Chapter 223: Difficulties with the Racing Film

At the beginning of November, filming officially began, and at the same time, the battle to acquire Centaline in partnership with Li Ka-shing also started. While Wei Dongling was personally pressuring the established British-owned companies, Xiao Ran found himself in a difficult situation.

This time, it wasn’t due to a lack of government cooperation. After Xiao Ran had previously forced the Hong Kong-British government to comply, he joined forces with three major companies to urge the government to support Hong Kong-produced films and give them more space. Under no choice, the government issued new regulations allowing for assistance such as road closures for filming.

Of course, closing roads wasn’t easy, so the producers had to create a schedule and select suitable days to apply. This way, the police could legitimately assist with road closures for filming.

Don’t underestimate these regulations. Without exaggeration, they would surely make Hong Kong films much more grand in the future. Take “New Police Story” for example—if the Special Administrative Region had allowed this earlier, it would have been impossible to shoot intense scenes on the streets. Before that, many companies would secretly shoot action scenes in public places.

What troubled Xiao Ran wasn’t this, but rather the performances of the two lead actors. It wasn’t that they acted poorly, but rather too conventionally, not meeting his standards. Racing movies aren’t as monotonous as we might think; they don’t have to focus solely on coolness—there are many other ways to present them.

What he wanted from this film wasn’t just coolness; more importantly, it was the atmosphere the film should convey. In this regard, almost no actor’s performance met his standards, not even the supporting cast.

In a sense, Xiao Han and Jin Chengwu were acting in their natural styles. Xiao Ran intended for Jin Chengwu to play a relatively innocent youth in most scenes, while Xiao Han would play his vague first love.

The problem was that in the scene involving a confrontation, Jin Chengwu showed no edge at all. This was definitely not what Xiao Ran wanted—a racer must have edge and passion, but Jin Chengwu lacked both. Xiao Han only needed to act naturally, and she did well enough. It was just that Xiao Ran, being overly demanding of his sister, wasn’t satisfied.

“CUT!” Xiao Ran slumped down in the director’s chair in frustration. Yu Jiayu beside him couldn’t help but chuckle, thinking Xiao Ran looked utterly exhausted by these two kids. After thinking for a moment, Xiao Ran realized they had already shot this scene eleven times without success. If they continued like this, they’d fall behind schedule.

Under the stares of the crew, Jin Chengwu felt frustrated and ashamed. When he saw Xiao Ran approaching, his heart skipped a beat. But Xiao Ran wasn’t coming for him—he was going after Wu Zhenyu. Wu Zhenyu still wasn’t a top star in “Shadow” because he lacked enough experience.

Wu Zhenyu’s performance didn’t have the sharpness Xiao Ran desired. Although he knew Wu Zhenyu couldn’t develop that stunningly unique acting style right away, could he make some progress? He shouldn’t be so conventional all the time.

In Xiao Ran’s eyes, the only Hong Kong actor who could take traditional acting to its peak was Fa Ge, while Leung Chao-wai’s acting style could only be considered semi-traditional. Thus, an actor’s acting style was absolutely crucial—having a distinct style made it easy to stand out. He didn’t want these actors to follow the traditional path, as it was extremely difficult to succeed that way. Traditional acting seemed like the foundation of acting; only by mastering this foundation could one move in other directions. Only Fa Ge had perfected this “swordsmanship” of acting to an extraordinary level—what suited Fa Ge might not suit others.

He pondered for a moment, considering whether to teach Wu Zhenyu the unique acting style he had created. After a quick decision, he said to the bewildered Wu Zhenyu, “Zhenyu, can you try a different acting method? I don’t mean something intense—I mean something very bold!” After saying that, Xiao Ran signaled Jin Chengwu to come forward for a scene together. After silently reminiscing about Yu Ge’s acting, he slightly raised his head, turned it a few times, and then looked at Jin Chengwu with the expression of Liang Kun. Waving his hand, he tried to make his voice sound rougher, slapping Jin Chengwu’s face like in “Gunfire”: “Kid, what are you staring at? You’re not good enough to fight me!”

Watching Xiao Ran’s sinister performance, Jin Chengwu felt a chill run down his spine. But Wu Zhenyu seemed to have grasped something—something very important, something he had been trying to achieve all along. He remembered Xiao Ran once telling him that acting needed to have one’s own style; with skill and a distinct style, becoming famous wouldn’t be long in coming. In fact, Xiao Ran had said this not only to him but also to many actors who lacked the ideal looks, hoping to foster more actors like Liu Qingyun, Wu Zhenyu, and Huang Qiusheng, who were highly beloved by fans.

Plus, acting in movies with “Shadow” came with very high pay. He now often played major villains in films, and his salary had risen to eight hundred thousand after Mo Huaien’s downfall. This financial stability undoubtedly gave him the time to focus on improving his acting skills, just like writing a novel online. He had always struggled to capture that certain feeling—sometimes he thought he had it, but it still didn’t suit him. In the dozen or so films he had acted in over the years, he had often changed his acting styles, and critics considered him a skilled actor.

Now, upon seeing Xiao Ran’s performance, he felt a sudden epiphany. He knew that although Xiao Ran’s performance was extremely rough, it was exactly the kind he liked. Watching Xiao Ran’s sinister act, he couldn’t help but smile happily—finally understanding what it felt like to break through himself.

As for Jin Chengwu, Xiao Ran was a bit stuck—how should he teach him? He thought the best fit for Jin Chengwu would be the acting style from the classic gangster film “Night City,” but it was very difficult for Jin Chengwu to capture that essence, and he didn’t think the young man had the understanding to do so.

With a bitter smile, Xiao Ran suddenly thought of Kim Seong-woo’s performance in “One Must Die.” That’s right! Xiao Ran almost shouted—it was that same stubbornness from the beginning. Nodding, he waved at Wu Zhenyu beside him, “Come on, let’s act it out for him!”
Wu Zhenyu gently tapped Xiao Ran’s face, but Xiao Ran just stared at him without blinking, saying in an extremely stubborn tone, “I want to compete with you!”
After repeating this several times, Kim Seong-woo finally understood Xiao Ran’s meaning and nodded vigorously. In fact, it’s normal for a director to teach actors how to act; it can’t really be called teaching, but rather guiding actors to meet the director’s expectations, with the actors naturally making adjustments accordingly.
But dealing with a director as particular as Xiao Ran was troublesome. A few years ago, Kim Seong-woo’s performance would have been sufficient. But now, not even Xiao Ran, nor any other director, would be satisfied with it, as there was no spark of intensity at all. Forced by necessity, Xiao Ran had chosen this method of acting for him.
This time, it finally worked. Not only Xiao Ran but everyone on the crew breathed a huge sigh of relief. They had wasted so much film and effort on this scene; they almost wanted to set off firecrackers to celebrate.
A few days later came the first car-chase scene. Rather than a car-chase scene, it was more like Kim Seong-woo’s solo performance. This scene, like another one, would be placed at the beginning of the film. Whether it could attract audiences was crucial.
Xiao Ran had thought long and hard about this scene—actually, he had thought deeply about all the car-chase sequences in the film. He had never filmed a car-chase scene before, not even in Hong Kong. If it were just a chase scene, the ten-minute sequence in “Spy Game” alone would be enough to make him a master.
Unfortunately, a chase scene isn’t the same as a car-chase scene. Car-chase scenes are definitely the most challenging for directors. The most typical example is Liu Wai-keung, who has directed the most car-chase scenes in Hong Kong. He had directed a car-chase film starring Zheng Yijian in the past, and even in 2005’s “Initial D,” the combination of Mak Siu-fai, who directed “Infernal Affairs,” and Liu Wai-keung failed in this aspect.
By “failed,” it doesn’t mean the film failed as a whole, but rather the car-chase scene failed. What was shown in “Initial D” wasn’t a real car chase; it was Huang Qiusheng providing commentary, without any cleverness in allowing the audience to marvel on their own. In terms of technique, both directors definitely failed.
Hong Kong indeed has few successful car-chase films, perhaps except for “Thunderbolt.” Thinking of “Thunderbolt,” Xiao Ran found it amusing. The investment in this film was only a mere ten million. But as filming progressed, Cheng Long kept interfering, inexplicably adding at least seventy to eighty million more to the production cost. Before 2000, this film was considered the most expensive in Hong Kong.
This car-chase scene would serve as the beginning of the film and also as Xiao Ran’s initial attempt to demonstrate his ability to handle car-chase scenes. Cinematography is very important, extremely important, at least before virtual cinematography came along.

Xiao Ran even considered using bullet time in this film. Bullet time doesn’t require complex computer effects; sufficient cameras and skill are all that’s needed. In his mind, using bullet time here would surely cause a sensation. Yet, he hasn’t planned to employ this trick for now.

With conventional methods, dynamic background elements like plants could be used to emphasize speed, or camera motion blur could convey it. But pure speed wasn’t what Xiao Ran wanted—he knew he had to think of other ways.

He discussed this with the editor and came up with two plans. The first was for Chen Jiafeng to drive continuously without breaks. The second involved shooting in segments and editing them together later. The first plan was extremely difficult to execute—first, no one could keep up with Chen Jiafeng’s speed, and second, it was hard to capture footage from all angles.

Shooting from a wide-angle perspective was one of Xiao Ran’s suggestions to the cinematographer. Based on his experience, keeping the camera tightly focused on the car like in “Initial D” would create a monotonous feel and fail to emphasize speed effectively. With a wide angle, various perspectives could be used, adding more contrast.

It’s worth mentioning that the track chosen by Xiao Ran and his team wasn’t very long. There were few sharp turns as well—almost 80% of it was straightforward, with little challenge. Since it was a relatively remote location, there were trees lining both sides of the road.

However, Xiao Ran was well-prepared for these challenges and had already planned how to shoot this scene in his mind. Facing a crew with no experience, he patiently taught them. Since it was a solo racing scene, strong contrast wasn’t necessary—only emphasizing speed was key!

This wasn’t hard to do. First, shoot Chen Jiafeng racing, then footage of Jin Chengwu inside the car, and finally, stunt footage prepared by the racing team to fill in any gaps. Chen Jiafeng was clearly delighted and couldn’t help but whistle as he got into the Mitsubishi-sponsored sports car.

For Chen Jiafeng, this was the most impressive experience yet. Not only did he get a great sports car for racing, but the police also blocked the roads for him—it was absolutely glorious. He shot a defiant glance at the retired racer in the other filming car, started the engine, and waited for Xiao Ran to give the go-ahead.

Fourteen cameras were used for this scene, all positioned within about 100 meters of the track’s starting point. It had to be shot in segments, otherwise, it would be hard to capture everything comprehensively. After checking in with each team via walkie-talkie, he finally shouted, “Go!”

As soon as those words reached Chen Jiafeng’s ears, the car shot off like an arrow, leaving the filming cars struggling to keep up. But something made Xiao Ran frown—after passing the shooting point, the car continued at full speed, even accelerating further.

Chen Jiafeng had never felt this proud before. He momentarily forgot about filming and pushed the car to its limit, roaring down the road. He enjoyed this extreme sense of speed, unaware that Xiao Ran’s expression at the starting point had already turned grim.

Chen Jiafeng reached the fork in the road, the end of this path. He slowed down and blew a few sharp whistles at the police officer standing by, watching coldly. Then he immediately turned around and drove back, driving the officer furious.

As soon as he returned in his car, he saw Xiao Ran’s displeased expression, which made his heart skip a beat; all his pride vanished instantly. Xiao Ran was still sitting in the director’s chair, quietly watching Chen Jiafeng walk over with his head lowered.

“President Xiao, I…” Chen Jiafeng was originally a proud person, so it was not easy for him to admit fault in front of so many people. But upon thinking of Xiao Ran’s status, he broke into cold sweat—he knew very well that it would not be harder for Xiao Ran to crush him than to crush an ant.

“It’s fine, go on, do it again!” Xiao Ran ordered Yu Jiayu beside him, showing no sign of his earlier grim expression. Then he turned to look at Chen Jiafeng, who seemed slightly relieved, and said, “Just this once. If there’s another time, there’s no need to come back!”