Jin Shan had been feeble ever since he was released from prison. He limped a little and had to use a cane when he went out of his house, so he stayed home as much as he could. But soon after marrying Yolan, he resumed the movie project The Rising Sun, which he and Yomei had started briefly ten years before and which was still suspended. He had no funds or power for such an effort, but he wanted to resurrect it lest he have no time to complete the movie. These days, he was working on the script, which still bore Yomei’s craggy handwriting in blue felt-tip pen.
Under Yolan’s care, he got much better in 1978 and more active again. Soon he was appointed the president of the National College of Theater Arts, the highest learning institution of its kind in the country. His appointment was mainly due to his reputation and artistic accomplishments, but he wasn’t well enough to carry out all the duties of the office. He also began to serve as a stage director and intended to restage some older plays, including Under Shanghai Eaves (1937), Heavenly Spring and Autumn (1941), Return on a Snowy Night (1942), and Qu Yuan the Poet (1942). The authors of those plays were still alive, and they all wanted Jin Shan to resurrect their representative plays. That kept him busy, though he didn’t rush to reproduce them, wanting to do one fine job at a time. Meanwhile, he never stopped working on the movie The Rising Sun, but it was impossible to assemble the original acting crew, and most of the workers and their wives were no longer available. It was unlikely he could find a new cast of mass actors from the oil field, which supported his resumed effort all the same.
Ever since holding the office as the president of the theater college, he had developed an interest in TV drama, which he believed was the future of public entertainment. He did some research to figure out the direction of this popular genre—there were more than seven million TV sets in the country at the time, and if China Central Television broadcast a play, it could instantaneously reach millions, which it would take more than fifteen years for a play performed in the conventional way to reach. He talked about TV drama whenever he could, to the public and to cultural officials. Later he became the head of China’s TV drama association, and also the editor in chief of The Arts of TV Drama. He dreamed that someday the movie The Rising Sun would be such a success that a TV play would follow on its heels.
He worked very hard at his theater college and often skipped lunch to save time. He sometimes brought with him a sizable piece of bread. At noon, when his younger colleagues came to report on their work, he’d break the bread in two and give a piece to the person, saying, “Let’s share this, half and half.” He’d begin eating while listening to the report.
His colleagues urged him not to work so hard, saying he didn’t have to come to the president’s office every day, since they could go to his home to report to him. He’d sway his head from side to side and say, “No, no, you’d have to struggle to board a jam-packed bus, whereas I have a chauffeur.” His colleagues were amazed that he was still a debonair man after so many losses and so much suffering.
In the summer of 1979, he went to Sartu to select actors for the movie. He was received without any fanfare, since he wanted to keep the project as low-key as possible. When his car pulled up at the entrance to the oil field’s administrative building, dozens of people were standing in line to welcome him. Some of them were new faces, but he shook hands with everyone. Nobody said a word, but all were tearful. Many in their fifties, some sexagenarians, a few septuagenarians, all the older people wept in silence while smiling too. Jin Shan’s appearance, in a navy short-sleeve shirt and brown loafers, seemed to bring back to them the glorious memory of their erstwhile hardship and struggle in producing The Rising Sun, the play that had made them briefly famous.
Nevertheless, it was not easy for him to find suitable actors anymore. Most young people were no longer interested in such a movie, which was alien to their lives. What’s worse, he didn’t have a budget and couldn’t tell the potential actors how much they could make from acting in the film. Never had he expected that funding would be the major obstacle to such a project. Formerly, insofar as the offices above had granted approval, the movie would be made, because the cost would be covered automatically and because few people expected to make money from acting in a movie. Now, the most he could tell them was that the film would be made once they formed a fine acting crew. Nonetheless, many of the interviewees asked about the pay without hesitation and also considered it a decisive factor. As a result, his trip to the oil field wasn’t fruitful—he didn’t find many suitable actors at all.
In spite of the constant setbacks, he never gave up on the movie project, which he sometimes felt was like a quixotic task. Yolan supported his effort and gave him a hand whenever she could. As long as something contributed to the memory of her sister Yomei, she’d do anything to help him.
On the evening of July 6, 1982, Jin Shan again had a heart attack. He dropped his chopsticks and a slice of cucumber on the table and couldn’t continue with dinner. He broke into a sweat and had trouble breathing. His body felt numb below the waist. Yolan could tell it must be angina again, and as soon as she helped him move to a fabric settee, he passed out.
He was taken to the hospital nearby, but it was only for senior officials with a rank higher than a minister. Jin Shan didn’t have that kind of status, so he was left comatose in the hallway for three hours. Not until midnight, after direct interventions by the head of the CCP’s Propaganda Department and by the minister of health, was Jin Shan rushed to an ICU. By then he was already breathing his last.
He passed away around four the next morning. His last words were murmured to Yolan, “Yomei, Yomei, that’s so beautiful…”