April 1st—April Fools' Day—was not considered a prime film release date in China. With the Spring Festival and Valentine's Day windows just past, there were barely any major new releases in theaters.
Most cinemas were understaffed for off-season periods. Those who had worked in theaters, like at Wanda Cinemas, knew that during national holidays like Golden Week, they'd earn an extra 100 yuan for overtime.
But the theaters did not expect the madness of Chu Zhi's fans. What should have been a slow season turned into chaos, with long lines forming just to buy popcorn. The theaters were swamped.
"It's Xiao Jiu's first movie. No matter how good or bad it is, I'm supporting him, brain off!"
"Totally worth it. Brother Jiu deserves it."
"One vote from you, one vote from me, and Brother Jiu debuts tomorrow."
"Hey, stop copy-pasting the same comments, use your brain. I'm planning to watch it with my boyfriend."
...
Bing-jie hadn't watched a romance film in years. Normally, she'd only catch a few New Year blockbusters or light popcorn flicks. She bought her ticket this time solely to support her idol.
Her online name was "Rock Sugar Snow Pear Biscuit." She used to be a hardcore fan of Li Xingwei, but after betraying the fandom over the "Like Smoke" music video, she had become one of the minor moderators for the Weibo Super Topic of [Chu Zhi].
Old fans had their own set of aesthetics. No matter how flawed a film was, as long as it had one redeeming feature, Bing-jie could praise it to the skies. Did people really think she couldn't see the film's flaws?
Of course she could. How else would she craft talking points for damage control?
But after watching When I Close My Eyes, Bing-jie hesitated. The movie was... genuinely good. The subtle emotions of youthful crushes, the cinematography—everything combined made it one of the top three romance films she'd ever seen.
She wondered, "Am I just too biased?" Then she canceled her afternoon spa appointment and bought another ticket to watch it again.
Her second viewing focused less on the main couple and more on the side characters—Akiha Sei and the grandfather's subplot were surprisingly touching.
"Jiu-Zai actually made a beautiful romance film!" Bing-jie was awakened. She immediately bought several more tickets and invited her girlfriends to watch it.
She wasn't the only one. Many Little Fruits were just as shocked. Everyone knew international co-productions usually flopped. But their idol, a brilliant singer, had unexpectedly done well as an actor too.
The Little Fruits became recommendation machines:
Mainland Hotel Front Desk: [But he just stayed silent. We stood there without saying a word. After two hours, I started to feel sorry for him. So I said, "Please marry me." And he replied with one word, "Okay." That scene broke my heart for Hiroko. I don't think Fuji Tengeki ever truly loved her. She was just a stand-in for the other twin.]
Jingjin Jinjinjin:[How many surprises does Xiao Jiu have left for us?! A high school student role with zero sense of dissonance. Feels like he's my classmate!]
Moshi Banxia: ["Wang Wei, how are you? I'm doing well." 😭😭 This line made me cry in the cinema. Brother Jiu looked so young in the movie. So cute, sweet or cool. North of the Yangtze, Chu Zhi is the most beautiful!]
Bajie in a Black Coat:[Shout-out to Xiao Jiu's management team. Great job choosing this film. Honestly, he should just focus on acting and singing. That face deserves the screen.]
Su Qingmei: [Watched it with my cousin. He said, "Everything depends on how handsome the protagonist is." If you're handsome, people miss you when you're gone. If you're ugly, you're just a mailman delivering love letters that never get answered. 😂😂 But I gotta admit, there's truth in that.]
...
Most audiences care about four things when choosing a film: production investment, star power, director reputation, and word of mouth. Of these, When I Close My Eyes had none.
It wasn't Valentine's Day either. Shochiku's promotions were minimal. To the general public, the film had premiered quietly. Which meant the opening day box office rested solely on the shoulders of the Little Fruits.
Market analysts predicted a modest debut—no more than 40 million yuan.
But there's a saying among fan circles: "There are only two kinds of people—Little Fruits and those who haven't met Chu Zhi yet."
That loyalty exploded into full power today. When I Close My Eyes pulled in 140 million yuan on its first day!
Jaw-dropping. That's 140 million in RMB—not yen, not won.
Given that a 2D ticket cost around 25 RMB, that meant over five million fans had bought tickets. Even discounting overlapping purchases, tag-along boyfriends, and random viewers, that still meant at least three million real supporters.
It defied logic. Even top idols with tens of millions of followers barely had active fanbases in the hundreds of thousands. This kind of turnout was unbelievable.
The film industry instantly understood what "top-tier top stream" really meant. Multiple studios began thinking about future collaborations.
And with more opportunities came more responsibilities. Chu Zhi's main agent, Niu Jiangxue, was flooded with work.
"Is there any merch for Brother Jiu's movie?" Lao Qian asked. "Sister Niu is totally swamped right now."
"Bird-Fei said fans are demanding merchandise," Lao Qian added. "Posters, keychains, phone cases. He suggests we take over the mainland merchandising rights."
Bird-Fei was a new nickname for Fei-ge, after losing a bet where he had to say three times, "I'm a eunuch." Lao Qian dubbed him Bird-Fei on the spot.
"Wait a second, Qian-ge. Let me ask." Chu Zhi called Matsutake Pictures' rep, Hoshiro Akira.
After more than forty minutes of negotiation, Chu Zhi's studio secured the mainland rights for When I Close My Eyes merchandise. Why did Shochiku agree so easily? Because in Japan, they were one of the Big Four studios. But in China? They were nobodies.
They couldn't even match Hollywood's revenue share in China. Let alone make a profit selling merch. Giving Chu Zhi the license meant at least making something from it.
With the rights secured, Chu Zhi nodded to Lao Qian. The official contract would be signed the next day in Tokyo.
"We have a reliable factory partner. They can finalize designs and deliver finished goods in three days," Lao Qian said. "Should we open a new sales channel?"
That's why star managers needed assistants and side jobs. It wasn't about bloated teams—just too much work. Merch was mainly handled by Wang Yuan, and giving fan-mom types responsibility ensured good quality.
"A new channel?" Chu Zhi motioned for him to elaborate.
"We could add a store to the Orange Home app. It's easy technically, and the film's popularity would also boost app traffic," Lao Qian proposed.
"It's a good idea," Chu Zhi said, "but it would change the app's essence. Orange Home is for fan interaction and dreams—not online shopping."
He continued, "Niu-jie mentioned this before. If I launch a personal brand someday, I could sell through the app. But I rejected it. Movie merch should be sold where it belongs—Taobao, JD.com, or theater counters. Not in Orange Home. That would taint its meaning."
Lao Qian didn't quite get it. Wouldn't faster merch access be a benefit?
But he didn't argue further. After all, Orange Home had many middle and high schoolers. Adding a store could lead to trouble. An idol's reputation was hard-earned but easily lost.
The movie merch trifecta—keychains, phone cases, posters—was quickly put into production. Wang Yuan and Lao Qian selected the design templates, sent them to the factory, and raced to meet the prime sales window.
As for Chu Zhi's personal brand? It was already in planning. But with an active contract with Taiyokawa, he wanted to wait until the deal ended—no drama, no mess.
"Why are there so many roadshows?" Chu Zhi stared at the schedule Director Ōzono Etsuji had sent.
A roadshow meant visiting a city, appearing at a cinema, and hosting a short fan event to boost local ticket sales.
Eight cities in three days—Yokohama, Osaka, Nagoya, Sapporo, Fukuoka, Kobe, Kawasaki, and Saitama. A quick math calculation revealed: three cities per day.
Thankfully, Japan's landmass was about the size of Yunnan Province. If it were China, legs would break before they finished.
"It's my first starring role. Of course, I hope it does well. But I don't have time for that many roadshows," Chu Zhi called Ōzono Etsuji.
Far away in Yokohama, Ōzono answered without surprise. "No problem at all. Yuriko Nakamura and I can handle the roadshows."
He'd never really expected Chu Zhi to attend anyway. Sending the itinerary was more of a formality.
Looking down at today's Eiga Daily, he read the headline: "The Beautiful Boy of the Early 21st Century".
As the film caught fire in Japan, just how popular was "Chu Zhi"?
Posters and standees kept getting stolen. Some theaters had to hire security just to guard them.
It was absurd.
If people were snatching cardboard cutouts, what would happen if the real person showed up? A stampede?
Oozu thought so. But then again... if a stampede happened during Chu Zhi's appearance, wouldn't that create even more hype?
"Wait. If Chu-san's appearance causes a stampede, wouldn't that just drive up box office?" he mused. A few minor injuries for tons of profit? Tempting.
Maybe he should ask Chu Zhi to show up for the final roadshow.
The next day, Japan's box office crossed 1 billion yen. Shochiku finally realized just how big this film had become and began pouring in resources.
"We made the same mistake as Sony's Omori Genhito—we underestimated Chu Zhi," said Shochiku exec Hoshiro Akira.
When the contract had been signed, Chu Zhi had negotiated a hefty box office cut. Now it looked like a brilliant move.
But reflecting on it was useless. Chu Zhi's status was already secure. His next album under Sony Music wouldn't come cheap. And if there were another movie? Without generous terms, Japan's companies would fight to get him.
In contrast to Japan's immediate explosion, China's audience had been drawn in by early buzz and strong word of mouth. On the second day, box office reached 87 million RMB. On the third, it rebounded to 110 million RMB, partly thanks to Saturday traffic.
In just three days, When I Close My Eyes had earned over 300 million RMB—an outstanding result for a romance film.
===
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