Chapter 23: The High-Income Class

With the script approved, Chen Qi could continue to stay at the guesthouse.

His role shifted from writing the script to assisting with the production, and he still received a daily subsidy of two yuan.

The Beijing Film Studio would first select a director, who would then cast the actors and proceed with pre-production; this process would take quite some time. Since there was no pressure to rush the schedule, no interference from capital investors, and no nonsense from traffic-driven idols, the core focus remained entirely on producing a high-quality work.

At its simplest, if a role required playing a farmer, the actor had to go to the countryside to experience that life; for a worker, they had to go to a factory; for a fisherman, they had to spend time drifting at sea, experiencing what it felt like to catch fish...

No one would boast about these things as if they were honors; it was considered perfectly normal.

While some good actors in later generations still maintained this tradition, the idol-type actors could not. They only played CEOs and pampered wives—does that really require any "experience"?

Unless they were playing a poor person, which gave us the chance to "experience" what they thought poverty was, resulting in portrayals of poor characters who "make three thousand yuan a month in Shanghai, rent an apartment by the Huangpu River, and eat instant noodles every day."

Returning to the present, actors in this day and age did not receive a "performance fee" in the modern sense.

Actors belonged to various literary and art units and earned a monthly salary; filming was part of their duties, or, to put it grandly, a national mission. How could there be a performance fee? However, there was a daily subsidy of about 50 cents to one yuan.

Liu Xiaoqing, Pan Hong, Tang Guoqiang... no matter how big the star, that was the rate.

Though by the 1980s, professional remuneration would emerge.

In contrast, and indeed across the entire film industry, screenwriters were an elite, high-income class. How high? As high as a three- or four-story building!

For instance, in the 1950s, the state stipulated that songwriters were paid per song, receiving 10 to 20 yuan each. For "The Moon of the Fifteenth," a song sung from north to south, the author received 15 yuan, which later even led to a lawsuit.

For poetry, every 20 lines were calculated as 1,000 characters, at a rate of 10 to 20 yuan per thousand characters.

That is why you know why the poems written by poets were all... written... line... by... line.

Gu Long was another who practiced something similar, as his manuscript fees were also calculated by the line, which led to his unique literary style:

Night.
A cold night.
A single lonely lamp, small as a bean.

Manuscript fees for novels and traditional storytelling were similar, but film scripts were the exception. The standard at the time was 3,000 to 8,000 yuan per script—a sky-high price!

By the 1960s, it had decreased slightly, but it was still beyond what an ordinary person could imagine.

For a feature-length film script, the pay was 2,000 to 6,000 yuan; for a short film, 1,000 to 3,000 yuan. A director’s fee for a feature film was 500 to 1,500 yuan, and 300 to 700 yuan for a short film.

The most interesting part was music. If you wrote a single song, you were given a dozen yuan. But if you composed the score for a film or wrote songs for it, the composer could earn 300 to 800 yuan, and the lyricist could earn 50 to 100 yuan.

It can be said that as long as one was involved in the film industry, one was firmly in the high-income bracket.

The state had always placed great importance on film; Chairman Mao himself had personally criticized "The Life of Wu Xun." The reason was simple: film served another function—it was a propaganda tool for ideology!

***

"Knock, knock, knock!"

Jiang Huaiyan knocked on the studio manager's door and handed over an application report. "This is the proposal for the script remuneration for 'Romance on Lushan Mountain.' Our literature department is in unanimous agreement."

"Let me take a look!"

Wang Yang picked up the document, read it, and smiled. "This is fine. It’s neither too high nor too low, and it encourages the young man."

"So, is it approved?"

"Approved. Go and coordinate with the finance department."

Jiang Huaiyan acknowledged this and then asked, "Who are you planning to have direct 'Romance on Lushan Mountain'?"

"Oh, that’s hard to say!"

Wang Yang was worried. "You have categorized it as a scenic lyrical film. This genre didn't exist before, and no one has experience with it. If I find an old director, I’m afraid they’ll make it too serious. The tone should be youthful and lively."

"Exactly, that’s our intention too. Handsome men and beautiful women, picturesque scenery, beautiful romance, and intense patriotism all reflecting each other."

"Let’s study it further. There’s no rush."

Wang Yang paused, then asked with interest, "Xiao Jiang, what do you think of the young man who wrote the script?"

"He's talented, has a good image, a humble personality, and a good background. No dark history."

"That day when we screened 'Drunken Master,' I heard him chatting with others, and he seemed to have some insights into entertainment films. I have always wanted the studio to produce more diverse types of work; we can't always be so bitter and deep. Unfortunately, there aren't many who understand this approach."

"Are you cherishing talent again?" Jiang Huaiyan laughed.

"Of course I cherish talent, but that young man is excessively young, which makes me uneasy. Let's observe him a bit more."

After a few more words, Jiang Huaiyan returned to the literature department.

He asked Liang Xiaosheng to find Chen Qi. Shortly after, Chen Qi arrived. "Director Jiang, is there a change with the script?"

"No, don't be nervous. I wanted to talk to you about the remuneration."

Remuneration!

Chen Qi's eyes lit up. He had tinkered with this script for two reasons: to stay at the guesthouse and to make money.

Seeing his expression, Jiang Huaiyan teased, "I thought you would say you were serving the people and didn't want any payment!"

"I'm no saint. I put in the work, so naturally, I want a reward. Besides, I want my parents to see it and be happy. If I ever truly reach the point of having no desires, maybe then I wouldn't want it."

"Hmm, that's an honest answer."

Jiang Huaiyan nodded and said, "The matter of screenwriter remuneration is, how should I put it, something people are always envious of. It was interrupted for over a decade and has only recently been restored. The state hasn't set new standards for us, so we usually negotiate it ourselves.

"Previously, a script could earn 6,000 yuan, but that's impossible now. However, we try to consider comprehensive factors and give you the best deal possible.

"For adapted scripts, we look at the influence of the author and the original work; the greater the influence, the higher the pay. For original scripts, it's similar. Since you are a young author, it usually won't be too high."

"I understand, I understand!"

Chen Qi nodded repeatedly, thinking to himself, Five hundred? Or four hundred? At the very, very least, three hundred...

"After much consideration, we have decided to give you a remuneration of eight hundred yuan!"

*Hiss!*

He shivered. Even though he had been a boss in his previous life, hearing the number eight hundred made him feel genuinely overjoyed.

As for remuneration, it wouldn't be until 1984 that the state issued a new standard: 1,500 to 4,000 yuan for feature films and 750 to 2,000 yuan for short films.

At the time, it was indeed a high salary, but the 1990s arrived quickly. With the surge of the commercial tide, authors made a fortune, while film screenwriters were still miserably stuck with these standards.

"Director Jiang, when can I collect it?"

"Finance has been cleared. You can go now."

"Great, thank you!"

Jiang Huaiyan watched him leave, beaming, and fully understood his reaction. It was eight hundred yuan!

In 1979, the average monthly income for urban employees in Beijing was 61.8 yuan—and mind you, that is urban, not including farmers. For farmers, thirty yuan a month was considered good; in poor areas, it was only a dozen yuan.

"You stay at the guesthouse for now. The studio will begin preparations, and we will call you if anything comes up."

"So, I have free time?"

"Haha, you don't have any tasks for the moment. Why not go home and visit?"

"Of course I will. By the way, Director Jiang, can 'Romance on Lushan Mountain' be published in next month's 'Film Creation'? I want to take it home to show my parents."

"Yes, no problem."

"That's great!"

Chen Qi felt relieved. It was May, and next month would be June; he wouldn't clash with the original author.

He walked out and immediately ran to the finance office to collect his money.

The currency used was the third series of Renminbi, with the highest denomination being only 10 yuan. The front featured a pattern of people's representatives leaving the Great Hall of the People, which was why it was commonly known as "Great Unity."

Speaking of "Great Unity," when Chen Qi was only a teenager, he had accidentally stumbled upon a literary website. The works there were brilliant, and the protagonists were unforgettable:

There was the naive teenager who didn't perform well in high school, the pitiful schoolteacher bullied by men, the Dongxing prince who moved between the underworld and the business world, even knights from the West, the golden hairpins of the Red Chamber, Huang Rong after giving birth, and Luo Bing who had lost her husband...

Eight hundred yuan, in a thick envelope.

Chen Qi returned to the guesthouse. Soon, Liang Xiaosheng and Ge You arrived. Liang Xiaosheng even brought a small hammer, which left him stunned.

"What are you doing with that thing?"

"I'm here to accompany you to deposit your money! You’re not going to just carry that much cash around, are you? I brought a weapon just in case we need to defend ourselves."

"..."

Chen Qi touched his nose. Why was he being so earnest at his age? It was actually quite moving.

Ge You, however, hesitated, but finally couldn't help but ask, "Um, can I see it?"

"See what? The money?"

Chen Qi took out the envelope, revealing the thick stack of banknotes.

"Oh my, oh my!"

Ge You's eyes turned green, as if he had earned it himself. He rubbed his hands together and paced in circles, exclaiming, "So much money! This is the first time I've ever seen so much money!"

(I have things to take care of today, so that's all... Happy May Day, everyone! Have you all gone out to have fun?)