In early May, not only Star Wars: Episode III – Revenge of the Sith premiered, but several mid- to low-budget films were also released, giving audiences more choices.
For those who weren't particularly fond of the Star Wars series, there were other movies to watch.
Among them, the most popular one—coming in second at the box office—was the American version of The Ring 2. Released alongside Revenge of the Sith, it still managed to earn an impressive $35.07 million in its opening weekend despite the massive competition.
Another notable film was Sin City, starring Jessica Alba. This low-budget crime thriller debuted with $29.125 million, ranking third at the box office.
Having stepped away from the Fast & Furious franchise, Jessica Alba finally had a representative work of her own—just like Kate Beckinsale had with Underworld.
After securing an opportunity through Gilbert, Sheena Boone immediately went back to communicate with Kate Beckinsale, urging her to go all out to win the role.
Kate Beckinsale still had some doubts. "Do I need to… spend time with Director Gilbert?"
"Do you want to?" Sheena Boone asked in return.
Kate hesitated for a moment before softly replying, "I don't want to, but… if I have to, I can."
"I knew you'd say that," Sheena rolled her eyes. "No need. A role in a big-budget project like this can't be earned by sleeping with someone. Just focus on preparing for the audition."
"Oh!" Kate's elegant neck turned slightly as she lowered her head, as if making up her mind. "I'll definitely get this role."
Regardless of Kate Beckinsale's inner thoughts, the following week Star Wars: Episode III – Revenge of the Sith unsurprisingly topped the box office again.
Everyone knew how powerful Revenge of the Sith was, so all the major productions avoided its release window for at least two weeks.
The new film released that week was Memoirs of a Geisha, starring Zhang Ziyi. Perhaps seeing how Shuchang and Li Bingbing were thriving with The Adventures of Jackie Chan series, Zhang didn't want to be left behind.
However, the positioning of Memoirs of a Geisha was completely wrong—it was released during the summer blockbuster season. A film like that should've targeted the awards season, where it might have even won a few trophies.
As expected, its opening weekend grossed only $680,000—a harsh reality check that hit Zhang hard.
At that moment, Zhang finally realized something: it wasn't that Hollywood was experiencing a "Chinese star craze." It was simply because the producer of The Adventures of Jackie Chan, Gilbert, was extraordinary.
He had managed to launch an international action superstar like Jackie Chan and two more global stars—even when Asian actors still faced limited recognition in Hollywood.
Of course, jealousy was inevitable. Zhang often imagined how wonderful it would be if she were Li Bingbing instead—it was far more reliable than chasing after some Hollywood producer boyfriend.
Now, in China, whenever a big director had a new project, the first people they thought of were Li Bingbing and Shuchang. Only after that would other actresses even be considered.
There was nothing to be done—compared to Zhang's "fake international" image, Li and Shuchang were genuine stars with real achievements. Directors weren't fools.
That kind of status couldn't be earned by walking a few red carpets overseas—it required solid, measurable success. The two Adventures of Jackie Chan films together had made $1.16 billion at the global box office, and the third installment was set to release this year.
This achievement made Li Bingbing and Shuchang the two highest-grossing leading actresses in Mainland China, earning the envy and jealousy of countless other stars.
It was also worth mentioning that Guo Fan had now become one of the most talked-about new-generation directors in the Chinese film industry.
His dark comedy The Odd Man, based on real events, earned 73 million RMB during the Spring Festival season—remarkable for 2005, when few domestic films could even reach the 100 million mark.
Even more impressive was that Guo Fan achieved this as a 25-year-old first-time director.
Though the film subtly satirized many figures, Guo Fan still attracted considerable attention from film companies, major investors, and the media alike.
His most famous nickname was likely "China's version of Gilbert."
After all, Gilbert had also directed his first hit in his twenties and quickly rose to become a world-class director. Rumor had it Guo Fan was actually Gilbert's student, which made the nickname even more fitting.
As China's film market moved toward commercialization, it didn't matter who Guo Fan offended. What mattered was that he made money—and anyone who made money was always welcome.
Now, Guo Fan had no trouble finding investment for his next project. The only problem was deciding which investors to accept and what film to make.
As for the people he had offended—they were no longer a concern. Most had already been disciplined by higher authorities and had become much more cautious, so there was no immediate danger.
However, when Guo Fan recently discussed his next project with Liu Ji and mentioned that he wanted to make a science fiction film, Liu Ji strongly opposed the idea.
"Think about Gilbert," Liu Ji said earnestly. "Did he start with big-budget productions right away? No. He built up step by step—The Shallows, then Final Destination, and later Speed."
"But," Guo Fan argued, "a sci-fi film doesn't necessarily need a massive budget. If the concept is creative enough, it can still work!"
"There's no foundation for it," Liu Ji replied. "We don't have the audience base for domestic sci-fi films. Many people simply don't believe we can make them.
Even if we manage to pull it off, if the box office disappoints, audiences will immediately lose faith in the genre.
So let's be practical—we need to wait for the right time."
"What kind of right time?" Guo Fan asked.
"When we've truly become strong as a nation," Liu Ji said. "That's when the time for Chinese sci-fi will come."
Guo Fan understood. He had heard it said before: cinema is a mirror of a country—it reflects its spiritual civilization and overall strength.
In the 1980s and 1990s, mainland directors could only make films about the hardships and moral flaws of poor communities to win foreign awards and please Western audiences.
Later, as the market became commercialized and Hollywood blockbusters flooded in, audiences became dazzled by spectacle. Suddenly, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon proved that a film could succeed both critically and commercially, triggering a wave of period epics.
That wave was now at its peak, with every director eager to try their hand at it—but deep down, many were still making such films to impress foreigners, as domestic audiences had grown tired of them.
The box office failure of The Promise proved this point.
Even worse, the film's top two male leads were Jang Dong-gun and Hiroyuki Sanada, while Hong Kong star Nicholas Tse was only the third male lead—a clear reminder that Chinese actors were still treated as "third-class citizens" abroad.
This situation revealed a deeper issue: insecurity.
Because of that insecurity, everyone cared too much about Western approval. That was the state of Chinese-language cinema at the time. No wonder that after walking a few red carpets overseas, a star could come back instantly labeled an "international celebrity," jumping several ranks in status.
It was the same as studying abroad—people assumed anything "foreign" was better. That, too, was a symptom of insecurity.
Of course, at the time, many aspects of foreign industries were objectively better. That was simply a fact.
Guo Fan didn't dwell on such deep questions, though. What he wondered was: if Gilbert had been Chinese, could he have brought real change to Chinese cinema?
What Guo Fan didn't know was that Gilbert actually had been Chinese once—but back then, he hadn't had the ability to make any difference.
Now he did—but he was already a firmly established Hollywood director. Saving or changing Chinese cinema was no longer his concern.
If anything, his existence had indirectly influenced Guo Fan's career path—and caused quite a stir in the Chinese entertainment world.
Releasing alongside Memoirs of a Geisha was New Line Cinema's Monster-in-Law, which opened to $29.306 million, effortlessly crushing Memoirs of a Geisha at the box office.
However, the number of screenings for the two films was quite different. After the first week, Memoirs of a Geisha was shown in only a little over 300 theaters, having been drastically cut.
There was nothing that could be done about it—cinema chains are pragmatic. If a movie performs poorly at the box office, having its screenings reduced is only natural.
By mid-May, DreamWorks released War of the Worlds, directed by Steven Spielberg and starring Tom Hanks.
During the pre-release publicity, the film received unanimous praise from media critics, who claimed it was Spielberg's most ambitious project since Jurassic Park.
But audiences didn't seem to buy into it. Reviews were mixed, and the anticlimactic ending left many disappointed.
Although the film earned $64.438 million in its opening weekend, becoming the box office champion of the week, its numbers weren't healthy. By the weekdays, ticket sales had dropped by nearly 50 percent.
In today's summer season, where opening weekends are more important than ever, the first weekend's box office of a major commercial production often accounts for more than one-third of its total revenue.
Based on that data, War of the Worlds was estimated to gross only around $180–200 million domestically in North America. To break even, it would have to rely heavily on overseas markets.
Moreover, this kind of film, unlike the Star Wars series, had little to gain from merchandising. Its profits would have to come primarily from distribution and licensing rights.
Simply put, War of the Worlds might not lose money, but it would be difficult for it to rescue DreamWorks from its financial troubles.
There's a long-held saying in the film industry: once a movie studio relies on a single film to save itself, that studio usually isn't worth saving anymore.
Clearly, under siege from the major Hollywood giants, DreamWorks had reached its end. Whether this year or the next, the studio's disbandment was inevitable.
Another fact soon became clear: the executives of major Hollywood studios suddenly realized that Spielberg's magic had worn off.
The once-dominant super-director seemed to be reaching the end of his career, each of his films performing worse than the last.
Everyone grows old eventually, and Spielberg is no exception. After War of the Worlds' opening week, The New York Times published an article titled The End of an Era, reviewing Spielberg's directorial career in detail.
It was almost like a eulogy—a tombstone inscription for Spielberg's career. Of course, Spielberg himself would hardly be pleased with that.
No one wants to admit they're past their prime, especially someone as proud as Spielberg. He would surely try to prove himself again.
He believed he was still one of the best directors in all of Hollywood.
...
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