The Question Nobody Wanted

The film forum was already underway when Ethan arrived. Lu Yu was moderating, keeping the conversation moving and letting the directors do most of the talking.

Teng Huatao described what he had learned during more than a year visiting American productions. "I didn't understand how much of filmmaking was infrastructure until I saw it up close. A production depends on trained writers, camera crews, sound teams, effects artists, producers, and everyone who teaches the next group to do the work. No one department can carry the whole thing."

He and several colleagues had spent time observing MGM, DreamWorks, and Weta Digital. They compared notes every week and were preparing a paper on what might be useful to China's film industry. The audience, drawn largely from film schools and production companies, applauded.

"What would you like to make next?" Lu Yu asked.

"I've made a lot of romantic stories. After seeing Hollywood, I'm interested in science fiction."

Ethan nearly choked on his water. He remembered a later attempt from the other timeline and did not share Teng's confidence in that particular direction. He kept the thought to himself.

"Inception impressed me," Teng continued. "The science-fiction premise holds a mystery together. It made me wonder whether you could use that framework to tell a love story."

Ethan set down his glass. "The genre can hold almost any kind of story. But the story underneath has to work. Viewers need a reason to follow the people through whatever world you build."

He had seen directors add a scene for the sake of a metaphor even when it broke the characters' logic. He had also seen films stop to lecture the audience. He had done enough work under pressure to recognize the temptation in himself.

"Make the narrative clear before you decorate it," he said. "Most people aren't buying a ticket because they want a sermon."

That drew loud applause from the students. Zhang Yimou and Chen Kaige shifted in their seats. Both had heard versions of those criticisms aimed at their own films.

"Have you seen Farewell My Concubine?" Chen asked.

"Of course. It's one of my favorite Chinese-language films. If I'd had a vote for Foreign Language Film that year, it would have had mine."

Chen smiled. "Did you feel lectured by it?"

"No. The film lets its people and their choices make the argument. That's what makes it so good." Ethan paused. "Success can change the way any of us work, though. Once people start treating a director like an authority, it's easy to speak from above the characters instead of through them. I have to watch for that too."

Chen's smile faded. Lu Yu stepped in before the exchange became personal. Why, she asked, had Ang Lee's Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon reached the Academy in a way other ambitious productions had not?

"There isn't one cause," Ethan said. "The scale helped, but the conflict stayed close to specific people. That's a different experience from watching a film announce a grand theme and expect the audience to admire it."

He named other Foreign Language Film winners built around individuals or families. The sets and costumes mattered, but they were not substitutes for a point of view.

"It sounds as though you're talking about Hero," Zhang said lightly.

"Inception breaks its story into more pieces than Hero does," Ethan replied. "If some viewers follow mine more easily, perhaps I should ask them what I did right before I congratulate myself."

The room laughed, and the tension eased. Feng Xiaogang asked how a Chinese commercial film might reach a wider international audience.

"Action is one route you already know how to travel," Ethan said. "Bruce Lee opened doors; Jackie Chan and Jet Li kept them open. A physical scene can carry meaning even when viewers don't share a language. A joke built on local wordplay has a harder journey."

He did not think every filmmaker should make a martial-arts picture. He did think an industry with that tradition could invest in new performers and crews instead of treating its best-known action stars as irreplaceable. The goal was to make films audiences would seek out, not merely films that hoped to be selected for export.

After more than an hour of discussion, the floor opened to students. They asked about budgets, casting, visual effects, and, inevitably, Ethan's private life. He gave the last question little more than a smile and returned to work.

Lu Yu chose one final student, a young man in glasses who had kept his hand raised through several rounds.

"Why do Chinese films need an Oscar?" he asked. "Would they be worth less without one?"

The room went quiet. Ethan understood the force of the question. An Academy Award brought distribution, attention, and bargaining power, but it could not confer the value of a film that had none. The selection process also meant that filmmakers here had less direct control over which picture represented them.

"They don't need one to matter," he said. "But if the goal is to compete on that stage, I wouldn't call it begging for approval. I'd call it trying to win."

The audience answered with applause. The student looked ready to ask something else, but Lu Yu brought the session to a close. Ethan shook hands, then spent another half hour signing programs and posing for photographs before he could leave.

Judy was waiting when he reached the hotel. "You said you'd be back before ten."

"The students surrounded me. I tried to get away."

"Not very hard, I imagine."

"Hard enough that I missed you."

She studied him, then came close. This time they had a clear choice to make. When she kissed him, he did not pull away. They stayed together, talking between kisses until there was no longer any confusion about whether either wanted to stop. They went into the shower together and left the rest of the evening to themselves.

The following day they postponed the sightseeing Judy had asked for. They stayed at the hotel, ordering food, sleeping late, and making room for a relationship neither of them had expected to start here. When they finally emerged, there was still business to finish.

In Tianjin, Ethan inspected land near the port and signed the agreement for the site. Then he went to Shenzhen, where Chen Xing had done the groundwork and local officials were waiting for him to choose a site and sign. He did both before leaving. Taken together, the two planned plants could eventually employ around a hundred thousand people. Whether that would satisfy Hasbro, Marvel, and any future DC demand was another question.

With both agreements signed and construction still ahead, Ethan boarded a flight home. Beijing had given him answers about the factories, the film, and Judy. It had also left him with three new commitments to manage.