"Is there really no way at all?"
Even the boss had said it was a good film, so it had to be a good film! Why was it that a movie like this couldn't even get a screening, while all those garbage films that got yanked from theaters after just a few days due to zero box office kept flooding the cinemas one after another? If this situation went on, what future did Eastern cinema even have?
Laila thought for a moment. "It's not like there's no way."
"What way?!" Fu Chuan instinctively held his breath, and his normally tough heart pounded so hard it felt like it might leap out of his chest. If the boss had an idea, it had to be a miracle cure—one of those that could bring the dead back to life! Whether his friend's film had a future now all depended on the boss's next words.
"There are two ways," Laila said slowly. "First, your director friend can come here and shoot a film that Hollywood can accept. He can pick a script himself, or I can help him find one. In short, it has to be something Western audiences are willing to watch."
Fu Chuan swallowed hard. If it were up to him, he'd have agreed to the boss's proposal without hesitation. Getting a chance to direct under Laila's banner was a fast track to becoming a top-tier director! Just look at the roster of directors working under her—some were already legends. Even heavyweights like Nolan and Michael Bay were in her lineup! Those two were recognized as top-tier directors across all of Hollywood!
But then he thought about his friend's notoriously stubborn personality and forcibly suppressed his impulse to agree on his behalf. "What's the second option?"
"Of course, it's to help him release the movie in the East."
Laila truly believed the film was good. While the techniques were a bit unpolished, the director had a distinctive personal style—something that made the viewing experience feel comfortable and authentic.
Every year, countless new directors emerge, but few manage to develop a signature style of their own. Take her, for instance—the hallmark of her films, as recognized by the industry, was the sheer visual beauty of every frame. You could pause the film at any moment and get a shot worthy of being a desktop wallpaper.
That wasn't her only strength, of course, but it was a big reason behind her excellent reputation.
Other compliments—like "great with actors," "tight storytelling," "impeccable pacing"—were just standard features in her work.
This volunteer-teaching film also had clear signs of the director's unique vision. For example, he had an interesting way of framing his shots and was especially adept at using still objects to convey emotion. Take the dim little lamp by the bed—it subtly highlighted the image of a child still studying under its glow, making the scene even more heartbreaking.
There were many such moments throughout the film. None of them felt forced; in fact, they elevated the emotional resonance of the story. Just for this level of detail, Laila admired the director and genuinely wanted to help him.
Fu Chuan, however, didn't think as deeply. All he could think about was: How the hell are we supposed to release it in the East? They couldn't even get approval for public screening. There wasn't a single theater willing to show it. If his friend had even had a path forward, he wouldn't have been forced to give up on the domestic market and aim overseas in the first place.
What he hadn't realized until now was that overseas wasn't some clean, fair haven either. His film didn't have celebrities, didn't have action, and in the eyes of foreign distributors, it simply had no commercial value.
Call it bias or just market experience, but foreign distributors believed that if an Eastern film wanted to get into American cinemas, it had to at least meet the Jackie Chan standard. In the minds of many Western moviegoers, Eastern cinema equaled kung fu. Think Jackie Chan movies, or something like Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.
A story about volunteer teachers? That wouldn't even make it onto their radar. If it were something like Raise the Red Lantern or Red Sorghum, films that exposed the "dark side" of Eastern society, they might actually be more interested.
There were foreign audiences who enjoyed that kind of content—films that showcased how bleak and miserable life was in the East. The more tragic and hopeless it looked, the more they wanted to watch.
The problem was, some domestic directors actually catered to that appetite, deliberately creating films that emphasized ugliness and vice, all under the noble banner of "exposing the dark side."
Laila had no patience for that kind of thing. Let people say what they wanted—she personally found it disgusting. So what if those films won awards? All they brought in return were more snide laughs and condescension from other countries.
Did those directors honestly think award committees gave them prizes out of respect for their "brave exposés"? No! It was because they entertained them, gave them a sense of superiority, and made them feel smug. That's why they were rewarded.
Sure, the judges called it "brave," said it was "artistic," said it showed "deep social commentary." But who knew what they really thought?
Yes, Korea and Japan also made films that tackled heavy, painful topics. But those films used their stories to challenge societal injustice and awaken the public's conscience. Even when showing their own country's dark sides, they offered some kind of solution—something that pointed the way toward healing and hope.
Take, for example, the famous Korean film Silenced (The Crucible). It told the horrifying true story of teachers and administrators abusing disabled children at a school. In real life, the perpetrators had barely received six-month sentences, and some had even returned to their jobs afterward.
The film exposed this cruelty in raw, devastating detail. And when it was released, it caused an uproar across the country—so much so that it led to real change in the form of the "Silenced Law," named after the movie itself.
That's the kind of impact film can have—on people, on society, on families. It's why Laila had always loved cinema. She believed that movies were powerful. But to make the kind of film you really wanted, you needed certain conditions. The most basic? Money. Without money, your ideals stay on paper. With it, you could bring them to life.
Her current film, Silence, was a perfect example. She had waited until everything was ready before shooting even a single frame. That film carried many of her personal thoughts, and she hoped viewers would take something meaningful from it.
She also understood that audiences didn't like preachy movies. So the deeper messages she wanted to convey were hidden—buried beneath layers of metaphor, waiting for those who cared enough to dig them out.
The movie Fu Chuan had recommended, on the other hand, had chosen a different path. It had laid everything bare from the start, throwing itself wholeheartedly at a truth it believed in. People say, "You won't stop until you hit a wall." But even after hitting the wall, this guy would just find a way around it and keep going.
Otherwise, he wouldn't have turned away from the domestic market and gone abroad for a chance.
A brief meta-note from the author:
This chapter includes some criticism of our own country's film industry. It's a fact that in some countries, movies can openly critique society and injustice.
Meanwhile, in our country, even basic time-travel plots aren't allowed on TV anymore. (This is a reflection sparked by Untouchable Lovers—not even talking about the cast, just the plot itself was too far from the original novel for die-hard fans to accept.)
Honestly, more shows like In the Name of the People would be great.
Here's hoping we can improve soon.