financier.

Li Wenyu opened his suitcase, gave Cui Peng two packs of Hua Zi cigarettes, and Dong Xiang a bottle of red wine.

These were gifts from the Shanghai real estate developer. He said, “In the next few days, help me reach out to Tsinghua, Peking University, Beijing Institute of Technology, and Beihang University. Find me a dozen reliable website developers.”

“Third-year or graduating students are fine—the more skilled, the better. My company is going to launch a new website.”

To Dong Xiang and Cui Peng, this wasn’t professional, but each commanded over a hundred online commentators, frequenting internet cafes, and had access to talents across various industries.

If you sent a message in the QQ group, you might receive expert advice right away.

Dong Xiang smiled sweetly and nodded, “Senior brother, don’t worry. I’ll put my heart into it. If pushed, I might even use the ‘beauty trap’... I heard those top tech majors have many more males than females. I’ll find targets and help introduce girlfriends as bait. It’ll definitely make things easier.”

At that point in the original timeline, Dong Xiang was soon to meet her benefactor. Now the situation had changed significantly.

The entertainment industry was full of chaotic elements. Meeting someone like Li Wenyu, who remained unfazed by favors and was willing to share and support juniors, and then entrusting tasks to them, was a valuable resource.

If they did well, maybe next time after Yang Lin and Huang Shengyi, it could be her turn!

Cui Peng also promised repeatedly. He had heard that Li Wenyu’s drama shooting after October had already interviewed Huang Xiaoming—this was a precedent for all the guys.

Li Wenyu smiled and chatted briefly before leaving. The website he planned to build was meant to launch a desktop version of a Weibo platform in advance.

In the original “My Love from the Star,” the female lead often posted clueless and ill-informed Weibo posts, which were mocked by netizens and criticized by the media. He had thought about whether to update the setting from the early 2000s.

Now, with the extra funds from Brother Rong, he could just create Weibo directly and, riding the momentum of the show’s filming and broadcast, expand Weibo into a major platform.

“When I was making my second fortune, I went as big as possible for the sake of impact. Brother Xiao Ma took advantage of that.”

“This time, with Tencent’s 2004 IPO, the market cap might easily surpass 8 billion. I lost out!”

Following his advice, Tencent had launched a preemptive strike. The overseas version of Tencent’s website, boosted by the first nationwide online beauty pageant, still had several million monthly active users.

This greatly benefited Tencent’s valuation. Buying Tencent in '04 would have cost more; next time, he needed to squeeze Tencent harder to recoup losses.

If he promoted the show with a heavy 2000s makeover and transformed Weibo into something else, the sharp-sighted big firms might have started planning early.

He would still shoot his own dramas to boost the idol trend in China. While profiting from selling copyrights, founding an internet company was a safer bet.

Besides Weibo’s media influence, and preventing Brother Xiao Ma from taking advantage, the focus was on a PC desktop version of Weibo—not mobile.

Why Weibo and not long blogs? Because Weibo better facilitated interaction between big stars and ordinary netizens, bridging the gap between people.

Long blogs often ran thousands of words, which hurt ordinary users’ sense of participation.

Most big stars generally had lower education levels, so playing with long blogs would likely result in daily blunders, impossible to recover from.