Chapter 00024: The High Salary Class
# The High-Salary Class
Chapter 24
Novel: 1979 Golden Age
Chapter 24: The High-Salary Class
After the script was approved, Chen Qi could still stay at the guesthouse.
His job shifted from writing scripts to assisting with filming, and he still received a daily subsidy of two yuan.
The Beijing Film Studio would select a director, who would then choose the actors and make preparations.
The process took a long time.
Since there was no rush to meet deadlines, no pressure from investors, and no nonsense about chasing popularity, the focus was entirely on creating a good film.
For example, if an actor was to play a farmer, they had to go live in the countryside to experience rural life.
If they were to play a worker, they had to work in a factory.
If they were to play a fisherman, they had to spend time at sea to understand what fishing was like...
No one would boast about these experiences as if they were some great honor—it was just the norm.
Some good actors in later generations still adhered to this tradition, but the idol actors couldn’t do it.
They only played roles like domineering CEOs or delicate wives—what was there to experience? Unless they were playing a poor person, giving us a glimpse of their "experience," and then we’d see a "poor person" who earned 3,000 yuan a month in Shanghai, rented a place by the Huangpu River, and ate instant noodles every day.
Back then, actors didn’t receive performance fees.
Actors belonged to various cultural units and received a monthly salary.
Filming was part of their job, and on a larger scale, it was considered a national task.
How could there be performance fees? But they did receive a daily subsidy, usually around 0.5 to 1 yuan.
Big names like Liu Xiaoqing, Pan Hong, and Tang Guoqiang—no matter how famous—were paid the same.
However, by the 1980s, performance fees started to appear.
In comparison, and even within the entire film industry, screenwriters were the absolute high-salary class.
How high? As high as a three- or four-story building!
For example, in the 1950s, the state stipulated that songwriters and composers were paid per song, earning 10 to 20 yuan per piece.
The author of the widely popular song "The Moon on the Fifteenth" earned 15 yuan and later even got into a legal dispute over it.
Poetry was calculated at 20 lines per 1,000 words, with payment of 10 to 20 yuan per 1,000 words.
That’s why poets wrote their poems line by line.
Similarly, Gu Long, the famous martial arts novelist, was paid by the line, which led to his distinctive writing style:
Night.
Cold night.
A lone lamp flickers like a bean.
The payment for novels and other literary works was similar, but film scripts were an exception.
At the time, the standard payment for a film script was 3,000 to 8,000 yuan—an astronomical sum!
By the 1960s, the rates decreased slightly, but they were still unimaginable for ordinary people.
A script for a full-length feature film earned 2,000 to 6,000 yuan, while a short film script earned 1,000 to 3,000 yuan.
Directors earned 500 to 1,500 yuan for a full-length film and 300 to 700 yuan for a short film.
The most interesting was music.
If you wrote a standalone song, you’d earn just over ten yuan.
But if you composed music for a film or wrote a song for one, the composer could earn 300 to 800 yuan, while the lyricist earned 50 to 100 yuan.
In short, as long as you were involved in film, you were part of the high-salary class.
The state had always placed great importance on film.
Even Chairman Mao personally criticized The Life of Wu Xun, largely because film also served another function: as a tool for ideological propaganda.
...
"Knock, knock, knock!"
Jiang Huaiyan knocked on the door of the factory director’s office and handed over an application report.
"This is our proposal for the script payment for Romance on Lushan Mountain. The literature department unanimously agrees."
"Let me see!"
Wang Yang picked up the document, glanced at it, and smiled.
"This is fine—not too high, not too low. It’ll also encourage young people."
"So it’s approved?"
"Approved. Go coordinate with the finance department."
Jiang Huaiyan nodded and then asked, "Who do you plan to have direct Romance on Lushan Mountain?"
"Ah, that’s a tough one!"
Wang Yang frowned.
"You’ve positioned it as a scenic, lyrical film. This genre hasn’t been done before, and no one has experience with it. If I choose an older director, I’m afraid it’ll turn out too serious. The tone should be youthful and lively."
"Exactly. That’s what we were thinking too—handsome leads, beautiful scenery, a touching love story intertwined with strong patriotism."
"Let’s discuss it further. There’s no rush."
Wang Yang paused and then asked with interest, "Xiao Jiang, what do you think of that young scriptwriter?"
"Talented, good-looking, humble, and his background is clean—no shady history."
"During the screening of Drunken Master, I overheard him chatting with someone. He seemed to have some insights into entertainment films. I’ve been wanting the studio to produce more diverse works, not just heavy, serious ones. But there aren’t many people who understand this field."
"Are you taking a liking to him again?" Jiang Huaiyan teased.
"Of course I value talent. But that young man is too young, and it makes me a bit unsure. Let’s observe him a bit longer."
After chatting for a while, Jiang Huaiyan returned to the literature department.
He asked Liang Xiaosheng to fetch Chen Qi, and soon Chen Qi arrived.
"Director Jiang, has something changed with the script?"
"No, don’t worry. I just wanted to talk to you about the payment."
Payment!
Chen Qi’s eyes lit up.
He had worked on this script for two reasons: to stay at the guesthouse and to earn money.
Seeing his reaction, Jiang Huaiyan joked, "I thought you’d say you were doing it to serve the people and didn’t need payment!"
"I’m no saint. I put in the work, so naturally, I want to be rewarded. Besides, I want to show my parents and make them proud. If I ever reach a point where I have no desires, maybe I’ll refuse payment then."
"Well, that’s honest."
Jiang Huaiyan nodded.
"Payment for screenwriters has always been enviable. It was suspended for over a decade but has recently been reinstated. The state hasn’t set new standards, so we usually decide among ourselves. Previously, a script could earn 6,000 yuan, but that’s not possible now. Still, we try to consider all factors and give you the best deal possible. For adapted scripts, we consider the author’s and the original work’s influence. The greater the influence, the higher the payment. For original scripts, it’s similar. As a young author, your payment usually won’t be too high."
"I understand, I understand!"
Chen Qi nodded repeatedly, thinking to himself: 500 yuan? Or 400? At the very least, 300 yuan, right?
"After careful consideration, we’ve decided to pay you 800 yuan!"
Whoa!
Chen Qi shuddered.
In his past life, he had been a boss, but hearing about 800 yuan now made him ecstatic.
Payment standards for screenwriters wouldn’t be updated until 1984, when the state set new rates: 1,500 to 4,000 yuan for full-length films and 750 to 2,000 yuan for short films.
At the time, it was indeed a high salary.
Unfortunately, by the 1990s, when the commercial wave hit, writers were making fortunes, while film screenwriters were still stuck with these old rates.
"Director Jiang, when can I collect the payment?"
"Once the finance department finishes processing it, you can go get it."
"Great!"
Jiang Huaiyan understood Chen Qi’s excitement—it was 800 yuan, after all!
In 1979, the average monthly income for urban workers in Beijing was 61.8 yuan—note, that’s urban workers, not including farmers.
Farmers were lucky to earn 30 yuan a month, and in poorer areas, it could be as low as 10 yuan.
"You can keep staying at the guesthouse. The studio will start preparations soon, and we’ll call you if needed."
"So I’m free to do as I please?"
"Ha, for now, you don’t have any tasks. Aren’t you going home to visit?"
"Of course I am. Oh, Director Jiang, can Romance on Lushan Mountain be published in next month’s Film Creation? I’d like to show it to my parents."
"Sure, no problem."
"Great!"
Chen Qi felt relieved.
It was May now, and next month was June, so there wouldn’t be any overlap with the original author.
He left the office and immediately went to the finance department to collect his payment.
At the time, the third series of the renminbi was in use, with the highest denomination being the 10-yuan note, featuring a design of people’s representatives walking out of the Great Hall.
It was colloquially called the "Big Unity."
Speaking of the Big Unity, back when Chen Qi was just a teenager, he stumbled upon a literary website.
The works there were fascinating, and the characters were unforgettable:
There was a high school student struggling with grades, a pitiful female teacher bullied by men, a young man navigating both the underworld and the business world, even Western knights, the beauties of the Red Chamber, Huangrong after giving birth, and Luo Bing after her husband’s death...
800 yuan—a thick envelope full of cash.
Chen Qi returned to the guesthouse.
Soon, Liang Xiaosheng and Ge You arrived.
Liang Xiaosheng even brought a small hammer, which puzzled Chen Qi.
"What’s that for?"
"To accompany you to the bank! You’re not going to keep all that money on you, are you? I brought this just in case something happens."
"..."
Chen Qi rubbed his nose.
At his age, he didn’t expect such heartfelt concern.
It was almost touching.
Ge You, however, hesitated before finally asking, "Um, can I take a look?"
"At what? The money?"
Chen Qi casually pulled out the envelope, revealing a thick stack of bills.
"Wow, wow!"
Ge You’s eyes turned green, as if he had earned the money himself.
He excitedly rubbed his hands and paced around.
"So much money! I’ve never seen so much money in my life!"
(That’s all for today.
Happy Labor Day! Have you all gone out to play?)
(End of Chapter)