In 1978, as I applied to study film at the University of Illinois, my father vehemently objected. He quoted me a statistic: ‘Every year, 50,000 performers compete for 200 available roles on Broadway.’ Against his advice, I boarded a flight to the U.S. This strained our relationship. In the two decades following, we exchanged less than a hundred phrases in conversation.
Some years later, when I graduated film school, I came to comprehend my father’s concern. It was nearly unheard of for a Chinese newcomer to make it in the American film industry. Beginning in 1983, I struggled through six years of agonizing, hopeless uncertainty. Much of the time, I was helping film crews with their equipment or working as editor’s assistant, among other miscellaneous duties. My most painful experience involved shopping a screenplay at more than thirty different production companies, and being met with harsh rejection each time.
That year, I turned 30. There’s an old Chinese saying: ‘At 30, one stands firm.’ Yet, I couldn’t even support myself. What could I do? Keep waiting, or give up my movie-making dream? My wife gave me invaluable support.
My wife was my college classmate. She was a biology major, and after graduation, went to work for a small pharmaceutical research lab. Her income was terribly modest. At the time, we already had our elder son, Haan, to raise. To appease my own feelings of guilt, I took on all housework – cooking, cleaning, taking care of our son – in addition to reading, reviewing films and writing scripts. Every evening after preparing dinner, I would sit on the front steps with Haan, telling him stories as we waited for his mother – the heroic huntress – to come home with our sustenance (income).
This kind of life felt rather undignified for a man. At one point, my in-laws gave their daughter (my wife) a sum of money, intended as start-up capital for me to open a Chinese restaurant – hoping that a business would help support my family. But my wife refused the money. When I found out about this exchange, I stayed up several nights and finally decided: This dream of mine is not meant to be. I must face reality.
Afterward (and with a heavy heart), I enrolled in a computer course at a nearby community college. At a time when employment trumped all other considerations, it seemed that only a knowledge of computers could quickly make me employable. For the days that followed, I descended into malaise. My wife, noticing my unusual demeanor, discovered a schedule of classes tucked in my bag. She made no comment that night.
The next morning, right before she got in her car to head off to work, my wife turned back and – standing there on our front steps – said, ‘Ang, don’t forget your dream.’
And that dream of mine – drowned by demands of reality – came back to life. As my wife drove off, I took the class schedule out of my bag and slowly, deliberately tore it to pieces. And tossed it in the trash.
Sometime after, I obtained funding for my screenplay, and began to shoot my own films. And after that, a few of my films started to win international awards. Recalling earlier times, my wife confessed, ‘I’ve always believed that you only need one gift. Your gift is making films. There are so many people studying computers already, they don’t need an Ang Lee to do that. If you want that golden statue, you have to commit to the dream.’
And today, I’ve finally won that golden statue. I think my own perseverance and my wife’s immeasurable sacrifice have finally met their reward. And I am now more assured than ever before: I must continue making films.
You see, I have this never-ending dream.
文 / 李安
1978年，当我准备报考美国伊利诺大学的戏剧电影系时，父亲十分反感，他给我列了一个资料：在美国百老汇，每年只有两百个角色，但却有五万人要一起争夺这少得可怜的角色。当时我一意孤行，决意登上了去美国的班机，父亲和我的关系从此恶化，近二十年间和我说的话不超过一百句。
但是，等我几年后从电影学院毕业，我终于明白了父亲的苦心所在。在美国电影界，一个没有任何背景的华人要想混出名堂来，谈何容易。从1983年起，我经过了六年的漫长而无望的等待，大多数时候都是帮剧组看看器材、做点剪辑助理、剧务之类的杂事。最痛苦的经历是，曾经拿着一个剧本，两个星期跑了三十多家公司，一次次面对别人的白眼和拒绝。
那时候，我已经将近三十岁了。古人说：三十而立。而我连自己的生活都还没法自立，怎么办？继续等待，还是就此放弃心中的电影梦？幸好。我的妻子给了我最及时的鼓励。
妻子是我的大学同学，但她是学生物学的，毕业后在当地一家小研究室做药物研究员，薪水少得可怜。那时候我们已经有了大儿子李涵，为了缓解内心的愧疚，我每天除了在家里读书、看电影、写剧本外，还包揽了所有家务，负责买菜做饭带孩子，将家里收拾得干干净净。还记得那时候，每天傍晚做完晚饭后，我就和儿子坐在门口，一边讲故事给他听，一边等待”英勇的猎人妈妈带着猎物（生活费）回家”。
这样的生活对一个男人来说，是很伤自尊心的。有段时间，岳父母让妻子给我一笔钱，让我拿去开个中餐馆，也好养家糊口，但好强的妻子拒绝了，把钱还给了老人家。我知道了这件事后，辗转反侧想了好几个晚上，终于下定决心：也许这辈子电影梦都离我太远了，还是面对现实吧。
后来，我去了社区大学，看了半天，最后心酸地报了一门电脑课。在那个生活压倒一切的年代里，似乎只有电脑可以在最短时间内让我有一技之长了。那几天我一直萎靡不振，妻子很快就发现了我的反常，细心的她发现了我包里的课程表。那晚，她一宿没和我说话。
第二天，去上班之前，她快上车了，突然，她站在台阶下转过身来，一字一句地告诉我：”安，要记得你心里的梦想！”
那一刻，我心里像突然起了一阵风，那些快要淹没在庸碌生活里的梦想，像那个早上的阳光，一直射进心底。妻子上车走了，我拿出包里的课程表，慢慢地撕成碎片，丢进了门口的垃圾桶。
后来，我的剧本得到基金会的赞助，我开始自己拿起了摄像机，再到后来，一些电影开始在国际上获奖。这个时候，妻子重提旧事，她才告诉我：”我一直就相信，人只要有一项长处就足够了，你的长处就是拍电影。学电脑的人那么多，又不差你李安一个，你要想拿到奥斯卡的小金人，就一定要保证心里有梦想。”
如今，我终于拿到了小金人。我觉得自己的忍耐、妻子的付出终于得到了回报，同时也让我更加坚定，一定要在电影这条路上一直走下去。
因为，我心里永远有一个关于电影的梦。
