"Still early? February's almost over," Ji Juntao said. "The box office is doing well; it's already over 2.3 billion. Only a fool wouldn't pass up such a fortune. Good heavens, this is the first time I've ever seen so much money in my life. Making movies is definitely the fastest way to make money. Those money-losing bunch at the company should all be packed up and sent to make movies..."
Shang Yechu's eyes lit up, and she immediately seized the opportunity: "See, even you think so. But movies aren't made out of thin air. Isn't it great to have a screenwriters' guild?"
"Grandma, why are you still thinking about this?" Ji Juntao waved his hand helplessly. "Alright, alright, I'll listen to your profound opinion."
Ji Juntao crossed his arms and chest, adopting a posture of listening attentively.
Shang Yechu spread out several scribbles in front of her and pointed them out, "I've been thinking about this all night. The reason why the entertainment industry in China is getting worse and worse, with bad movies and bad films everywhere, is because screenwriters have too little say."
Ji Juntao chuckled but said nothing.
"What kind of look is that?" Shang Yechu got angry. "Let's not talk about anything else, just take Zheng Bohan as an example. He didn't listen to 'Qingyun Zhuan,' that's his despicable behavior; 'Yunqing Ji' and 'Tianban' are both very good. What, you're not convinced?"
Ji Juntao took the teaspoon out of his coffee cup, picked his teeth, and said, "I'm convinced. Please continue."
Shang Yechu slapped her teaspoon away with her paw: "Ji Juntao! Can't you listen to me properly?"
Ji Juntao shrugged helplessly and stopped moving.
Shang Yechu was satisfied and continued, "From me down, aren't all the artists in our company worried about not having good scripts to film? Most of the dramas on the market now are adapted from IPs. A novel is bought as soon as it appears. But they don't cherish it after buying it, and they change it all over the place. In the end, apart from the names, nothing is the same as the original."
Ji Juntao pursed his lips.
“If there were a screenwriters’ guild,” Shang Yechu envisioned, “screenwriters could protect their rights, allowing for a flourishing of diverse ideas and a vibrant exchange of ideas, resulting in even more excellent scripts. I wouldn’t have to scavenge for a living anymore, and you wouldn’t have to dig through dung to find gold…”
For an entertainment company to grow big in the industry, it needs to be well-rounded in at least one area: artists, content, management, business development, publicity, and connections. Qingping Entertainment can barely be considered a pentagon in the industry; the missing piece is naturally content.
The screenwriters who work for Qingping Entertainment are really terrible.
Good screenwriters are in high demand, and it's not just Qingping Entertainment that's lacking them. Tianding Entertainment's script-stealing competition and Guanjun Century's unscrupulous contracts hiring ghostwriters to embellish their own screenwriters' work are all due to the scarcity of good screenwriters.
Since good screenwriters are in short supply, why not just create a screenwriters' union to increase the supply?
Ji Juntao suddenly sensed something: "Oh? The top female writer is having a good time and is planning to set up a screenwriters' guild to subsidize her staff?"
“It’s not just about subsidizing the staff,” Shang Yechu gestured. “If this project succeeds, it will benefit everyone, including me. With more scripts, I’ll have more choices, right? If none of the ten scripts feature an actress as the lead, what if none of the hundred or a thousand scripts feature an actress as the lead? Then why would I need to rack my brains to find copyright loopholes like in ‘The Heavenly Emperor’ and change the old man into a woman?”
"Oh ho, actress Fuze." Ji Juntao narrowed his eyes meaningfully.
Shang Yechu's breath hitched. That damned Ji Juntao, he clearly didn't say anything, yet it seemed like he said everything.
Shang Yechu pretended not to see Ji Juntao's gaze: "Besides, our company is going to make sitcoms, film series, and cultivate intellectual property. These things all require good screenwriters... especially film series. If a series only uses one screenwriter, they will quickly run out of ideas. Cultivating more screenwriters and pooling our wisdom will prolong the series' lifespan..."
"Hmm," Ji Juntao raised an eyebrow, "Are you planning to take on a film series?"
"..." Shang Yechu overlooked this issue. "The refinement, commercialization, and audience cultivation of TV series and movies all require a lot of screenwriters to use their brains. Suppose one screenwriter is good at one model, they can cover one fan group; ten screenwriters are good at ten models, they can cover ten fan groups! At that time, why shouldn't He Chouqing be able to grow big and strong in entertainment?"
As Shang Yechu spoke, he became excited and leaned forward, saying, "Old Ji, if a pancake is too small, everyone will fight tooth and nail to get enough to eat. But if we make this pancake bigger, those who want sesame can share sesame, those who want mixed nuts can eat mixed nuts, and those who want meat can eat meat—what then?"
Ji Juntao lowered his eyelashes, a hint of dazedness flashing across his eyes.
She was very familiar with Shang Yechu's behavior. Long ago, before filming "Half of the Sky," she had been studying the script all night like a madwoman, and finally had an epiphany in Longchang. She rushed into Ji Juntao's office in the middle of the night, talking like a ghost, spouting those old, outdated things.
Ji Juntao had just woken up and was in a bad mood, so he subconsciously made a few sarcastic remarks to her. From then on, there was always a coldness between Shang Yechu and her, with a thin layer between them.
What about now?
Ji Juntao looked up at Shang Yechu, who was so close to him, and finally swallowed the words that were about to come out. He asked, "Do you think this thing can succeed?"
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