Chapter 281: Film Festival Red Carpet
The two universities Shinji requested weren't exactly obscure.
They weren't at the very top, sure, but they were still considered part of China's first-tier academic institutions.
It was just that—well, for someone like Udagawa Nao, a Japanese who never went to China, the only Chinese universities she could name were probably the same two or three that got mentioned in Japanese news now and then. So she naturally had no clue what Shinji was talking about..
Which was fair—after all, on the flip side, most Chinese people only recognized places like the University of Tokyo or Waseda. Anyone who knew about Keio University would already be considered pretty knowledgeable.
As for why Shinji picked those two universities in particular…
Well, part of it was logistics—he was planning to visit Lin'an after his stop in Shanghai anyway, so it was a convenient detour.
But the real reason?
Those two universities happened to be where his past self—before reincarnation—had done his undergrad and grad studies.
So, in a sense… this was his way of showing love to his alma mater.
He wasn't going to make it up north for lectures at Beijing Film Academy or Central Academy of Drama anyway, so might as well pick somewhere personal.
There was no shame in indulging a little bit of vanity.
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Once the final itinerary was locked in with Udagawa Nao, Shinji spent two more leisurely days enjoying Shanghai.
The film festival's organizing committee had actually offered to assign him a local guide, but Shinji flat-out rejected them.
Not because he was being rude—it was just that he really didn't like having strangers hovering around him.
Besides, the "famous" tourist spots in Shanghai held zero appeal for him.
Forget the Pearl Tower or the Bund skyline—what really interested Shinji were the hidden alleyways and the delicious hole-in-the-wall restaurants.
So for a few glorious days, Shinji wandered the city like a one-man episode of Kodoku no Gourmet, diving into greasy local joints and savoring authentic street food.
And then, the festival officially kicked off.
According to the organizers, this year marked a "historic breakthrough" for the Shanghai International Film Festival.
The number of submissions had hit a record high—up 48.4% compared to the previous event—and, for the first time ever, filmmakers could apply online.
In 2006, the internet was still considered fresh and futuristic enough that "online registration" was something worthy of government-level bragging.
Still, flashy stats aside, what really had the committee going all-out in their PR push was the red carpet lineup.
To quote the official statement:
"This year's red carpet brings together a dazzling constellation of stars—truly a spectacular gathering of cinematic excellence!"
Or as Miss Bai Yun from TV put it:
"Drums beating, firecrackers popping, flags waving, crowds roaring!"
And as for Shinji?
He had a far more… Shinji-esque take on things:
"I don't care how many big-name stars show up—none of their movies made more money than mine."
Of course, the moment those words left his mouth, Shinji got a painful reminder—in the form of Sakura's fist driving into his ribs.
"Onii-sama," she said, her voice ice-cold. "I don't care what kind of crazy stuff you say at home. But if you embarrass yourself while we're abroad, don't blame me for cleaning house in the name of the Matou family."
The look on her face made Heaven's Feel-route Sakura look like a harmless kitten.
Shinji nodded obediently, any remaining arrogance thoroughly smacked out of him.
To be fair, his comment was a bit over the top.
This year's red carpet lineup was genuinely impressive.
So impressive, in fact, that it would later be known as the start of the "#1 Red Carpet in Asia" reputation the festival would carry for years to come.
"Good evening, Director Matou."
"Good evening."
As soon as Shinji stepped off the red carpet and into the VIP lounge area, he was greeted by the chairman of the film festival's organizing committee.
After a firm handshake, the man began personally introducing Shinji to the other high-profile guests in attendance.
Due to this being a parallel world, Shinji didn't recognize many of the faces—but there were still a few celebrities he remembered vividly from his past life.
Looking at those once-faraway stars—the ones he used to admire through a TV screen—now smiling politely and shaking hands with him…
Shinji couldn't help but feel a little sentimental.
But then again, he'd spent years grinding in the entertainment industry.
At this point, brushing shoulders with the rich and famous was practically second nature.
He laughed, joked, and mingled with effortless charm—like the seasoned pro he had become.
Trailing behind Shinji, Li Ri'ang looked like a bundle of nerves.
It was only a month ago that he'd been a regular office worker, yet here he was now—on a red carpet, surrounded by movie stars, getting caught on camera in the same frame as celebrities he'd only seen on TV before. The whole thing felt completely unreal.
"Relax," Shinji whispered without even turning around. "There'll come a time when you're the one calling the shots around these people."
"…That phrase doesn't sound quite right," Lee muttered, forcing a stiff smile. "Kinda sounds like I'm gonna be some kind of tyrant…"
"As long as you get the gist."
Shinji grinned slyly.
From the earlier conversations, Shinji had already gotten a pretty good read on the local industry's attitude toward him.
And they were split into two extremes.
Most of the directors and producers?
Cold. Distant. Some didn't even bother to hide their disdain.
In stark contrast were the actors—especially the actresses.
They greeted Shinji with the kind of eager energy you'd expect from a pack of wolves spotting fresh meat.
If it weren't for the formal nature of the red carpet, he was pretty sure at least a dozen of them would've tried to grab his arm or kiss him on the cheek.
But Shinji wasn't naïve—he understood exactly why they were acting like this.
It wasn't about going international or chasing some Hollywood dream.
These actresses knew full well they'd never be main characters in one of Shinji's movies.
But even just getting a background role—a nameless side character—in a blockbuster franchise like Fate?
That alone could send their market value skyrocketing back home. In this era of Chinese cinema, the "export-then-domestic-hype" strategy still worked wonders.
Unfortunately for them, Shinji had no intention of giving out any promises.
It wasn't because he thought the actors were bad—on the contrary, this generation of stars still had decent fundamentals, especially compared to the wave of "pretty-face-only" idols that would come later.
No, the issue was practicality.
If you gave them a major role, Western audiences wouldn't care—they didn't have international recognition.
But if you gave them too small a role, domestic audiences would throw a fit, accusing you of tokenism or exploiting patriotism for profit.
And don't even think about casting a Chinese actor as a villain.
That was a surefire way to ignite public outrage. People would take it as an insult to the nation itself.
In Shinji's mind, the ideal role for a Chinese actor was something like Black Widow in Iron Man 2, or Wonder Woman in Batman v Superman—not a lead, but still striking and memorable.
But roles like that were rare.
You might not even find one across an entire trilogy.
And even if there was such a role, why would Shinji give it to some local actor when he could use it to debut a new Heroic Spirit instead?
So from the very beginning, Shinji made up his mind: no promises, no commitments.
Let them dream, but don't let them get their hopes up.
Still, even without making promises, Shinji found himself shaking countless hands in the span of twenty minutes. He couldn't even remember how many people had greeted him.
Good thing he understood Chinese fluently—if he'd needed a translator to relay every line, that poor soul would've collapsed from burnout ten minutes in.
Truth be told, Shinji wasn't particularly interested in rubbing shoulders with movie stars or fellow directors.
The people he really wanted to talk to… were the government officials.
Because when it came to China's cinematic future, the most important issue wasn't popularity, or fame, or critical acclaim—it was import quotas.
Shinji knew very well that starting this year, China's box office would begin its meteoric rise.
Ticket sales would soar year after year like a rocket on liftoff.
But the number of foreign films allowed in? That wouldn't rise nearly as fast.
Sure, the quota increased slightly every year.
But it couldn't possibly keep pace with the exponential growth of ticket revenue.
So, if he wanted to claim as much of that market share as possible…
There was only one real strategy: secure more import slots.
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