Chapter 434: Waterfall of Organic Supporters! Who Says Mainstream Films Have No Audience?
One hour after the premiere ended,
the long-brewing storm on the internet finally tore open its first gap.
The first wave to hit the trending list were all exclamatory, roaring posts.
The keywords were blunt and simple: #JiangCiDeified# #CantWatchItAgain# #GiveScreeningsBackToIcebreaker#.
A well-known film critic, “Sharp-Tongued Old Zhao,” who has five million followers and is famous for his barbed remarks,
posted a selfie on Weibo before going in, captioned: “Brought three packs of tissues, ready to wipe away the ‘embarrassing tears’ from this rotten film.”
Two hours later,
that Weibo post was deleted.
It was replaced by a three-thousand-word essay — “I Apologize to Jiang Ci, Salute the Country’s Narcotics Officers.”
Old Zhao wrote in the piece:
“I admit I went into the theater with prejudice. I expected to see a traffic star in a police uniform showing off, another idol drama hiding under the guise of a mainstream theme.”
“But I was wrong. Outrageously wrong.”
“When Jiang Ci, lying in the mud pit, licking that mud-soaked shoe like a dog for even a sliver of trust;”
“When he faced that cream cake mixed with blood and smiled, saying ‘so sweet’… what I saw was not Jiang Ci, but a lone brave soul whose bones were broken yet who hid his backbone in flesh and blood.”
“Is that acting? No. This was tearing a hole in our peaceful era to show us the bloody truth beneath.”
“Finally, to the major cinema chains I want to say: fifteen percent of the screenings? You are not only insulting a good film, you are insulting the audience’s taste!”
Once the article came out, the comments section erupted instantly.
“Mr. Zhao, you weren’t paid, right? Is this movie really that amazing?”
Old Zhao replied immediately: “Paid? I just want to transfer money to Jiang Ci right now! But I can’t buy a ticket for tomorrow! All the damn showings are ghost hours!”
That “can’t buy a ticket” remark completely detonated netizens’ emotions.
On Maoyan, Icebreaker’s rating rocketed from an initial 8.9 up to 9.6.
The comment section filled with sincere reactions from ordinary people.
“I went to laugh at Jiang Ci, and I crawled out crying. I wanted to laugh, but I just couldn’t open my mouth.”
“I sat next to that tattooed big brother, he cried even worse than me, sleeves soaked through. When he came out he insisted on buying me milk tea to calm down.”
“Don’t believe those black PR posts saying it’s gory and violent. Not watching this film will be your lifelong regret. That cop called Jiang He—when he died it was dawn outside, but my heart went dark.”
Netizens spontaneously formed the “Icebreaker Organic Supporters.”
No official posters? They made their own.
No promotional videos? They edited together leaked footage and trailers.
Some even spammed cinema official accounts: “Manager, are you asleep? Wake up and change the schedule!”
But reality often outstrips even film drama.
Despite the explosive word-of-mouth, the next day’s presale screening schedule was still a dismal gray.
Fifteen percent.
And most of those slots were at eight in the morning or after midnight.
By contrast, the neighboring Laughing All the Way and the Hollywood blockbuster Mecha Frenzy 4 had their prime-time slots packed.
That shortage effect—plus the cinema chains’ arrogant attitude of “we think this film isn’t good”—completely provoked a reactive backlash from netizens.
“Fine, you won’t schedule it? Then I’ll buy midnight showings!”
“Two a.m.? So what? I’ll stay up all night cultivating and watch it!”
That night,
a bizarre spectacle appeared in cinemas across the country.
Half past two in the morning.
Halls were packed with young people in pajamas and slippers, clutching thermos cups.
There were even groups of discharged soldiers and some who had come with walking sticks.
Ticket lines stretched into long queues.
A cinema receptionist girl looked at the surging crowd, her barcode scanner trembling in her hand: “Manager… are we being targeted by some cult’s team-building?”
Meanwhile, a murkier front assaulted them: dirty tactics.
The publicity team for Laughing All the Way clearly hadn’t expected Icebreaker’s momentum.
During this precious May Day release window, one extra competitor meant one less slice of cake.
So a large number of paid posters went to work.
#Icebreaker Bloody# #Icebreaker SellingAnxiety# #JiangCi Overacting#
“Who watches movies about dead people during the holidays? Bad luck!”
“I took my kid and the child screamed nonstop. How did an R-rated film pass the censors?”
“Jiang Ci is overacting. That cake-eating scene looks disgusting.”
Those comments mingled among the praise, trying to steer the narrative.
When the public debate grew messy and truth mixed with lies,
at six in the morning,
dawn just breaking,
the official account BorderAntiDrug suddenly posted a status.
No long essay, just a movie poster and a simple line:
“There is no such thing as peaceful years, only someone bearing the burden for you. Jiang He, welcome home. Salute!”
Immediately after,
the Communist Youth League reposted.
ZiGuang G reposted.
A certain Police University Committee reposted.
Within ten minutes, dozens of heavyweight official blue-verified accounts entered the fray!
Paid posters trying to manipulate the discussion from behind keyboards were instantly swallowed by this red tide, not even making a ripple.
An official seal had spoken!
This was not an ordinary commercial film.
This was a twenty-year-late tribute, a monument standing in light and shadow!
…
While the whole web was uproarious over Icebreaker,
Star City.
West Suburb Martyrs’ Cemetery.
It was very quiet here.
The morning wind rustled the pines and cypress.
Jiang Ci wore that black suit and held a black umbrella.
Light drizzle tapped softly against the umbrella top.
Chu Hong squatted in front of the tombstone.
There was still no photo on the gravestone.
Only a name: Jiang Yanjun.
And the badge number that had been traced over countless times: 032855.
Chu Hong took an iron basin from her bag and struck a match.
The wet air made the flame dance.
She threw two movie tickets and a high-resolution still she had printed from the internet into the basin.
The photo showed Jiang Ci’s blood-smeared face as he looked into the camera and said “It’s dawn.”
Flames licked the photo, warping Jiang Ci’s face before turning it to ash.
“Old Jiang…”
Chu Hong prodded the basin with a wooden stick,
muttering on as if chatting at the dinner table in a casual tone.
“My son did well.”
“He played a cop named Jiang He. Seeing him, he looks just like you when you were young—as if carved from the same mold.”
“In the film he did more than you did, he completed what you couldn’t. He spoke the words you couldn’t say.”
Chu Hong sniffed and wiped a little mud off the gravestone.
“In the movie he caught that drug boss. He even saluted the camera.”
“Though it was only a moment, I saw it clearly. That gesture, it’s exactly how you taught him.”
“Now the whole internet is praising him, praising this movie. Look at that.”
“Don’t stay hiding in that black box and keep silent. Your son put on the uniform for you, stood out in the sunlight for you.”
As she said this, her voice finally caught and trembled a little.
She lowered her head, shoulders shaking slightly.
Jiang Ci stood behind her and silently tilted the umbrella forward,
shielding his mother, letting the rain soak his own back.
He looked at the silent five-pointed star on the tombstone and whispered in his heart:
“Dad, good morning.”
…
At the same moment,
in the capital city, in the manager’s office of a large cinema chain,
Wang Pangzi, sporting two huge dark circles under his eyes, stared at the real-time box office data on his computer, dazed.
This time yesterday he had bent over backward to please the distributor and pushed Mecha Frenzy 4 to claim forty percent of the screenings.
And now?
It was ten a.m.
Hall One for Mecha Frenzy 4 had only a handful of people, under ten percent occupancy.
Meanwhile, Icebreaker, which he had shoved into the corner Hall Four,
was sold out for the ten a.m. showing!
Even those dreaded “front-row corner” seats had been snapped up!
The front desk called, voice breaking with panic: “Manager, think of something quickly! The hall is swamped with people asking if there are any Icebreaker tickets left. Some customers are losing it and say they’ll complain if we don’t add shows!”
Wang Pangzi glanced at the occupancy curve that kept rising, then at the notice from neighboring cinemas announcing increased Icebreaker screenings.
“Smack!”
He slapped himself hard across the face.
The slap rang out sharply, making half his face tremble.
“I was blind as a dog!”
Wang Pangzi snatched up the phone and roared into the receiver:
“Change it! Change it now!”
“Pull half of Mecha Frenzy off the schedule! And that Laughing All the Way—cancel any showings below twenty percent occupancy!”
“Replace every hall—IMAX, Dolby—swap them all to Icebreaker!”
“Tell the ticket offices no one gets time off these days! This time…”
Wang Pangzi looked at the black-and-white poster on his screen, his eyes filled with greed and reverence.
“This time, we’re going to witness a miracle!”