Strategically, despise your enemy. Tactically, take them seriously.
Lu Chen had complete confidence in 'A Chinese Ghost Story', but that didn't mean he would underestimate any opponent, especially a direct competitor like 'Painted Skin'.
Huaguan Film's 'Painted Skin' was their flagship project for entering the Hong Kong market. Adapted from 'Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio', the film reportedly had a budget exceeding 100 million yuan.
Its cast included major stars from Mainland China, Hong Kong, and Taiwan, and its visual effects had been entrusted to Hong Kong's renowned 'New Vision Studios'.
New Vision Studios was one of Hong Kong's premier visual effects companies. Its founder had spent ten years working for a major Hollywood VFX studio before returning to Hong Kong to establish his own company.
After recruiting a team of top professionals, the studio had contributed to numerous blockbuster films from both Hong Kong and the Mainland, earning an excellent reputation throughout the industry.
As for the director, Ding Tai had already won two Hong Kong Film Awards for Best Director.
With Huaguan Film and Xingyi Entertainment joining forces, investing so heavily, and assembling such an impressive lineup, Cui Xingxian had no intention of failing. Securing one of the government's fast-track support slots was non-negotiable.
Of course, his ambitions extended well beyond the subsidy program. This Hong Kong production was a key step in Huaguan Film's southern expansion strategy. From Hong Kong, they intended to establish a foothold in Taiwan and Southeast Asia as well.
Under those circumstances, 'A Chinese Ghost Story' naturally became a conspicuous obstacle.
If Lu Chen had been an unknown rookie, Cui Xingxian wouldn't have cared. He could have simply crushed him with superior resources.
But Lu Chen was anything but unknown.
Back on the Mainland, he was one of the industry's hottest rising stars. The massive success of his first two television dramas had made him a household name.
Ignoring him simply wasn't an option.
More importantly, Lu Chen's second drama, 'Full House', had already accomplished what many thought impossible. Despite being the underdog, it had defeated a far stronger rival in spectacular fashion, leaving Xiangnan TV thoroughly embarrassed.
When 'Full House' premiered, it had gone head-to-head with Xiangnan TV's flagship drama 'Vast Seas of Love'. Before the series even finished airing, Xiangnan TV had been forced to change its broadcast schedule to avoid further losses.
With that precedent, Cui Xingxian naturally regarded Lu Chen as his greatest threat. Even though 'A Chinese Ghost Story' had a much smaller budget and a less glamorous cast than 'Painted Skin', he still didn't dare underestimate it.
If history repeated itself, television stations could change their airtime.
Movies couldn't.
Once two films opened against each other, there was no retreat. Lose once, and you lost outright.
That was why Cui Xingxian had targeted Lu Chen in the first place. His concern over Lu Chen's ability, combined with a touch of personal resentment, had led to Honghua's harassment of the 'A Chinese Ghost Story' production.
Although that attempt had been swiftly crushed, Cui Xingxian clearly had no intention of backing down. If dirty tricks wouldn't work, then he'd compete openly instead.
Huaguan Film and Xingyi Entertainment had already publicly identified 'A Chinese Ghost Story' as their primary rival and begun planning their promotional campaign accordingly. Jiang Wei's challenge to Lu Chen stemmed directly from that strategy.
---
Ye Xuan knew a little about these complicated circumstances, but he had no desire to get caught in the middle. With practiced ease, he changed the subject and brought the conversation back to today's salon.
Since its founding, the Clock Tower Music Salon had hosted hundreds of gatherings. Nearly every major figure in Hong Kong's music industry had attended at one time or another, giving the salon tremendous influence.
Traditionally, every gathering centered around a discussion topic. Some were broad, others highly specialized, for example, the future of Chinese pop music, or the evolution of Cantopop love songs. That atmosphere of open, relaxed discussion was the salon's defining feature.
Today's topic, however, was exceptionally ambitious:
'The Past, Present, and Future of Hong Kong Pop Music.'
It was the kind of subject that could fill an entire academic volume. As one of the foundations of Chinese-language pop music, Hong Kong's music scene had a rich history with far too much to discuss in a single afternoon.
Ye Xuan understood that perfectly. So instead of trying to cover the entire subject, he narrowed it down.
"I won't ask about the past or the future," he said with a smile. "Just the present. I'd really like to hear your thoughts."
The struggles facing Hong Kong's music industry were obvious, even to outsiders, but those inside the industry found solving those problems far more difficult. As the saying went, 'the players are blind to the game, while those watching see clearly.'
Perhaps someone like Lu Chen, an outstanding musician from the Mainland, might offer a fresh perspective.
The topic quickly attracted attention, and more and more guests drifted over. Some were genuinely curious, while others were simply waiting to pick apart whatever he said.
Although most of the people present were meeting Lu Chen for the first time, nearly all of them knew who he was. The young artist from the Mainland had been making plenty of headlines in Hong Kong lately.
Feeling countless eyes settle on him, Lu Chen found himself at a loss for words. Ye Xuan had handed him an enormous question; if he truly wanted to answer it properly, he could probably speak for days without finishing.
Hong Kong pop music had begun flourishing in the late 1970s. At the time, the industry was dominated by Cantonese versions of Japanese songs.
As Hong Kong's economy boomed, its music industry expanded rapidly alongside it, and popular singers releasing two or three albums a year was perfectly normal.
Because local songwriters were still scarce, adapting Japanese melodies with Cantonese lyrics became the dominant trend. Many famous singers rose to stardom through covers, and the practice continued well into the 1980s.
The Hong Kong of the eighties was optimistic and vibrant. People believed the future would only get brighter, and society rushed forward at full speed.
By the late eighties, however, tastes began to change. Consumers increasingly valued individuality, wanting unique styles that reflected their own identity instead of settling for uniform trends.
The music industry evolved with them. Cover songs were no longer enough. Record companies began investing heavily in original music, recruiting talented lyricists and composers in large numbers.
That marked the beginning of a golden age.
Outstanding songs appeared one after another, countless classics were born, and Hong Kong music spread throughout the Chinese-speaking world, profoundly influencing the development of pop music on the Mainland.
The 1980s and 1990s became Hong Kong pop music's golden era. Heavenly Kings and Heavenly Queens dominated the charts, great songwriters emerged one after another, and creativity flourished everywhere.
But after the turn of the century, the industry gradually began falling behind.
The legendary stars grew older, and the great composers ran short of inspiration. A new generation of singers increasingly modeled themselves after Japanese and Korean idols.
History seemed to repeat itself. Today, imitation, remakes, and cover songs were everywhere. The only difference was that artists now copied not only Japan, but also South Korea and the West.
Album sales were no longer the primary source of income; selling a polished image had become the real business. As long as handsome faces continued generating profits, entertainment companies had little reason to change.
Who still cared about the future of Hong Kong pop music itself?
The industry was trapped, and breaking out of that trap was far easier said than done. In many ways, Hong Kong's situation resembled the Mainland's.
Lu Chen wasn't arrogant enough to think he could solve decades of structural problems with a few grand speeches. But if he said nothing, or offered only vague platitudes, people would naturally think less of him.
After a moment's thought, Lu Chen decided he should say something after all.
(End Of This Chapter)
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