Back to the ’90s to Make Movies - Reviews

Let me just say — the dinner scene in these chapters is absolutely brilliant pacing. The author sets up this warm, celebratory atmosphere: classmates reuniting, food and drinks, lively conversation. Everything feels good. Chi Ying has secured funding, the project is moving forward, Song Lin is on board. You're thinking, okay, this is the calm before the storm, right? And then Chi Ying asks about Lu Wei. Normal enough. But then she turns to Tan Yi and asks the question that changes everything: "If someone offered you the lead role in a film right now, do you think you could carry it?" The shift is instantaneous. Liu Xiaojun blurts out the information about the director, Chi Ying's expression darkens, the lively atmosphere disappears "almost instantly." The author doesn't over-dramatize it — just one sentence and the whole room changes temperature. What's clever is how the author uses silence as a pacing tool. After Chi Ying asks Tan Yi about the risks, she stays silent for the rest of the meal. Song Lin has to carry the conversation alone. The reader is left sitting with that tension, wondering what Chi Ying is thinking, what she's going to do. And then the scene transitions to the walk back to the dorm, where Chi Ying finally confronts Tan Yi privately. The chapter ends on the Lu Wei phone call, which is essentially a cliffhanger — he's hesitant, disbelieving, and then he says he could come over right now. The momentum carries you directly into the next chapter. The author knows exactly when to accelerate and when to let the reader breathe.

Okay so I have to talk about the actual film they're making inside this story because it is genuinely really well-constructed. The plot of the movie-within-a-movie follows Zheng Wen and Tong Xiaole — he's this meticulous, planned-everything Shanghai guy who majors in computer science and ends up at Haidian's Computer Village, and she's this totally opposite Beijing girl who just charges through life at full speed. Classic opposites attract setup, right? But here's the thing — the story deliberately sidesteps the meet-cute and the falling-in-love part. It starts right after that, when things naturally progress toward marriage, and then it hits you with ALL the messy reality that comes after. The family meetings, the wedding planning disasters, the cultural north-south divide between the families. It's not a fairy tale. They almost break up. They actually consider it. And the resolution — them going back to where they first met, understanding each other, secretly taking the household registration booklet — that's so much more powerful than any grand romantic gesture. The final image of them boarding a train with small backpacks, heading toward the horizon, while both families finally reconcile? Chef's kiss. The film's climax hits twice: first with the kitchen scene where Zheng Wen wears an apron and cooks while Tong Xiaole drinks baijiu with her dad (hilarious and subtly revolutionary), and then with the wedding negotiations where every practical detail becomes a battlefield. The plot is tight. Every conflict flows naturally from character, not from manufactured drama. And the fact that it's being shot by a first-time director with an inexperienced crew makes the whole thing feel even more earned.

That piece of paper. The graduation job assignment certificate. It's such a mundane object and yet it's literally the axis upon which Chi Ying's entire life rotates. In her first life, she handed it back. In this life, she clutches it like a holy relic. "To her now, that assignment certificate wasn't just a document. It was the golden key to restarting her future." The metaphor is almost too on-the-nose, but it works because the object carries so much historical weight. In 1998 China, a Beijing household registration was more valuable than most people could comprehend. This wasn't just a job — it was a ticket out of uncertainty into something stable enough to build a career on. The gemstone metaphor the author uses for Chi Ying is also worth unpacking. Professor Liu sees the old Chi Ying as "a precious gemstone. Brilliant and dazzling... But full of sharp corners." And the new Chi Ying? "Resembled a piece of jade that had been carefully polished. The youthful roughness and sharp edges had disappeared. What remained was a warm, gentle radiance hidden beneath the surface." Gem vs. jade. Hard and sharp vs. warm and polished. This is the transformation arc in one comparison. But here's the thing — is the polishing genuine growth, or is it survival? Chi Ying has lived through a lifetime of regret. She's not naive anymore. The question the book seems to be asking is: can you keep your brilliance without the sharp edges? Or does experience necessarily dull you? And the film industry itself is symbolic — it's at its lowest point, dying, with cinemas closing and no money anywhere. But Chi Ying sees the dawn. The industry's rebirth mirrors her own. They're both about to become something greater than what they currently are.

I need to talk about Song Lin for a second because the way this story handles her is actually really subtle and I love it. She's clearly the stronger performer — she even notes it herself when she says she performed better than Tan Yi on his first day. But here's what got me: she's genuinely happy for him. She says 'He's one of those people heaven feeds with a golden spoon. He's talented, and he's lucky too.' That's not bitterness. That's someone who knows her own worth and isn't threatened by someone else's success. And then she jokes about hoping she doesn't end up playing his mother in their next movie — which is both funny and kind of heartbreaking when you think about it. She's already thinking years ahead, already imagining a career trajectory, already accepting that male actors have longer careers. There's this quiet melancholy underneath her cheerfulness that I couldn't stop thinking about. And then there's the whole dynamic with Chi Ying — Song Lin saving her boxed dinner, the two of them eating together in the guesthouse room, the easy familiarity between them. It's not romantic, it's something else. It's the kind of bond that forms when you're living and working in close quarters with someone while chasing a dream. The wrap party scene broke me a little. Everyone's crying — especially the women on the crew — and Chi Ying, who's been the rock the entire time, suddenly realizes her face is covered in tears. All that composure she maintained because she 'couldn't afford to panic' just melts away in one moment. That's when you realize how much pressure she was under, how much she'd been holding everyone else up. The emotional core of these chapters isn't about any one romance — it's about the collective emotional investment of a group of young people who found something meaningful together.

The stakes in these chapters are deceptively simple on the surface — Chi Ying is making a film, that's it, right? But the author keeps layering on complications that make every decision feel genuinely risky. Take the Lu Wei situation. He's currently shooting music videos in Beijing, survival-mode stuff, and Chi Ying is asking him to commit to a film with an inexperienced director and a limited budget. From Lu Wei's perspective, this is a huge leap of faith. And from Chi Ying's perspective, she's betting her first film on him being the right choice. The phone call scene captures this perfectly — his voice is "low and hesitant," there are "long silences," and when he finally asks "When can I join the production?" and then "I could come over right now" — you can feel the weight of that decision. Then there's the Tan Yi conflict, which is even more layered. Chi Ying knows from her past life that the director who wants Tan Yi is someone who shoots first and never gets approval. But Tan Yi doesn't know this. He's at rock bottom in his career, auditioning endlessly, and suddenly someone offers him a lead role. The temptation is real. The risk is real. And Chi Ying is asking him to trust her judgment over his own immediate desperation. The external conflict is clear — can Chi Ying pull off her first film with an inexperienced crew and limited resources? But the internal conflict is what really gets me: can she trust the knowledge from her past life? What if she's wrong about Tan Yi's future? What if Lu Wei isn't as committed as she hopes? Every decision feels like walking a tightrope, and that's what makes these chapters so gripping.

Let me just say this: the author knows how to write a scene. The conference room moment is so vividly rendered that I could practically see the camera angles. Start with the setup. Chi Ying sits down, takes the microphone, and smiles politely at Director Zheng—the man who just called her a 'little girl who knows nothing.' That smile is everything. It's not nervous. It's not eager to please. It's the smile of someone who has already calculated the next ten moves. The text says 'The entire room fell silent.' Not a whisper. Not a cough. Just silence. You can feel the weight of dozens of veteran filmmakers suddenly realizing they're in the presence of someone they misjudged. Then her speech unfolds like a masterclass. She starts with film as art—safe ground, everyone agrees. Then the pivot: 'But… film is also an industry.' That single word 'but' is where the whole room shifts. She drops the Titanic numbers—300 million yuan in one month, the entire 1997 domestic box office was only 800 million. These aren't abstract arguments; they're numbers that hit like physical blows. Every filmmaker in that room knows these numbers are real. They've been avoiding them. The France comparison is devastating. Luc Besson, the 'most celebrated young genius director,' abandoned the domestic market and went to Hollywood, and his slogan was 'Save French cinema'—by making films that sell tickets. Chi Ying is essentially telling these Chinese filmmakers: you're not special. The wolves are coming, and your artistry won't save you. And then the political pivot—when someone tries to invoke socialism and she turns it around by quoting Chairman Mao's call for filmmakers to be 'artists of the people.' She weaponizes their own ideology against their conservatism. That's not just smart; that's dangerous intelligence in a room full of people who thought they could dismiss her. The aftermath is equally well-rendered. The vice minister speaking confidently about 'serving the people.' The meeting becoming routine. Chi Ying returning to being the 'model student'—taking notes, applauding. But the real scene I keep coming back to is the office at night. The ancient, painfully slow computer. The pager beeping. The contrast between the grand conference hall and this small, hot room with its stuffy air and electric fan. Both spaces feel alive, both feel real, and both tell us exactly who Chi Ying is.

What I love about these chapters is how the author doesn't just use the film industry as a backdrop — it's practically a character itself. Every detail about how the system works adds texture and realism. Take the scene where Chi Ying explains why she needs to bring in their upperclassmen: "Anyone with real seniority won't take orders from me. Even if I somehow managed to bring them in, I'd have no idea who would actually be in charge on set." This isn't worldbuilding through exposition dumps — it's woven naturally into Chi Ying's reasoning, and it immediately tells us everything we need to know about the hierarchy and power dynamics in Chinese cinema. Then there's Lu Wei's backstory with the Sichuan Film Studio — the veteran mentor who "taught him practically nothing but constantly criticized everything he did," the demand that Lu Wei apologize, his resignation. This one subplot tells us so much about the old-guard vs. new-generation tension in the industry. And the hierarchy of contempt: "those who made films looked down on television directors, television directors looked down on people who shot music videos, and Lu Wei was only one step away from falling to the very bottom." The dinner scene at the small restaurant near the film academy with the private room and air conditioning — it's such a specific, grounded detail. These are young people who just graduated, celebrating a small victory in a modest setting. It feels lived-in and real, not glamorous or aspirational. That's what makes the worldbuilding work so well.

This opens at FULL THROTTLE. Wake up → realize you're reborn → professor bursts in → you've got a second chance → go claim your destiny. That's like four major story beats in the first two pages and I was NOT ready. The rebirth reveal is handled efficiently without any of that confusing time-travel exposition. She slips, hears brakes, opens her eyes, and boom — it's 1998. No explanation needed. The pain in her foot grounds it immediately: "The intense pain in her foot quickly brought her back to reality. This wasn't a dream." But then the pacing deliberately SLOWS DOWN when she arrives at the Planning Center. The conversation with Director Han is longer, more measured — and I think that's intentional. After the emotional whiplash of the rebirth and the professor confrontation, we need a scene where Chi Ying has to perform. She's not just reacting anymore, she's strategically navigating. The shift from external chaos to internal calculation is where the real tension lives. The chapter ends on a kind of quiet note — Director Han explaining the industry landscape, the WTO looming, the older directors refusing to make commercial films. It's not a cliffhanger per se, but it sets up the central conflict: Chi Ying is about to enter an industry that doesn't want what she wants to make. The pacing here is like a deep breath before a dive. My only slight critique: the transition from the dorm to the bus to the office happens very quickly. But honestly, that's probably the point — she's not lingering. She's moving forward.

Okay so let me just say—Chi Ying is NOT playing around. The way she handled that meeting? Chef's kiss. Director Zheng dismisses her as a little girl who knows nothing, and what does she do? She doesn't flinch. She literally says 'I also ask that you respect my right, as a newcomer to the industry, to speak.' The entire room went silent. I literally sat up straight reading that. This woman has nerves of steel. But what's really interesting is the power dynamic with Lei Dongming. He recruited her because she'd be easier to work with than the male writers and directors. She knows this. She thinks to herself that she has to stay on his side to build a future in the film industry. And yet—she doesn't just parrot his lines. She becomes his perfect spokesperson but on HER terms. Lei Dongming is genuinely surprised. He says he 'never expected' her to be such a formidable speaker. That tells me everything about how underestimated she was. Then there's Director Han, who I actually love. Chi Ying is worried her director might be offended that Lei Dongming is giving orders directly to her, bypassing the chain of command. But Han? She just smiles and calls Lei Dongming herself to confirm. No ego, no drama. She says 'I knew from the first time I met you that you're someone who keeps her feet on the ground.' That's a woman who recognizes talent and isn't threatened by it. Their relationship feels genuine, not manufactured. And Song Lin—oh man. The friendship between these two is everything. When Song Lin shows up at Chi Ying's door, terrified and exhausted after escaping her landlord, Chi Ying doesn't hesitate. 'Without hesitation, Chi Ying told them to come over immediately.' She locks up her office, rushes downstairs in the middle of the night, meets them with a taxi full of luggage. No questions asked. This is the kind of friendship that doesn't need grand gestures—it just shows up. The contrast between these two relationship threads is what makes this chapter so rich. Professional alliances built on mutual respect and survival, and personal bonds built on unconditional loyalty. Both are forms of choosing your people.