Chapter 50: Why Not Write One Yourself?

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Cai Yinong and Ji Xiang reached an agreement. Tangren would invest two hundred thousand yuan in promoting “Unstained,” naturally using an edited music video from “The Weaver Girl at the Edge of the World.”

Cai Yinong had agreed because she wanted to use the song to promote “The Weaver Girl at the Edge of the World.”

As for the adaptation rights to “The Lotus Tower,” Ji Xiang had refused to sell them.

The reason was simple: Cai Yinong could never agree to cast Shen Yan as the male lead.

But that was the bottom line.

In addition, the soundtrack for “The Strange Hero, One Branch Plum” was also entrusted to Shen Yan. Cai Yinong offered three hundred thousand yuan.

It sounded like a lot, but compared with the production budget, it amounted to only one percent.

That was already a fairly high price.

Generally speaking, a fee equal to one-thousandth of a series’ production budget was considered quite generous.

Tangren was reasonably good in that regard.

Cai Yinong had considerable experience in soundtrack composition, production, and marketing.

Unfortunately, those strengths were not passed down. Instead, Yu Zheng learned them.

Yu Zheng’s Huan Yu Entertainment had an extremely lavish and stable music-production team. Lu Hu, for instance, could be considered Huan Yu Entertainment’s in-house composer. He alone had produced numerous hit songs, including “The Sound of Snowfall,” “The Purple Hairpin,” “Look,” and “The Silk-Washing Story.” The company had also gathered talented producers such as Wang Yaoguang and Huang Shifu, while its collaborating singers included Liu Yuning, Zhou Shen, Yin Lin, and many other outstanding vocalists. Together, they safeguarded the creation of high-quality productions.

When “Story of Yanxi Palace” became a sensation, its ending theme, “The Sound of Snowfall,” became a nationwide phenomenon.

The soundtracks for “Winter Begonia” and “The Double” were both massive hits as well.

To a certain extent, they had helped propel the series themselves.

Returning to Cai Yinong—although she knew about the relationship between Shishi and Shen Yan and did not oppose it, that did not mean she supported it.

So she told Ji Xiang directly, “His relationship with Shishi must not be exposed.”

Ji Xiang nodded. “Don’t worry. I’m planning to turn Little Shen into a national idol. I won’t let him date anyone.”

“A national idol?”

“Yes. A star who can act, sing, and perform in television and film.”

Cai Yinong nodded. “He does have the potential. Do your best.”

...

Filming proceeded normally that afternoon, and as usual, Shen Yan got through his scenes in a single take.

The role of Fang Ning presented little difficulty for him.

At the beginning, his main problem had been adjusting to the scale of the performance.

Normally, when delivering lines, an actor should never state everything as plainly as seeing a mountain and calling it a mountain, or seeing the sea and calling it the sea.

The more beautiful the passage and the more ornate the dialogue, the more an actor needed to leave something unspoken. One must never abandon the physicality of the character’s actions and slide into the swamp of raw emotion.

Period romance dramas, however, were precisely the opposite. They required actors to amplify their emotions and deliver their lines more directly.

Of course, it was not necessary to scream and bellow like Ma Jingtao, but some exaggeration was certainly required.

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That was why ambitious actors tended to be especially hostile toward period romance dramas.

Shen Yan, however, did not care much. After all, he could make a living off his face.

Besides, he sincerely believed that there was no need to create some hierarchy of contempt among film and television genres.

They all served the people. Why bother ranking them as noble or lowly?

And besides, there were no fewer terrible films than terrible dramas.

What was more, many so-called acting specialists did not even possess the looks required of actors in period romances. Even if they had “plastic-surgery-level acting,” forcing themselves into such roles would still invite ridicule as ugly men.

“Acting as miraculous as plastic surgery” was really just another way of saying that the person was terribly ugly.

Ji Xiang watched Shen Yan and wondered whether he should find him an idol drama.

But there were no suitable scripts.

Then he thought of “Summer’s Desire,” which Huang Xiaoming was currently tinkering with.

Should he buy a few similar scripts?

“First Love,” “That Boy Is Handsome”...

While he was pondering this, Shen Yan had already finished his scenes.

“Brother Ji!”

“You’re done filming?”

“Yeah. I don’t have any more scenes today. Come on, let’s go have a drink.”

“You have scenes tomorrow, don’t you?”

“Just a little beer. It won’t get us drunk.”

...

There were still quite a few small restaurants around Xiangshan. With Shen Yan’s assistant, Chen Xu, the three of them found a rustic local eatery, casually ordered four dishes and six bottles of beer, and sat down.

As they drank and chatted, Ji Xiang brought up the remake of “A Chinese Ghost Story.”

Before Shen Yan could say anything, Chen Xu nearly spat out his drink.

“There’s actually someone remaking ‘A Chinese Ghost Story’? Who has that much courage?”

“People have even remade ‘Dream of the Red Chamber.’ What’s so special about ‘A Chinese Ghost Story’?”

“I mean that Tsui Hark’s version is practically a classic!”

Shen Yan cut in. “I thought Lü Bu was already invincible beneath the heavens, but I never expected someone even more courageous. Whose subordinate is he?”

“Lan Tianhong, one of Taiwan’s eight major film distributors,” Ji Xiang casually explained. “The mainland film market has developed rapidly over the past two years, so the Taiwanese want a share of the pie. They hold the adaptation rights.”

That was true.

Lan Tianhong’s Taiji Pictures owned a massive library of film copyrights, with more than five hundred classic Chinese-language film properties.

Besides “A Chinese Ghost Story,” they later produced “Journey of the Foolish Immortals” and “The New Invincible Female Warriors.”

“Maybe they saw how much money ‘Painted Skin’ made and decided to remake ‘A Chinese Ghost Story.’”

“Probably. I heard they approached Louis Koo to play the demon hunter Yan Chixia.”

“Then it’s over. Louis Koo is definitely going to be the protagonist.”

“Of course. With a star as famous as Louis Koo, there’s no way the production would make him play a supporting role.”

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Chen Xu interrupted, “I bet he’ll have an affair with Nie Xiaoqian.”

Yan Chixia having an affair with Nie Xiaoqian...

I think I’ve seen this movie!

Shen Yan mulled it over.

Damn. Wasn’t this the Louis Koo version of “A Chinese Ghost Story”?

Tsk, tsk. A movie starring Louis Koo...

That really wouldn’t do.

Ji Xiang scratched his head. “If that’s what they’re planning, our team should stay out of it. Once it’s released, people will definitely tear it apart.”

Shen Yan thought for a moment before asking, “Have you ever watched ‘Love Between a Ghost and a Human,’ starring Liu Yijun and Liu Mintao?”

“‘Love Between a Ghost and a Human’?”

“It’s a version of Nie Xiaoqian adapted from ‘Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio.’ It incorporates characters and story elements from ‘The Phantom Lady,’ ‘Xiao Xie,’ ‘Lotus Fragrance,’ and several other tales. It was directed by Kong Sheng. That series was really interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“If I remember correctly, that version of Ning Caichen had a particularly sharp tongue.”

“What’s this? Are you thinking of rewriting the story yourself?”

Shen Yan shot back, “Why not? I am a writer, after all.”

Chen Xu said, “Then write yourself a role.”

Ji Xiang’s eyes lit up. “Write a script suited to you as the lead.”

Shen Yan frowned. “At my age, it would have to be either a youthful campus film or an urban romance.”

“A youthful campus film?”

“Exactly. Something like ‘Secret.’”

“And what about an urban romance?”

“‘My Sassy Girl.’”

After a pause, Shen Yan suddenly remembered something.

“Let’s make an urban film called ‘20 Once Again.’ It would be about a seventy-year-old woman named Shen Mengjun who enters a youth photography studio and transforms into a beautiful twenty-year-old woman named Meng Lijun, then returns to ordinary life under her new identity.”

Hearing the idea, Ji Xiang nodded. “That’s rather interesting.”

“Right?” Shen Yan continued. “When she was young, Shen Mengjun loved singing, but she married early and had a child. She wanted to grow old together with the man she loved, but shortly after their wedding, her husband died in a war. Her only son was the reason she struggled to keep living. As she grew older, she became incredibly nagging. Her daughter-in-law was driven into depression, and even her son could no longer tolerate her. He wanted to send her to a nursing home.

“Then the youth photography studio gave this seventy-year-old grandmother another chance to experience youth. In the blink of an eye, she became a beautiful twenty-year-old girl and took the name Meng Lijun. She reclaimed her dream of music, became the lead singer of a band, and encountered love once again...”

Ji Xiang interrupted him. “What part do you have in this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you say you wanted to write a script suited to you as the lead? From beginning to end, this story is about the female protagonist. What does it have to do with you?”

“Then let’s change it to a story about first love.”