Chapter 442: Star Cultivation and Miss Hong Kong Events
Inside a modest building in Kwun Tong, Kowloon, a large group of young people bustled about—some sat attentively in class, others practiced martial arts with weapons in a large open room, while a few huddled together to rehearse lines or work on performances.
Elsewhere in the building, several individuals moved slowly through the hallways. Whenever they encountered anyone from inside, they were greeted with great courtesy—for among them were Qi Ruifan, General Manager of TVB, Hong Kong's largest television station, and Zou Wenhuai, General Manager of Changxing Film Company.
"Mr. Yang," Qi Ruifan said as he gestured toward a wall-mounted chart, "we currently have 106 students in our Wireless Performing Arts Training Class. These were selected from thousands of applicants six months ago. After initial training, many are now participating in supporting roles. We'll determine how many resources to allocate to each one based on their performance."
Yang Wendong asked, "What's the gender ratio like? Seems male-heavy?"
"Yes," Qi Ruifan replied. "Right now we have 91 male students and only 15 female. It's mainly because far fewer women signed up. Social attitudes still make it difficult for many families to accept their daughters entering film or television."
Zou Wenhuai added, "Same situation in the film industry. Most of our current projects are martial arts films, and those tend to feature male leads. The core audience is also male. There are female-centric films, of course, but they're fewer, and their performance at the box office tends to be underwhelming."
"I see, so demand still leans heavily male," Yang Wendong nodded thoughtfully.
Although he didn't know every detail of Hong Kong cinema history from his past life, he remembered that in the early 1980s, Hong Kong's film scene was dominated by male actors. Stars like Chow Yun-fat and Andy Lau could earn over a million per film, while top-tier actresses like Cherie Chung made just a few hundred thousand.
It wasn't until the late '80s and early '90s that female stars started commanding higher fees—but still generally lagged behind male actors. And here in the 1960s, the disparity was even greater.
This wasn't about political correctness or ideology—it was a reflection of wealth concentration and consumer demographics. Throughout history, those with the most money had been predominantly male. Only once economic growth matured would wealth begin to shift.
Zou Wenhuai said, "There are some recent surveys that show many people are interested in female action stars. So I want to train one or two actresses who can fight and also look good. But it's hard—I've been searching for months and still haven't found the right candidate."
"A female star who can fight and is beautiful? Yeah, that's a tough ask," Yang Wendong said.
Although Hong Kong had already been influenced by Western culture for decades, and women weren't restricted the way they were in ancient times, the idea of women fighting on screen was still a novelty.
Zou Wenhuai nodded. "Exactly. That's why we want to train our own. Right now, I have my eye on three students, but fight choreography takes years to master. It's not easy."
"There are plenty of martial arts schools in Hong Kong," Yang Wendong said after some thought. "Instead of starting from scratch, why not recruit from there? Whether male or female, it's easier to teach acting to someone who already knows how to fight than the other way around.
If you pick your actors from a pool of martial artists, you'll save a lot of time."
In the original timeline, Bruce Lee's meteoric rise wasn't just luck—he emerged during a time when martial arts culture was thriving in Hong Kong. There were countless martial arts schools, each with their own style, and intense competition between them helped Bruce Lee rise to the top. Even after his passing, many other martial arts icons emerged.
"Alright, I'll start visiting some martial arts academies and see if they're open to working with us," Zou Wenhuai said.
"They're just businessmen too. If there's money to be made, they'll agree," Yang Wendong said. "I've heard Wang Yu's income is pretty high now—was that on purpose? A way to attract more people into the industry?"
If you want to attract a particular group to an industry, the easiest way is to publicize the top-tier earnings. Just like in his past life—streamers and influencers made millions, and those flashy numbers were enough to lure thousands of hopefuls to jump in.
Same logic applied here. Just show the masses that actors live in mansions, drive luxury cars, and earn huge paychecks—young people would come running.
"Exactly," said Zou Wenhuai. "That was intentional. Right now, Wang Yu earns between 30,000 to 50,000 HKD per film. He's already a big name. People go to see movies just because his name's on the poster—even overseas. So I had to raise his pay. If he suddenly left us, it wouldn't be worth it."
"Fine. If he's capable, I'm happy to pay more," Yang Wendong replied. "Tell him: the better he performs, the more famous he gets. With enough fame, he could earn hundreds of thousands—maybe even millions—per year. Luxury homes, cars... it's all possible."
"Understood. Wang Yu is actually very hardworking," Zou Wenhuai said with a smile.
"But don't rely on just one person," Yang Wendong added. "You need a multi-star strategy. Develop actors for different niches—young, old, villain, hero, male, female. That way, you'll appeal to a wider audience and avoid the risk of one person fading after a few years. Look at Hollywood—most actors only stay famous for a few years."
In every region, in every era, most stars only shine for a short time. Only a handful manage to stay relevant for decades.
"I've already started increasing pay for some of the more promising students," said Zou Wenhuai. "As time goes on, the truly talented ones will naturally rise."
"Good," Yang Wendong said, then turned to Qi Ruifan. "Old Qi, TVB must need even more actors than the film side, right? How are things on your end?"
"Mr. Yang," Qi Ruifan replied, "TVB is actively training talent in-house. Our dramas and variety shows are currently staffed mostly with rookies. In a few more years, things should really take off."
"That makes sense," Yang Wendong said. "Even a background actor today could be a major star tomorrow. What do extras get paid these days?"
He recalled how, in his past life, the 1983 version of The Legend of the Condor Heroes featured a staggering number of future superstars in minor roles. That wasn't just coincidence—it was because Hong Kong was small, and the pool of extras was limited. Most future stars had been part of that same crowd.
"For a simple, no-dialogue role," Qi Ruifan said, "they earn around 5 to 10 HKD per day, including a lunchbox. If they have lines or more screen time, the rate goes up."
"So basically, most of them get work every day?" Yang Wendong asked.
"Not every day," Qi Ruifan replied, "but most of them get work often. Between our drama production and other film companies shooting on the lot, there's always something going on."
"That's only about 200 HKD a month," Yang Wendong said. "That's even less than some factory workers earn."
Qi Ruifan replied, "Yes, definitely lower than factory wages. But acting is far less grueling than working on a factory line, and at least they have something to look forward to. That's why we don't pay them too much.
And it's not just our policy—this is the norm across many film and TV production companies. It's market-driven. The more people want in, the more the wages naturally drop. Simple supply and demand."
"Alright. Let the wages follow the market," Yang Wendong agreed. "But the meals we provide should be a little better. That way, those with some ability will be more inclined to choose us."
In his past life, Run Run Shaw had a notorious reputation at TVB for being stingy. There was even a well-known incident where he refused to approve a ten-dollar food request for steamed buns, which led to actors going on strike. The delay ended up costing the production thousands—an enduring joke in the Hong Kong film industry.
Changxing Group wouldn't repeat that mistake. If market conditions determined income, then the quality of meals provided was a matter of goodwill—and generosity was often rewarded in return.
Sometimes, just a bit of extra care or welfare could attract far better talent. From a long-term perspective, it was a worthwhile investment.
"Understood," both Qi Ruifan and Zou Wenhuai nodded in agreement.
"Alright, let's head upstairs. There's something else I want to discuss," Yang Wendong added, then glanced at the group of young people around them—most only a few years younger than he was. "Make sure they're treated well. Their training is intense, and it's worth spending more if even one star emerges from it."
In his previous life, many of Hong Kong's legendary entertainers came from TVB's actor training programs. It was practically a star factory. Now that Yang Wendong controlled both of Hong Kong's major media channels, it was only natural to replicate that success—and take it further.
The more stars they cultivated, the more prosperous Hong Kong cinema would become. And the stronger the entertainment industry, the easier it would be to penetrate overseas markets. It was all connected.
Once they reached the third-floor meeting room, an assistant served everyone tea.
Yang Wendong began, "Aside from reviewing the training program, I also want to talk about the idea we discussed earlier—developing more female talent."
"Please go ahead, Mr. Yang," Qi Ruifan said attentively.
Yang Wendong continued, "It's hard to get women to sign up for acting roles—especially skilled ones. So why not recruit from groups that already involve female performers? If they're on stage, they're already open to the performing arts."
"You mean opera singers?" Qi Ruifan asked after a moment's thought.
"Not just that," Yang Wendong smiled. "Opera is fine too, but I'm referring specifically to contestants from the Miss Hong Kong pageant."
The Miss Hong Kong Pageant began in 1946, organized by a small private club at the Ritz Nightclub in North Point. It wasn't widely known, but it had its place in local culture.
In his past life, it only gained massive fame after TVB took over the event in the early 1970s. The company turned a niche pageant into one of Hong Kong—and even Asia's—biggest entertainment spectacles.
The pageant produced many future stars of TVB dramas, and some even transitioned into film. A few went on to become household names in mainland China after the country's opening-up.
Now, Yang Wendong planned to fast-track this process. Times might have changed, but the rules hadn't. Even if the exact same stars didn't emerge this time around, new ones would surely rise.
"Miss Hong Kong?" Qi Ruifan replied. "I know the event. A few papers cover it every year, but it doesn't attract much attention or participation."
"That's because it's being run by people with no real influence," Yang Wendong said. "If we take over, add full-scale promotional coverage and a high-end venue, we can turn it into the hottest event in Hong Kong.
And it would be a perfect fit for TVB's entertainment programs. Miss Hong Kong isn't just about the final show. The preliminaries can be split by region, with each event airing over several days."
Large-scale competitions, when well-organized, could be aired for months. In his past life, shows like The Voice of China ran nonstop across cities—prelims, knockouts, semifinals, and finals. The entire season took nearly a year to complete before the cycle started again.
A city-to-city tour even generated massive local advertising revenue.
"A pageant like Miss Hong Kong could become a major ratings driver," Qi Ruifan said. "The most beautiful woman in Hong Kong, as chosen by the people—she'd be a star from day one."
"Exactly," Yang Wendong said. "After winning, they can join TVB right away, become hosts or lead actresses. The rest depends on their talent.
If they're capable, we'll have the resources to turn them into celebrities. They'll become high-income role models in Hong Kong society."
Qi Ruifan and Zou Wenhuai exchanged a glance, then said, "That's a great idea, Mr. Yang. But it assumes female stars can reach the top. Right now, we don't have any like that in Hong Kong."
"That's true," Yang Wendong said thoughtfully. "Then here's what we'll do—acquire the rights to the Miss Hong Kong Pageant and publicly announce that the winner will receive real rewards: a condo unit or a cash prize."
"A condo?" Zou Wenhuai asked, surprised. "Mr. Yang, that's a bit extravagant. Property is incredibly expensive."
"It doesn't have to be on Hong Kong Island," Yang Wendong said with a chuckle. "Tseung Kwan O works. Or just make the unit smaller. You decide the details. What matters is making it attractive enough to draw participants."
Even in a market crash, property prices in Hong Kong were only dropping from extremely high levels. Even halved, they were still unaffordable for the average person.
Of course, 1967 would be an exception—but in a normal downturn, prices typically only fell 50% at most.
"Alright, I'll acquire full rights to the Miss Hong Kong event," Qi Ruifan said, nodding in agreement.
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