A youthful league of Chinese filmmakers faces the toughest time in a market strewn with landmines that may threaten its survival.
The coming two months may portend doom and gloom for the future of Chinese cinema. If you think I'm exaggerating, let me tell you why.
About a dozen young filmmakers - from the group that's slightly younger than the so-called "sixth generation" - are releasing major works this season. It is not their debut per se, but it is the first collective - albeit unorganized - effort to exert their presence and clout in the newly opened film market. As they may well be aware, their labors of love may resemble the fate of the Titanic on its maiden voyage.
The frontrunner of this pack is 34-year-old Ning Hao, whose Guns N' Roses opened on April 24 - squeezed between the unsinkable Titanic, now in 3D, and Battleship. (You won't realize how apt the English title is until you watch the plot detail.)
James Cameron's star-crossed lovers are making a new generation of the lovesick swoon - to the tune of 1 billion yuan ($15.88 million) in China's box-office receipts.
Battleship, which receives a 49 percent "fresh rating" on the film review aggregating website Rotten Tomatoes, is bumped up considerably to 77 percent "favorable" on a similar Chinese site, Mtime.com.
Ning Hao was soon joined by Yang Shupeng, 41, with An Inaccurate Memoir; Guan Hu, 43, with his Design of Death; and Dayyan Eng, 36, with his Inseparable, which stars Kevin Spacey. Coming up in quick succession will be Full Circle by Zhang Yang, 44; Seediq Bale by Taiwan's Te-Sheng Wei, 43; Painted Skin: The Resurrection by Wuershan, 40; The Last Supper by Lu Chuan, 41; and possibly White Deer Plain by Wang Quan'an, 46.
What distinguishes this band of brothers from the previous generation is their willingness to embrace genre filmmaking, which means movies that are designed to entertain more than enlighten or any other purpose. This pits them directly in competition with Hollywood.
There is a school of thinking in China that advocates art-house films, which carry more cultural prestige and usually do not run head-to-head with Hollywood juggernauts. But those titles, artistically endowed and award-winning as they may be, do not possess much noticeable box-office potential.
Now, China has four marquee-name filmmakers who not only command a built-in audience but a certain degree of protection by the powers-that-be. Or, so it seems.
They are Zhang Yimou, the satirically christened "national master"; Chen Kaige, the artiste with an overt condescension toward the masses; Feng Xiaogang, the populist; and Jiang Wen, the maverick.
But do you really think they own the future of Chinese cinema?
The future, to be honest, rests with the young guards who grew up with a healthy dose of Hollywood and Hong Kong nourishment and little baggage from the "cultural revolution" (1966-76) and its ripple effects.
They have different tastes and excel in a rich variety of genres, and are thus unsuitable for the otherwise by-the-numbers moniker the "seventh generation".
Last week, I was serving as a juror for the pitch-and-catch part of the Second Beijing International Film Festival.
The jurors had little else to discuss but who might endure the brutal slaughter that would ensue from infighting - but mostly from well-armed Hollywood combatants. Most, as they surmised, would not stand a chance.
Don't call me a protectionist yet.
For one thing, I consider myself, trained in a US business school, a strong believer in the free market and free trade. The increased quota - by 14 enhanced-format titles such as IMax or 3D - is not the culprit. It is the importing philosophy - one of importing nothing but revenue-maximizing blockbusters - that's chipping away at the cornerstone of Chinese cinema's future.
This is unfair not only to domestic players like this summer's phalanx of 30- and-40-something directors but also to Hollywood.
Had there been no piracy or free downloading, Chinese film fans would never find out that Hollywood also produced such high-quality offerings as The Hurt Locker, Crash, No Country for Old Men or most of the Oscar-winning films.
The importers would not touch them because they most certainly would not fetch the kind of revenues as Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance or Battleship.
And, since they're in the business of making money, who would blame them for not wasting the precious quota on worthier stuff?
But since it is not exactly free trade, and the import privilege is granted to just two State-owned companies, shouldn't they also be given the obligation to balance the lineup of imported titles so that Chinese moviegoers may be exposed to a more representative sample of foreign films rather than the all-crushing wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am type of sensual gratification?
The power of selection lies with the importers who almost monopolize the business.
Another thing that is unfair to Chinese filmmakers is the censorship, which is harsher on domestic products than imports.
For example, a heist movie can be shown in a Chinese theater if it is foreign made.
But the same story in a Chinese film may not receive a green light from the censors - unless you set it in the distant past or a faraway locale.
This double standard essentially puts home players in an ironically rigged game - in favor of the opponents.
I'm not advocating tougher restrictions on imports. But shouldn't domestic releases have at least the same leeway as imports in terms of content approval?
The biggest thing against the home team is the audience.
No matter how many films are allowed in, the final decision is in the hands of ticket buyers.
I would never suggest Chinese consumers renounce quality imports in favor of homemade duds.
When Confucius lost to Avatar, few in China shed any tears for the inconsistent biopic about a consistently noble philosopher.
The saddest thing is, many who hold the string to the future of Chinese cinema would not even consider a domestic production out of an impressive - and, of course, uneven - array of new offerings.
Granted, even a cineaste would not go watch every one of these new releases.
But there must be one or two with intrinsic appeal to you.
I stood in a ticket line the other day and overheard a young couple's conversation as they weighed the options.
To my chagrin, they would automatically give benefit of the doubt to a Hollywood title they had never heard of and would vote down a Chinese title unless given enough reasons to believe otherwise.
While Hollywood churns out products for the whole world, Chinese movies are tailor-made for the home audience, with quintessentially Chinese stories and Chinese sensibilities.
Advanced as Hollywood is, it will never produce a gem like Ann Hui's A Simple Life, which is utterly Chinese in both ethics and aesthetics.
By giving up on the industry's emerging leaders, the audience is opting for homogenization and forsaking styles of film storytelling that may be closest to their own demographic.
If Battleship, which The Hollywood Reporter calls "an armada of cinematic cliches and some truly awful dialogue", has been able to fire salvos and conquer in the Chinese territory, wait until The Avengers, with its 93 percent favorable rating on the Rotten Tomato site, opens on May 5, sweeps clean the box office and pulverizes all domestic contenders.
Unlike the older generations, the young guns of China's film industry do not resort to patriotism to win over audiences.
They feel it is a cheap shot that implies they have failed even before their films hit the screen.
What they want is fair competition. Because they are not in a position to cry for themselves, I, as a Chinese film critic, will instead cry for them - especially for those with commendable results that are, nonetheless, sucked into the maelstrom of inequitable market, or non-market, forces.
As this column goes to press, the battle is shifting to white heat.
Two months from now, we'll find out who lives and who dies.
Nobody will come out unscathed.
The biggest loser, though, could well be Chinese filmgoers, whose undiscriminating penchant for bigger, louder and flashier fare may strike a lethal blow to the Chinese dream of catching up with Hollywood.