Chapter 15: The Screening

After disembarking from the plane, Cao Yang greeted Wang Xiaoshuai and the others. The group took a taxi to the hotel they had booked. Cao Yang didn’t have to worry about any of these arrangements; the school had everything perfectly organized. According to the prior agreement, the school was responsible only for providing equipment and personnel, while expenses were covered separately.

However, ever since Cao Yang’s film was completed, the school’s teachers and leaders took over all the logistics. He no longer had to handle submissions for review, film festival registrations, international flight tickets, or accommodations in Berlin. The earlier agreement was no longer mentioned.

After resting for a day at the hotel, the next morning, Cao Yang was pulled along by Tian Zhuangzhuang to visit a variety of people—selectors, producers, directors, and members of the film festival committee. Although Old Tian hadn’t officially won any major European awards, partly due to being blacklisted and without new works for ten years, his network in Europe was impressive. While the top three awards might have been out of reach, he still had a strong chance for other honors.

The Berlin International Film Festival ran from February 7th to the 18th, serving as a major platform for screenings and sales, attracting filmmakers from around the world, as well as numerous distributors looking for opportunities.

At the opening ceremony on February 7th, Cao Yang, Old Tian, Li Xiaoran, and Zhao Tiantian walked a red carpet that drew little attention—they were virtually unknown. This year, three Chinese-language films were selected for the main competition: one from Taiwan and two from the mainland, which normally would have caused a stir in the domestic media—a cause for celebration.

But the situation was complicated. Wang Xiaoshuai’s film had bypassed official review and entered the competition without approval. Cao Yang’s film, featuring Tian Zhuangzhuang who was still under a directing ban, left the media uncertain whether it was a “shell” film made under Tian’s name, given that a director in his twenties was at the helm, sparking speculation.

The media held back from extensive coverage, likely waiting to see how things unfolded on the 18th.

In the following days, Cao Yang accompanied Old Tian to socialize, meeting many new people. He had hoped to catch a few screenings, especially “Malèna,” another main competition entry featuring Monica Bellucci at her peak of beauty, but time never permitted.

It wasn’t until the 12th that things finally settled, and Cao Yang found some free time. That afternoon, he arrived in the hotel lobby and saw Li Xiaoran.

“Xiaoran, are you heading out?”

“Director Cao... There’s a screening of ‘Intimacy’ at 2:30 PM. It’s been getting good buzz these days, one of the hot contenders for the Golden Bear, with favorable reviews in the festival guide. I want to see it.”

Cao Yang looked her over. She wore a fitted white crew-neck knit sweater that outlined her full figure, paired with a brown pleated skirt falling about ten centimeters below the knee. On her feet were gray knee-high boots, and over her shoulders hung a brown trench coat.

Though she hadn’t yet developed the mature, commanding aura of a sophisticated woman, her youthful beauty was striking—a timeless charm.

“I was just about to attend that screening too. Let’s go together.”

Li Xiaoran didn’t refuse and followed Cao Yang to the screening venue.

The theater for “Intimacy” was large. When they arrived, it was already about 80% full—a high occupancy rate. They took seats slightly to the left of center. Noticing Li Xiaoran’s flushed cheeks from the cold, Cao Yang said, “Berlin is quite chilly. You’re a bit underdressed. You should swap that coat for a down jacket.”

In February, Berlin’s average temperature hovered around minus two degrees Celsius, with biting winds.

“I find down jackets bulky and unflattering,” she replied.

Cao Yang had no counterargument—choosing style over warmth meant accepting the chill.

At 2:30, the lights dimmed and the film began.

Within just over four minutes, the lead characters were already entangled intimately. Cao Yang anticipated what was coming next—European art films were notorious for pushing boundaries.

Watching alone would have been fine; after all, the surrounding audience were strangers, so no embarrassment. But sitting beside Li Xiaoran made things awkward.

Cao Yang wasn’t sure how Western education addressed such situations—whether there was a sense of shame—but in Chinese culture, no matter how open-minded, watching explicit scenes in front of acquaintances was still embarrassing.

As expected, the director indulged in about three minutes of explicit scenes.

Cao Yang stole glances at Li Xiaoran’s bowed head, wondering what she was thinking.

There was no way to escape without creating an even bigger awkwardness; he decided to endure.

At the seventeenth minute, the film returned to similar intimate scenes.

Grimacing, Cao Yang wondered if he had mistakenly stumbled into an adult film.

Finally, the movie ended. Setting aside the erotic elements, its theme explored the transition from physical lust to love, touching on extramarital affairs and more.

The French really were wildly romantic, pushing boundaries sky-high—a true avant-garde spirit.

Cao Yang could see beneath the surface eroticism that the film was actually expressing human loneliness. Yet amidst the many bold scenes, the director’s message was too subtle to be grasped easily.

Perhaps only the festival judges could unearth the film’s depth; ordinary viewers would undoubtedly label it a steamy romance.

Love, loneliness, infidelity...

Hmm, these themes felt familiar.

Wasn’t “Alone by the Sea at Night” about these very subjects?

What a coincidence, though the two films approached the topics from entirely different angles.

Cao Yang was still lost in thought when Li Xiaoran pinched his arm, pulling him up to leave.

What an awkward afternoon.

On the 13th, Taiwan’s “Love You, Love Me” began its screenings. Cao Yang brought Li Xiaoran and Zhao Tiantian along. Away from home, they considered each other comrades, supporting one another as a matter of course.

They also met the director and a young man named Zhang Zhen, who looked every bit the artsy type—melancholic, quiet, and a little shy, much like Liang Chaowei.

Not being well acquainted, they exchanged greetings, watched the film, offered compliments, then departed.

Focusing on the producer, Jiao Xiongping, it was clear she was remarkable—producing both Wang Xiaoshuai’s film and this one, securing spots for two similarly themed movies in the main competition was no small feat.

On the 16th, Wang Xiaoshuai’s “Seventeen and a Bicycle” premiered. The committee assigned a screening room that could hold a hundred people. Cao Yang, as usual, came with Li Xiaoran and Zhao Tiantian to show support, and Old Tian joined them as well.

As the screening time neared, including journalists and critics, fewer than forty people had arrived.

“The turnout isn’t great,” Zhao Tiantian whispered.

Cao Yang smiled wryly. “We’re all unknowns without star power. This attendance is actually pretty good. If our film gets this kind of turnout tomorrow, I’ll be satisfied.”

Zhao Tiantian shrank back, sticking out her tongue.

Suddenly, there was a stir at the entrance. Cao Yang looked up to see Jiao Xiongping and Wang Xiaoshuai flanking Xie Fei as they entered. Wang Xiaoshuai, usually stern, now wore a broad smile.