Chapter 165: Nomination
The celebration banquet livestream reached an all-new peak in popularity after Ji Yan and Xie Xizhao made their bet.
That same day, Xie Xizhao posted on Weibo, and the comments were all about different styles of cat ears. The dazzling variety of cat ears left Pei Yiman thoroughly shocked.
As he saved the pictures while clicking his tongue, he asked Fang Qingqing, “He’s really going to wear them?”
Fang Qingqing: “……”
Wearing cat ears to dance a girl group routine—this guy somehow made it sound like being forced into something indecent.
She said, “If he makes it, he’ll definitely dance. Xie Xizhao has never been one to go back on his word.”
Pei Yiman blinked, full of anticipation:
“So… will he make it?”
Fang Qingqing replied coldly, “No idea.”
Then she immediately turned to Xie Xizhao with a completely different expression: “Come on, come on, Xie Xizhao, let’s take a look at the box office.”
The box office numbers were encouraging, steadily holding a slight lead over the second-place film.
Compared to the countless miracles Xie Xizhao himself had created, this box office performance seemed rather average.
When The Player first hit theaters, many film reviewers praised it to the skies. But at the same time, whether subtly or bluntly, they all mentioned that this might be one of those films that’s critically acclaimed but commercially underwhelming.
Actually, it wasn’t just them—Xie Xizhao felt the same.
Having been in the entertainment industry for years, he had seen too many sensational hits. In his eyes, there were basically only two ways for a film to do really well at the box office:
The first: the director or main cast has overwhelming box office appeal.
The second: the movie itself can attract viewers across all age groups—comedy being the most typical genre for this. Moreover, the second type far outweighs the first in importance.
Xie Xizhao barely counted as having a little of the first type.
After the “cat ears girl group dance agreement” came out, it caused quite a stir online. It wasn’t just fans—bystanders who just wanted to be entertained also jumped on the bandwagon. Xie Xizhao was a national-level idol after all, with good looks to match—who wouldn’t want a visual treat?
But as for the second type [of box office success], Xie Xizhao was very clear—he and Xuan Yang had never aimed to please everyone.
From the very beginning, they knew that their audience would only be the younger generation surfing the internet at the forefront of trends. And even within that group, their audience had to be relatively discerning—capable of empathizing with and understanding the true essence beneath the film’s game-like exterior.
The popularity of fan-made content was proof that they had achieved their intended goal and captured the right audience. Beyond that, they didn’t ask for much.
When the box office crossed 2 billion yuan, Xie Xizhao posted a pre-written heartfelt message.
He didn’t use any particularly flowery techniques. As a science student, his writing was built on logic and clarity—simple, straightforward statements. He painted a picture of the long days and nights of filming, outlining the efforts of every member of the team, from the lead creators to the crew. Between the lines, it was filled with genuine gratitude.
Fans were moved, but some also sensed a feeling of closure in his words.
It was a signal—indicating that for Xie Xizhao and the rest of the core creative team, 2 billion had always been the target.
Maybe even less.
That also lined up with the current box office trend. The Chinese New Year holiday had long ended, and the Lantern Festival was just around the corner. With regular workdays returning, the overall market was expected to keep slowing down.
By projection, The Player would likely end up with a final gross of around 2.7 to 2.8 billion.
That would be an incredible result for an art film. But in terms of cementing a place in film history—it just wasn’t quite enough.
Some fans were heartbroken: [Aaaah, how could this happen… they clearly gave it their all and the VFX must have cost a fortune! T^T Baby! Even if you have money, this isn’t how you burn it!!]
Of course, there were also people who expressed admiration for Xie Xizhao’s attitude:
[I really think Xie Xizhao deserves to be called a pillar of the domestic entertainment industry. If this is truly his personality, I hope he stays popular for a lifetime. And if it’s just a persona he’s playing—well, I still admire him for being able to keep it up so convincingly.
Honestly, considering the subject matter and storytelling style of The Player, the fact that it beat out its Spring Festival season competition at the box office is already a pleasant surprise. Leaving a mark in film history is genuinely a tall order. It’s not the film’s fault—it’s the limitations of the current market. But many creators in similar situations wouldn’t see it that way. Some people act in hollow, soulless commercial films and still think poor box office results are the audience’s fault for not supporting them enough.
I truly believe that in this entertainment industry, having an actor who’s this grounded, humble, and genuinely grateful is incredibly rare.]
This comment was quickly reposted by a large number of Xie Xizhao’s fans.
As Xie Xizhao’s public image reached new heights, people also began to collectively accept that The Player would likely top out at around 2.5 billion yuan.
And that was that.
—At least, that’s what most people thought, including the fans and the production team themselves.
On the fifteenth day of the lunar new year, the film’s box office crossed 2.2 billion.
With the Spring Festival holiday officially over, theaters began their gradual decline from the peak rush.
The next day, the box office for the other two Spring Festival films plummeted sharply.
But unexpectedly, although The Player also saw a dip, the drop was significantly smaller than that of the other two films.
The lingering buzz from Xie Xizhao’s cat-ear dance bet was still going strong, and in these couple of days, more and more people seemed to be heading back to the cinema for their second, third—even fourth viewing.
On the fourth day after the Lantern Festival, a fan-made video about The Player unexpectedly went viral on a video-sharing platform. The video featured a self-shipping edit of Xie Xizhao’s characters. It paired He Miao and Tao Yan—two characters with vastly different personalities—across time and space, and surprisingly, the result worked really well.
In the video, the roguish young man drapes an arm around the white-clothed youth’s shoulder using some high-tech gadgetry, and as he plants a kiss on his forehead, the screen was flooded with bullet comments filled with excited screams.
The video went viral—but the extent of its popularity exceeded the expectations of Xie Xizhao’s studio.
Because the video creator was already a well-known content creator with a solid following, and the production quality was excellent, the video quickly broke out of its original niche. Not only did it rack up over 3 million views in just a few days, it also got reposted directly onto Xie Xizhao’s homepage on Weibo.
Xie Xizhao’s main account even gave it a like. Over the next few days, both The Player’s box office numbers and the viewership for Tao Yan’s Summer noticeably increased.
Beyond that, The Player’s box office continued along a steady, moderate upward curve.
If The Player’s momentum could be likened to a pot of long-brewed, mellow wine, then what happened next was more like a bolt of lightning—catching everyone completely off guard.
—
As for the directors of the other two Spring Festival films, Xie Xizhao had heard of them.
They were called “renowned directors,” but that reputation was only half-earned at best. At least among the more grounded veterans Xie Xizhao had met in the industry, none of them thought highly of those two. It had been a coincidence that their films ended up competing with The Player this Spring Festival, and Xie Xizhao had no intention of getting involved in their turf wars.
But clearly, that wasn’t something he could control.
The Spring Festival season brings a flood of new releases, which means fierce competition for screening slots. And where there’s fierce competition, there’s bound to be underhanded tactics.
People in the industry were well aware of this, but once the dirty deeds were exposed to the public, it became a whole different story.
When the audio recording hit the trending list, Xie Xizhao was in the middle of a shoot.
When Xie Xizhao got back, he resumed his various work commitments across different fronts. Though the volume of work was less than before, the quality far surpassed anything he’d done in the past. Coupled with occasional livestreams to make up for reduced visibility, his fans were more than satisfied.
This time, he was shooting the cover for one of the top entertainment magazines in the country.
To secure his appearance, the editor-in-chief even crafted a special theme just for him—an exclusive shoot featuring him and his cat.
Against a black backdrop, the young man in a crisp white shirt and his light-gold-colored cat created a warm, serene atmosphere and tone.
After the shoot, the chinchilla cat was quickly surrounded by staff fawning over it. While Xie Xizhao stood nearby sipping water, Fang Qingqing approached him with her phone, lowering her voice:
“There’s a situation.”
She handed him the phone. Xie Xizhao glanced at the keywords and raised an eyebrow:
“Some people really have no dignity in their old age.”
He recognized the name in the article right away—one of the players in the recent Spring Festival box office rivalry. And now, that name was being linked to allegations of s*xually harassing a young woman. The so-called “renowned director” in question was already over sixty years old.
“Exactly,” Fang Qingqing said. “But that’s not all.”
What else?
In private conversations, he had been trash-talking younger filmmakers in the industry, saying that a certain up-and-coming director had “clung to an actor’s thigh, the two of them colluding shamelessly.”
It wasn’t hard to guess who he was referring to. If he’d at least kept himself clean, people might have turned a blind eye—but when paired with concrete evidence that he had tried to squeeze out The Player’s screenings with backroom deals, the only thing anyone could say was: “If you can’t eat grapes, you can only say they are sour?”
The impact of the scandal was greater than anyone had expected.
Not just because of the sleazy underbelly of the industry being exposed, nor just because a senior figure had blatantly slandered his juniors out of jealousy.
But because—when you pull up one rotten carrot, a whole lot of mud comes up with it.
This box office rivalry ended up tearing the lid off a whole slew of ugly truths in the industry, dragging them out into the open for all to see.
And so, the whole nation joined in the spectacle, with even official media outlets naming names.
The scandal raged on for two days. The entire film industry was thrown into a state of unease, and amidst the chaos, everyone suddenly realized—among all the villains, there was actually one group of innocent victims.
Whether it was Xuan Yang, Xie Xizhao, or the entire production team behind The Player, they all seemed like a bunch of harmless little lambs caught in a den of wolves.
If they weren’t being b*llied by unscrupulous capitalists, they were being squeezed out by industry insiders.
And just like that, the long-faded buzz of the Spring Festival film season was reignited. Xie Xizhao’s fans weren’t about to waste this golden opportunity fate had handed them.
They jumped into action—promoting the film organically, posting fan edits, graphics, and videos. Beneath every trending topic that expressed sympathy for Xie Xizhao, his fans could be found tirelessly hyping up the film.
And as they hyped, the box office rose once again.
A month later, the Spring Festival box office battle officially came to an end.
The Player had finally lived up to expectations, just barely crossing the 3.5 billion yuan mark on the final day, closing out with a stellar total of 3.57 billion yuan.
…
On the day of its box office finale, Xie Xizhao was tagged in countless posts.
The fan forums lit up like it was New Year’s all over again, filled with screenshots of box office numbers and rankings in film history. Of course, past accomplishments were worth celebrating, but what everyone was really waiting for now… was the promised cat ear girl group dance.
Xie Xizhao’s private messages, comments, even his livestream chat, were all flooded with relentless chanting of “cat ears” and “girl group dance”—it was like an army of broken-record spirits had taken over.
Outside, it was a sea of joy. Even the usual haters who loved to mock Xie Xizhao had gone uncharacteristically silent.
The Player’s success wasn’t just a win for a good movie—it was a victory against corrupt capital. For Xie Xizhao to reach the top even under that kind of pressure, people could only say one thing: awesome. Nothing but awesomeness.
For once, everyone was in agreement, all just waiting for the star of the show to… dance. Or at least say something. Dancing while saying something would be even better. But oddly enough, despite how quick he’d been to post heartfelt essays at the 2 billion milestone, Xie Xizhao didn’t log on at all on the final day.
Meanwhile, the protagonist of this legendary story was sitting on a couch, surrounded by a pile of cat-ear headbands, eating ice cream. In front of him played the latest hit single from a popular girl group. He was watching the dance moves with laser focus while spooning ice cream into his mouth—and still found time to answer a call from Fang Qingqing.
“What did you just say, Sister Qing?”
“I SAID,” Fang Qingqing’s voice thundered like she was trying to shatter his eardrums, “We got an invitation from the Chenxi Film Festival! Xizhao, you’ve been nominated for Best Actor!”
