Chapter 71: The Infuriating Quest

Some things, you truly don’t realize how troublesome they are until you actually try to do them.

It had been a year since Gu Cheng transmigrated, and he had never once concerned himself with the domestic rules for film and television distribution. In his eyes, these things were always straightforward—at most, you just needed to pull some strings with the Bureau or the Ministry of Culture.

But the moment he tried to take things for granted and act, he found himself blindsided—he couldn’t even figure out where to pull those strings, because no one would entertain him at all.

Once he calmed down and took the time to understand the state of the distribution side, Gu Cheng was forced to accept several harsh realities:

First, in this era, foreign film producers weren’t qualified to directly pursue import rights. For works especially from Taiwanese capital, at least one domestic satellite provincial TV station had to proactively express the intention to import, after which that station would apply for the rights in its own name.

Foreign producers themselves weren’t even eligible to apply.

Second, in the realm of film, the concept of private domestic investors didn’t even exist yet. There were, indeed, industry leaders summoned by the authorities to discuss the “Film Management Regulations”—the legendary “Document 16” of later years. But according to inside information, because next year was an important political year, the senior leadership disliked cultural liberalization, and so the authorities were seeking stability in all cultural matters. This regulation wouldn’t be passed by the new premier until at least after the two major political sessions in March next year.

The year 2001 was still “the darkest hour before dawn” for private domestic capital entering the film and television industry.

It was for this reason that, in history, “Meteor Garden” aired in Taiwan in 2001 but wasn’t introduced to the mainland until 2002.

Now, however, there was at least a sliver of hope. In this timeline, “Meteor Garden” was a co-production with over 50% domestic investment, and the regulations governing television drama investment were far more ambiguous than those for film. The policy left enough room for some creative maneuvering.

Gu Cheng and his cousin spent half a month negotiating, pleading, and cajoling at the provincial TV station. Fortunately, ratings across the strait were promising; after reviewing the numbers, the leadership at WuYue Satellite TV decided that acquiring the premiere broadcast rights would indeed be profitable and agreed to purchase them. After some rough negotiations, they agreed to invest four million yuan—double what Taiwan Television was offering.

Only then could Gu Cheng, under the station’s name, go to the regulatory bureau to seek approval—much like how the technical support for major state-owned enterprises’ foreign negotiations usually wasn’t from their own house, but borrowed from suppliers. For example, when China Mobile, Unicom, or Telecom sent out technical support to negotiate, it was always provided by Huawei.

The same principle applied here.

Once he reached this stage, Gu Cheng finally went to seek out Mr. Gao Dasong for mediation. He knew the man had extensive connections, especially among the political elite.

…

Two months later, Gu Cheng once again visited the manor by West Lake, the one with a recording studio. The maid recognized him and let him in without question.

He also met Mr. Gao’s wife, a young woman just twenty, a graduate of a prestigious university in the capital—a clear sign that Gao Dasong was a man who liked them young.

After both parties were seated and tea was served, Gu Cheng got straight to the point: “Mr. Gao, I’d like to invite you to be the CEO of Dingdang Net. I’d also appreciate your help in navigating the approval process for my company’s imported drama.”

Gao Dasong took a sip of tea. “You should let professionals handle professional matters. I’m just a musician—asking me to run approval for imported dramas is like asking for directions from a blind man.”

Gu Cheng forced himself to suppress his frustration, thinking: I’d love to find someone like Han Sanping, with hands in every pie at the Bureau! But I don’t know him! You’re the only one I know!

If the man had been strapped for cash, Gu Cheng would’ve simply thrown money at the problem. But Gao Dasong wasn’t in need, and after months of contact, Gu Cheng understood he only cared about working with like-minded people.

He had to change his approach. “Mr. Gao, do you perhaps have some dissatisfaction with my business? Do you feel we’re not kindred spirits?”

Gao Dasong quietly finished his cup of tea, sent his wife away, and finally spoke: “When I first saw you establish Dingdang Net, I thought—not all internet people are pirates. At last, someone willing to fight for legitimate musicians. But in the end, it was all thunder and no rain; aside from introducing Jay Zhou and releasing your own album, there’s been no action at all. Honestly, you’re no different from that old fox Zhang Chaoyang.”

The “Zhang Chaoyang” in question was, of course, the boss of Sohu, one of the country’s top three internet giants. Before returning home, Gao Dasong had been Director of Sohu’s Entertainment Division, but witnessing all the industry leaders as pirates, he’d angrily quit on principle.

Gu Cheng, stung by these easy criticisms, protested, “Mr. Gao, that’s not fair! Of course I want to do right by Dingdang Net. Otherwise, why would I have invested two million yuan at the end of last year, at such a critical moment, just to start a music and video website? There’s a process for everything! My approach isn’t the same as Li Guoqing’s because I want to wait until an online payment system is ready, until users are used to paying online and e-commerce logistics are mature. When that’s set, selling music and video discs alongside other products will be seamless. You can’t rush these things.”

Gao Dasong retorted, “If all you internet tycoons think like this, a whole generation of talented musicians in this country will starve! What happens to cultural continuity then? Do we return to the era of copying Japanese tunes and putting new lyrics to them?”

Gu Cheng was left speechless. “You make a valid point, but that’s a problem for all of society, not just me! Please, I’m still just a kid—can you cut a minor some slack?”

“Because you’re the only one who needs my help, so I’m latching onto you!” Gao Dasong replied with childish stubbornness. Realizing he was being unreasonable, he blushed and added, “Tell you what—at least show me a solid plan for developing Dingdang Net further, something that will genuinely benefit more music creators this year. If you do, I’ll take care of this for you. As for the CEO role, keep it for now; I’ll act as content editor. I’m not interested in the business side of things.”

Gu Cheng gritted his teeth and patted his chest. “Deal. Give me three months, and I promise to deliver a plan you’ll be happy with before the end of the first half of the year. For now, just accept the position and help me get this approval through. If I break my word, you can slap me yourself!”

A man must have ideals—money alone isn’t enough.

Gu Cheng felt that once April rolled around, the “Monkey Edition Alipay” developed for Chen Tianqiao by Legendary Entertainment would be ready for use, and its market coverage was growing. It was time to combine online payments more closely with the legitimate music and video industry.

…

Although Gao Dasong had his quirks, he was a man of his word. Gu Cheng had given him nothing but a verbal promise, not even a personal benefit, but he still threw himself into getting the approval for “Meteor Garden.”

With someone so well-connected in the capital’s cultural circles, the efficiency was astounding. By mid-April, the bureau had granted approval, allowing for a May broadcast.

Meanwhile, in Taiwan, after six weeks of a sweeping craze, Taiwan Television finished its first run on April 15.

The ratings started at 21% in the first week and climbed steadily—23%, 26%—until peaking at 34% in the final week, reportedly the highest for any drama in Taiwan’s history.

After spending over one million on translation and dubbing, the English and Japanese versions were completed on schedule; for other Southeast Asian languages, only Chinese with subtitles was provided.

From late April, these dubbed versions began airing successfully on NHK and KBS. Later, the show even achieved a staggering 41% rating on KBS in Korea, and an impressive 19% on Japan’s NHK.

“KBS bought the exclusive domestic broadcast rights for Korea, spending one billion won, about 6.5 million yuan.”

“NHK bought the premiere rights for Japan, spending 100 million yen, about 8.4 million yuan.” (Note: The yen was still strong then, about 1:12; now it’s 1:18.)

“CCTV and WuYue Satellite TV bought the mainland China premiere rights, investing 4.5 million and 3.5 million yuan respectively, with WuYue agreeing to air two weeks after CCTV. Then Mango TV, Jiangnan TV, Meishan TV, and seven other provincial stations bought the second-round rights for two million each, with the condition that they would not broadcast until after the summer slot.”

Watching the revenue from sales, Chai Zhiping was both ecstatic and envious, almost to the point of madness.

She was thrilled because she had made a fortune and, thanks to this, had set up her reputation as “Taiwan’s number one idol drama producer.”

She was envious because, had she known the drama would be so profitable, she would have sold everything and borrowed money to invest more herself.

The total revenue from sales ultimately reached an astonishing forty million yuan, while the total investment in the series was just over six million—a sixfold return on investment. The funds had come in last December, filming began, and by the end of April, everything was sold—a payback period of just five months.

Gu Cheng had put in over three million in cash, and together with himself and Lin Zhiling forgoing their appearance fees, plus other distribution resources, he held 60% of the profits. Fulong Productions put in 1.7 million, holding 25%, and Chai Zhiping, Director Cai, and others contributed labor and scripts (they’d agreed to work for free during filming), owning 15%.

In other words, those who invested their labor as shares split six million in labor fees after half a year’s effort.

Gu Cheng, meanwhile, entered with over three million and took home twenty-four million.

“Who would have thought making TV dramas could be this profitable? It’s not much less than the pure profit from Legend over four months,” Gu Cheng couldn’t help but think as he reviewed the accounts.

After four or five months of development, Legend had grown from 50-60,000 concurrent users and 300,000 paying users at the beginning of the year, to 100,000 concurrent and 800,000 paying users by May. Half of those users would buy one game card a month, and the most dedicated 200,000 core players bought three cards a month.

Legend now brought in over twenty million yuan in monthly game card sales; hard costs like servers, bandwidth, and maintenance amounted to just 15%. The main expenses were marketing and support for “Monkey Edition Alipay,” and R&D for security software for the next stage of electronic payments. (For every game card sold, five yuan went to internet café owners who handled the recharge—this marketing fee took up 20% of the nominal revenue. Only by paying this fee would café owners nationwide enthusiastically recommend Legend to their customers.)

After careful calculation, Legend’s monthly net profit was just over ten million yuan—putting it in the same league, profit-wise, as drama production.