This year marked the 37th Venice International Film Festival, held on the Lido of Venice in Italy.
The previous edition had been held eight years ago, but if we’re talking about the last time awards were actually given out, you’d have to go back three more years.
From 1969 to 1979, Italy’s domestic political climate was unstable, which directly led to the festival being forced to suspend its competitive awards for a decade and switch to a non-competitive screening format. The 37th edition this year officially restored the awards mechanism.
But there was no denying that those ten years of non-competition had severely damaged the Venice International Film Festival’s reputation, popularity, and cultural relevance. It was no exaggeration to say it had suffered grievous losses.
The number of films submitted this year was not even half of what its once-equal rivals received.
It was precisely under these circumstances that a film from a mysterious Eastern country applied to compete, and they granted it a green light.
Had it been the Cannes International Film Festival or the Berlin International Film Festival, both of which were never short of submissions, they likely would not have allowed a film that missed the deadline to compete, in the interest of fairness.
So was Old Han really a child of destiny?
“We seem to be arriving.”
Chen Fusheng had attended the Venice Film Festival in his previous life, more than once. Arriving here three or four decades early, he was surprised to find almost nothing had changed.
No wonder the internet in the future would coin the phrase “Old Europe.” The “old” referred to the buildings.
“How do you know that?” Han Sanping asked from beside him.
“There was a road sign just now.”
Chen Fusheng made up an excuse on the spot. He couldn’t very well admit he’d been here before.
Sure enough, the car the organizing committee had sent to pick them up pulled up in front of a hotel shortly after.
“Hey, my Chinese friends! We’re at the hotel. Please grab your luggage and come with me. I’ll take you to check in.”
The speaker was the staff member the committee had sent to the airport to receive them, a somewhat pudgy Black man whose real name was Oliver Cast Afrolida. Since it was too long to remember, Chen Fusheng had given him a Chinese nickname based on his appearance during the car ride: Zhang Fei.
When the young foreigner learned that Zhang Fei was a fierce general from ancient China, he quite liked the name.
He even pestered Chen Fusheng to teach him several phrases of Chinese along the way, like “hello,” “thank you,” and Zhang Fei’s catchphrase, “Same here!”
As for why the committee had sent someone who didn’t speak Chinese to receive them, the reason was simple: they couldn’t find anyone who did.
“Chen, my teacher, let me carry your luggage for you.”
Chen Fusheng had been about to politely decline, but the man simply took it without asking. That familiar assertiveness almost made Chen Fusheng feel like he’d slipped into a déjà vu. Once he recovered, he stopped putting on airs with the foreigner.
He did add a “thank you,” though.
Of course, he couldn’t stand around empty-handed either, so he helped Siqin Gaowa, the only woman in their group, lighten her load.
Han Sanping muttered jealously from the side: “Fusheng, you just arrived in Venice and you’ve already picked up a lackey.”
“This is why mastering a foreign language matters.”
Deputy Director Shi even nodded in agreement at that remark.
But just as Zhang Fei led them into the hotel to check in, two groups of journalists who appeared to be staking out the lobby spotted the crowd of Asians. Their eyes lit up, and the next second they hoisted their cameras and made their way over.
“Good afternoon. I’m a reporter from CNC, the local station. Are you here for the film festival?”
Caught off guard by the impromptu interview, Chen Fusheng glanced at Deputy Director Shi. Seeing the man nod, he stepped forward to answer.
“Yes.”
“Wow! You’re the first group of Asians we’ve run into here in days. Are you Japanese?”
Although the reporter immediately assumed they were Japanese, which Chen Fusheng wasn’t thrilled about, he had to admit that at this point in time, Japan’s international influence was far greater than China’s.
Japan was currently the world’s second-largest economy.
Not yet clipped by its American daddy.
In fact, plenty of wealthy Japanese were so inflated with pride that they were dreaming of buying America in return.
“We are Chinese!” Chen Fusheng corrected.
“Oh my God, you’re actually Chinese?!”
After Chen Fusheng announced their nationality, the reporter looked genuinely shocked. It didn’t seem like an act.
It seemed that China, fresh into its reform and opening up, still held a certain mystique in the eyes of these foreigners.
“Oh, sorry about that, my mistake earlier. To us, you Asians all look pretty much alike. I hope you understand.”
The reporter’s apology was decent enough and clearly unintentional, so whatever annoyance Chen Fusheng had felt came and went quickly.
For the rest of the interview, he gave only a brief introduction to their crew and the film’s title.
Then he politely declined further questions on the grounds of travel fatigue and feeling unwell.
But Chen Fusheng’s excuse wasn’t really an excuse at all. They’d eaten poorly and slept badly on the plane, and some of the group had been airsick. All they wanted was a good rest.
They’d barely made it in time; the festival’s opening ceremony was the very next day.
Chen Fusheng considered the possibility that he might, maybe, perhaps have to walk the red carpet tomorrow.
But looking down at the Zhongshan suit he was wearing and imagining himself walking the red carpet in it tomorrow, something felt off.
Then he glanced at Han Sanping’s white shirt and blue bell-bottoms and mentally superimposed the man onto the red carpet. He couldn’t help but burst out laughing.
“Why are you staring at me and laughing?” Han Sanping was baffled.
They were all eating in the hotel cafeteria at the time, and Han Sanping’s outburst drew everyone’s attention.
Chen Fusheng wanted a proper suit, even a rented one, but his pockets were completely empty. The only option was to apply to the organization.
So, seizing the moment while everyone was looking his way, he raised the question of whether they should coordinate their outfits in case they needed to walk the red carpet at tomorrow’s opening ceremony.
The representative sent by China Film Group was named Wang Tao. Hearing Chen Fusheng’s proposal, he immediately pushed back: “We’re here to compete, not to show off. I think as long as everyone dresses decently tomorrow, there’s no need for all this fuss.”
Chen Fusheng ignored the China Film Group rep. This guy had been at odds with him since the journey began. He turned directly to the core figure of their group, Deputy Director Shi.
The latter hesitated, then asked Chen Fusheng: “Are there dress code requirements for walking the red carpet?”
Chen Fusheng didn’t answer himself. Instead, he passed the question to Zhang Fei.
Then he translated Zhang Fei’s answer, primarily for the benefit of people like Han Sanping who didn’t speak English. Deputy Director Shi and Wang Tao from China Film Group could understand on their own.
“Zhang Fei says red carpet attire should ideally be formal. Men usually go with suits or tuxedos. For women, a dress is the best choice.”
As an official, Deputy Director Shi naturally wouldn’t be appearing on the red carpet tomorrow. He looked to the three who would be walking and asked: “What do you all think?”
Han Sanping and Siqin Gaowa couldn’t make up their minds. Since Chen Fusheng had raised the issue in the first place, both of them looked to him.
Chen Fusheng didn’t hold back this time. He offered his opinion to Deputy Director Shi: “I think we should follow Zhang Fei’s advice. There will be journalists from many countries at the red carpet, and when we walk it, we’re representing not just ourselves or our film. On a larger level, we represent the country behind us. So I disagree with Comrade Wang Tao’s characterization of my idea as showing off.
Think about it: if everyone else is dressed formally and we’re the only ones dressed casually, won’t we attract criticism or ridicule? Honestly, the three of us might not care about what others think, but wouldn’t that damage our country’s image?”
“It’s not as serious as you make it sound…” Wang Tao pushed back again, but his conviction was clearly wavering.
Deputy Director Shi spoke up next: “You’ve really put me in a tough spot.”
Seeing Deputy Director Shi budge, Chen Fusheng quickly laid out his solution as well.
“Director Shi, this actually isn’t hard to solve. We can just rent a few outfits.”
“Rent clothes?” Everyone was hearing this for the first time. The idea broke with everything they knew, and they all eyed Chen Fusheng with suspicion.
Rather than explain, Chen Fusheng turned to Zhang Fei, who couldn’t understand a word of the conversation and had been focused on his food, and tossed the question his way.
“You want to rent clothes?” Zhang Fei looked up. “Easy. Leave it to me.”
