Chapter 47: Limitations
He Chengwei came by again soon.
He brought the latest issue of Story Club, along with a large bundle of letters, and took the second half of The Cotton Robe with him.
The crew members remained calm; they had long known he was a master storyteller and felt honored by the association.
Thus, amidst the dull routine of the film crew, Chen Qi found a new pleasure—opening letters. Most were similar and contained little of interest, so he was too lazy to reply, except for one letter from the Cultural Center in Jinniu District, Chengdu.
They wrote quite interestingly, expressing hope that he could write a novel set in Sichuan.
The land of Bashu has long been famed for its natural treasures and outstanding people, with countless legends and stories. The legendary Master of Shu Mountain by Zhu Zhu Louzhu is a classic, and the Emei and Qingcheng sects in Jin Yong’s works are also renowned.
There’s even a well-known sect anchored in Sichuan: the Tang Sect of Shu!
Regardless of whether it’s martial arts, immortal heroes, or fantasy—whether in novels or games—whenever this sect appears, everyone knows it’s about hidden weapons.
There’s also the “Grandmaster” Haideng, who hails from Sichuan.
Overall, using Sichuan as a setting is certainly possible, but having just finished The Cotton Robe, Chen Qi didn’t want to wear himself out like a laborer. He’d write when inspiration struck.
...
“Who are you?”
“I’m Geng Hua’s sister. You must be Zhou Yun, right?”
“Yes, Geng Hua has spoken of you. Hello, sister!”
“Hmph! Don’t call me sister—I can’t afford that responsibility...”
Outside a villa, Gong Xue and Zhang Jinling were rehearsing a scene.
The female lead was an overseas Chinese from America. The male lead was also notable; his father was a high-ranking official, and his mother was ill, so they came to Lushan for recuperation. The downturn of ordinary people and that of officials are two different things—you might think they’ve fallen on hard times, but they live in a villa.
So the essence of Lushan Love should be called The Love Story of a Young Master and a Noble Lady.
Zhang Jinling’s face drooped, and she spoke harshly, “Geng Hua’s not here! Two people came just now to have him review and explain something. You two are out early and late every day, always meeting in secluded places, with secret contacts and signals. Do you know what that means?”
“Please don’t come looking for him anymore!”
“Geng Hua is still young, with a bright future. Don’t be so selfish—think about him a little!”
Zhang Jinling’s role was equivalent to Huang Rong in The Return of the Condor Heroes, dedicated to breaking up this pair of lovers. Her imposing presence made Gong Xue look like a frightened little lamb.
“All right!”
Wang Haowei applauded and smiled, “You two are really hitting your stride, getting deeper into the characters’ feelings. At this pace, after the National Day holiday, we can head back to Beijing!”
“Everyone, let’s take a break and eat first!”
---
Today’s meal finally wasn’t radish and cabbage—it was cabbage and potatoes.
Chen Qi queued for food with his lunchbox, sat on a rock, and didn’t tell stories. With the National Day approaching, the crew had two days off and would hold a celebration party.
Nowadays, the statutory holidays total seven days annually: one day for New Year’s, three for Spring Festival, one for May Day, and two for National Day. It wasn’t until 1999 that the law stipulated the seven-day Golden Week by combining National Day, Spring Festival, and May Day holidays with compensatory leave.
Compensatory leave means adjusting workdays.
And if you think it’s for your rest, how naive—that’s to boost consumption!
Chen Qi was amazed that the crew got two days off. Who’s ever heard of a film crew having statutory holidays? Some crews work through Spring Festival without pause.
“This year marks the 30th anniversary of the founding of the country—it’s very significant. Every region is holding events. We at Lushan can’t fall behind. We have a week to prepare some performances during our free time. The conditions are simple—just sincerity is enough.”
After Wang Haowei finished, Tang Guoqiang paused, then said, “I have something to say as well, taking this opportunity.”
“After National Day, I’m getting married. The date was set a long time ago. I just wanted to tell everyone. The crew is too large, and my venue can’t accommodate you all, so I won’t invite everyone, but there will definitely be wedding candies—don’t take it amiss!”
“Oh, congratulations!”
“Wishing you a harmonious union and early blessings!”
The atmosphere suddenly grew lively, with everyone chattering congratulations. Chen Qi asked, “If we’re not going, at least show us some photos!”
“Yes, photos!”
“Oh, how embarrassing!”
Tang Guoqiang blushed but took out a notebook from his bag, inside which was a photo. Chen Qi looked and saw a woman with delicate features and clear complexion—she was the factory doctor from the August First Film Studio.
Her family background was strong.
His marriage had been tumultuous, with accusations calling him a heartless man who drove his wife to despair.
But the truth couldn’t be openly discussed here without censorship. Just know it wasn’t as the rumors said. An actor playing government leaders—even instructors—had to undergo political review beforehand...
After eating, filming resumed.
Wang Haowei called Gong Xue over. “You heard what Geng Ying said and decided to leave on your own. Later, you’ll film a scene where you’re heartbroken. Run down this path continuously, crying and deeply sorrowful, understand?”
“I understand!”
Gong Xue nodded.
“All right, let’s do a rehearsal!”
For this scene, she didn’t wear high heels but flat leather shoes, a purple waist-fitted dress, and thick stockings warmer than thermal pants.
“Ready!”
---
“3, 2, 1, action!”
At the director’s call, Gong Xue began to run, full of anguish.
Wang Haowei was very pleased; Chen Qi couldn’t bear to watch.
Actors of this era were very formal, theatrical, and lacked naturalness. It wasn’t their fault but the monotony of film genres, lacking slice-of-life movies.
In the 80s and 90s, when perspectives shifted to ordinary citizens, acting changed.
Wang Haowei was a good director but couldn’t escape the era’s limitations. His filming style was exaggerated; for this scene, Chen Qi could already imagine intense music added in post-production, a woman running heartbreakingly through the woods, sudden close-ups, then wide shots—almost grotesque.
“Good!”
“Feels right. That’s the effect I want. If it’s okay, we’ll start shooting for real!”
“Sure, director!”
Gong Xue’s confidence grew.
They filmed the scene again, with her running wildly.
“小龚, you really have talent!”
“We made the right choice picking you!”
After she finished, she was showered with unsolicited praise. She smiled modestly, secretly proud.
“Not bad, not bad!”
Chen Qi clapped and gave a thumbs-up. “You run beautifully, keep it up!”
“Thank you!”
Gong Xue smiled back but turned away and lightly bit her lip. Why did it feel so insincere? Although this guy was praising her, it seemed perfunctory, as if it meant nothing special.
Chen Qi had coached her in acting, so his attitude mattered greatly to her.
(End…)
By the way, iron-skinned persimmons taste quite good—I recommend them.)