Chapter 1: Bitterness in Senior Brother’s Heart

The Directing Department must have poor feng shui; not a single one of them lets anyone rest easy.

Old Si Tu was exhausted in both body and soul—nearly retired, yet still beset by endless worries every day. Gazing at the student before him, whose expression remained calm and unruffled, Old Si Tu’s anger rose uncontrollably. Even Li Bai, the immortal poet, for all his brilliance, wore a perpetually discontented face, lamenting his fate to the heavens.

Why was this young man pretending to be so mature and detached, as if nothing could stir him? Who was he trying to impress with his air of indifference? Why not ascend to the heavens while he was at it?

“Speak up. Zhuang Zhuang came to me complaining, said you’re stubborn and rigid, always fixated on your own ideas, never listening to opposing views, and extremely difficult to get along with. He’s in his forties now, and after less than two shots of liquor, he was bawling, tears and snot everywhere.”

Cao Yang refilled Old Si Tu’s cup with water, speaking softly, “Teacher, don’t blame Senior Brother Zhuang Zhuang. He’s suffering inside. Back in his prime, just as he was ready to make a mark, he was suddenly banned from directing for ten years. Now he can only drown his sorrows in drink. It’s only in front of you that he can open up and pour out his bitterness.”

Old Si Tu blinked, surprised—the explanation wasn’t what he’d expected. Wasn’t Cao Yang supposed to defend himself? Why was he speaking up for Zhuang Zhuang instead? Now the troublesome disciple had learned to drown his sorrows in alcohol? Suppressing a cascade of doubts, Old Si Tu asked, “He told me you brought him a script and promised he could direct it.”

“Huh? His ten-year ban isn’t over yet, is it? Once he’s allowed again, I might write a script for him.”

Cao Yang feigned surprise. He had said something similar before—when Zhuang Zhuang praised his script, Cao Yang had politely replied, “Maybe one day, I’ll write a script for you to direct.” But he never specified which script, and Zhuang Zhuang’s ban wasn’t over yet. What was he thinking?

Old Si Tu found nothing wrong with that explanation.

“He said you two discussed it privately, and that you’d be director in name only, but he’d call the shots.”

Cao Yang recalled the situation: in a private room at Yuehai Grand Hotel, a coal boss in his forties with a heavy gold chain, seated beside a girl who looked very innocent—supposedly a recent graduate from an arts college, majoring in acting.

Zhuang Zhuang, arm around the coal boss, said, “Mr. Feng, you know, back in ’92, one of my films was banned, and I was prohibited from directing for ten years. There’s still more than a year left. This is my junior, Cao Yang, Directing Department class of ’98, about to enter his third year—we’re both students of Teacher Si Tu.”

The coal boss chimed in, “Young man, not bad! Handsome! Learn well from Director Tian, and when you become a big director, you’ll have a crowd of actresses around you… ha ha…”

Zhuang Zhuang laughed too, turning to the coal boss, “Mr. Feng, to be honest, this film will have my junior, Cao Yang, as director in name, but I’ll be making the real decisions… Our film is heading to Europe for awards, made for foreigners. You invest, and I’ll give you sixty percent of the domestic box office…”

Zhuang Zhuang, the renowned director, could wield his reputation well. The coal boss knew nothing about film and had no clue that if the movie succeeded, there would be not only domestic box office but foreign earnings as well. Hearing he’d get sixty percent of domestic earnings, the coal boss immediately toasted Zhuang Zhuang, praising him for his generosity and never mentioning copyright, even when signing the contract.

The fresh graduate beside them took Zhuang Zhuang’s words seriously, believing the film would be heading to Europe for awards, so excited she could barely speak and her hand trembled as she raised her glass.

Whatever she did to the coal boss afterward was unclear, but the next day, the coal boss signed an agreement with Cao Yang and wired the money to the account he designated.

One had to marvel at the coal boss’s generosity—a wave of his hand, the money arrived in full, no oversight, no financial supervision, no copyright disputes—none of it! Only one request: give his young girlfriend a major role. He didn’t even mention the lead actress.

Perhaps, in the coal boss’s eyes, investing a small sum not only secured a major role for his girlfriend but also promised sixty percent of the domestic box office—a huge win.

“Yes, I’m director in name for this film. Aside from matters concerning the movie itself, I follow Senior Brother Zhuang Zhuang’s lead on everything else.”

Cao Yang cared deeply about this film. When it came to the movie, everyone could discuss and share opinions, but no one could force their way in.

This was his film.

Old Si Tu nodded. He understood—nothing was more vexing for a director than others interfering during production.

Being a director in name could be seen as a humble admission, or simply a nominal role with no real authority—it all depended on interpretation.

“He said you tricked him into signing the actor’s contract; it doesn’t count.”

Cao Yang thought back. They’d been discussing the script, revising it late into the night, when Old Tian suggested having a drink. After a few rounds, Cao Yang produced an actor’s contract and said, “Here’s the actor’s contract. You’re playing the director. Sign it, and you’ll have a reason to stay with the crew.”

Was that what confused Old Tian, making him think he’d really be allowed to direct? But it was an actor’s contract—Old Tian would be playing a director, the one whose wife cheats on him.

“Teacher, I made it clear to Senior Brother Zhuang Zhuang when he signed. I told him it was an actor’s contract, and he signed without hesitation.”

Old Si Tu thought the explanation might be ambiguous, but it wasn’t deceptive. At his age, if he didn’t clarify, he only had himself to blame. That must be it.

Still, Old Si Tu felt something was off, but couldn't refute it.

“Teacher, I think Senior Brother Zhuang Zhuang has been repressed for too long. Besides drinking, he also… sigh, you really should counsel him when you have the chance. Don’t let him get stuck in a rut. His ban has just over a year left; once it’s lifted, he can shine again.”

Cao Yang looked out for Old Tian—he was both an important actor and the cinematographer, strong enough to keep the crew in line and soothe the coal boss’s concerns.

Old Tian was vital.

Old Si Tu seized upon a key point, “Besides drinking, what else has he been doing?”

“Teacher, Senior Brother Zhuang Zhuang is suffering…”

“Don’t cover for that troublemaker—speak!”

“He’s suffering…”

“SPEAK!”

“Senior Brother Zhuang Zhuang wants to bring Lyu Li Ping onto the crew…”

“What? That troublemaker! She’s married, and he’s still thinking… Trouble! He’s going to drive me mad… I’ve always said the Directing Department has bad feng shui—when it comes to men and women, not one of them lets me rest easy. The department should’ve relocated years ago!”

“Teacher, please calm down. Senior Brother is just sentimental, nothing more, probably thinks she fits the role. But I felt it wasn’t suitable and firmly refused, arguing with him about it for quite some time.”

“Good, you did the right thing. Now I understand why he suddenly invited me out for a meal—it’s all about this.”

With that, Old Si Tu began dialing Tian Zhuang Zhuang’s phone.

“Tian Zhuang Zhuang, where are you? Get over here, NOW!”

Did he really think he could fool Old Si Tu? At his age, still scheming to snatch his junior’s directing rights and squeeze his old flame into the crew, even though she was married! And after being refused, he ran to complain? What a disgrace!

Old Si Tu had wanted him to assist his junior, not cause trouble.

Cao Yang was the sensible one—even after being treated like this, he still defended that troublemaker.

“Teacher, if there’s nothing else, I’ll go get busy.”

Cao Yang’s kind heart couldn’t bear to witness his senior being scolded, so he silently wished Old Tian well.

Old Si Tu, returning to himself, asked with concern, “Have you finalized your cast?”

Cao Yang thought for a moment, “A few supporting roles are set, but the leads haven’t been decided yet.”

“Then speed up. If you run into trouble, let Zhuang Zhuang solve it. If he can’t, come to me. Don’t be stubborn, and don’t worry about owing favors. Sometimes what seems an unsolvable problem is just a phone call away.”

Cao Yang looked at Old Si Tu and replied sincerely, “Yes, Teacher, I understand. Senior Brother Zhuang Zhuang has been working hard lately; please don’t blame him.”

Old Si Tu glanced at Cao Yang, knowing he hadn’t really taken the advice to heart—otherwise, he wouldn’t have shifted the topic. Frustration simmered inside him.

“I know him all too well. Shao Hong was right—he just wants to fall in love with someone on set, and then break up when the film is over. What a terrible habit! Every single one of them has issues!”

“That’s not the norm, Teacher. Maybe it’s just feelings sparked by working together,” Cao Yang tried his best to defend his senior.

“Nonsense! On-set romance is when the lead actor falls for the lead actress. How does a director end up entangled with the actress?”

“Teacher, don’t blame Senior Brother Zhuang Zhuang. Maybe directors need empathy. Look at Director Yi, Senior Brother Kai, Director Zhang Ke, Director Quan An, Director Guan Hu…”

“Enough, enough, stop listing them.”

Old Si Tu waved his hand impatiently. “This department’s cursed feng shui is beyond saving. Take it as a warning, Cao Yang—don’t pick up these messy habits.”

Cao Yang nodded, promising, “Teacher, I’m not that kind of person.”

“That’s good. Take it as a warning, take it as a warning!”

…

Cao Yang felt grateful to Old Si Tu, and to Tian Zhuang Zhuang as well.

Recently, after finishing his script, he went to Old Si Tu, saying he planned to make the film himself, though he didn’t expect much.

Old Si Tu read the script and immediately asked about his filming plan, shooting schedule, budget, expected profits, and so on. No matter how good the script was, it only proved you were a good writer—being a director was a whole different league.

Only an in-depth discussion would reveal the truth.

That conversation lasted the whole afternoon. Dinner in the cafeteria, then continuing late into the evening.

Once Old Si Tu felt he had a thorough understanding—and Cao Yang responded smoothly on every front, clearly prepared and capable, unlikely to give up halfway—he introduced him to Tian Zhuang Zhuang.

It was obvious Old Si Tu was supporting his junior—among his students, if one seemed capable, he’d connect them to his network and give them a chance.

Tian Zhuang Zhuang was that connection and opportunity for Cao Yang.

Of course, things wouldn’t be so straightforward.

Upon meeting Tian Zhuang Zhuang, the still-banned director at first was polite on the surface—Old Si Tu’s introduction meant the project had to be handled, but how and to what extent was open to negotiation.

They were both nominally Old Si Tu’s students; though he hadn’t taught many classes, he had plenty of pupils. I’m class of ’78; you’re ’98—that’s a twenty-year gap. Why should I go all out for you?

You’d better give me a reason to believe in you.

After several days of contact, their conversation lingered on the film industry—from the history and future of cinema, domestic and international, down to shooting techniques, methods, and the essence of particular films. It seemed like idle chatter over meals, but it was really an assessment of Cao Yang.

Then Tian Zhuang Zhuang reached out to the coal boss—the investment was secured.

“Old Tian is up to something.”

He must have used the drink to air his grievances, play the emotional card, and test Old Si Tu’s reaction.

All these great directors have a Jiang Wen complex—enjoying direct confrontation.

If Old Si Tu had tacitly agreed, Tian Zhuang Zhuang might have seized control, leaving Cao Yang as a mere figurehead, like Lu Chuan.

Fortunately, Old Si Tu was fair-minded, never biased or partial—he said he’d give you a chance, and that was your opportunity; no one was allowed to scheme otherwise.

The chance was given—whether you succeeded or failed was your own responsibility.

Of course, Cao Yang was no Lu Chuan—crying before the media hardly made one a man. If necessary, he’d walk away without hesitation.

Bah!

Right, wouldn’t you agree, useless system?