Chapter 113: Art Director

Strangely, the box office earnings for this film were two million higher than Xiao Ran remembered. And it wasn’t even released during the prime time slot—such results were truly remarkable. Yet Xiao Ran wasn’t impressed. Who said films released outside prime time couldn’t achieve high box office numbers? The key lay in the quality of the film; if it was good, more audiences would come, ensuring substantial earnings even if it was shown for a month.

The Golden Horse Awards were approaching soon, and the company had submitted entries for the films released that year. Xiao Ran was very confident—so far, the three films released were all strong contenders, especially “A Fairy Tale in Autumn.” Even if history changed, it would still be the most likely winner.

What Xiao Ran was considering now was whether to bring his original love story script to the screen. After all, Lin Qingxia hadn’t acted for a long time, and the media was now focusing only on details of her personal life. Xiao Ran, who often visited Lin Qingxia’s home, always acted sneaky, as if he were a thief, and often ended up on magazine covers because of this.

However, this issue still needed further consideration. As the art director, Xiao Ran had no reason to ignore anything. So he went to the film set to check things out. On the way there, he tentatively asked Guan Xin, who was driving, “Master, I’m facing a problem right now. I was wondering if you could help me solve it?”

“What is it? Tell me!” Guan Xin must have been very cool when he was young, speaking calmly without showing any emotion.

“You know, no matter what you do, you need thorough information!” Xiao Ran pretended to look troubled, shaking his head sharply before continuing, “But as you know, where can the company get such information? To be honest, I really want to allocate funds every year to acquire information!”

Guan Xin was slightly stunned. He hadn’t expected Xiao Ran to think of approaching the National Security Bureau. He felt both amused and annoyed. “You should know that someone will provide it to you. As for money, setting such a precedent would be bad!”

Xiao Ran’s idea was absolutely terrible—buying information from the National Security Bureau would set a precedent, meaning anyone could buy information then. No wonder Guan Xin found it funny.

But Xiao Ran wasn’t upset about it. After all, Guan Xin’s words implied that if there was information Xiao Ran needed, he would naturally get it. Thinking of this, Xiao Ran said with a smile, “Master, I plan to make a film on the theme of spies. Unfortunately, I can’t find the right person to serve as the technical advisor for this film, and I think we’ll also need support from the mainland government.”

It was indeed a spy-themed film. Xiao Ran had been thinking about such a theme lately. After all, he had such a perfect example right beside him—it would be foolish not to make use of her. Of course, he had other reasons for making this film as well.

Interestingly, Guan Xin knew that Xiao Ran was aware of his identity, yet the two never made things explicit, always speaking in veiled terms. Guan Xin naturally understood what Xiao Ran meant. He suddenly felt that Xiao Ran was really cunning—clearly trying to use him while speaking in such roundabout ways.

Guan Xin was completely wrong in thinking that way. From the spy movies Xiao Ran had watched, there was no need to rely on Guan Xin for any “technical guidance” at all; it was easy enough to come up with stronger plots and stories. Xiao Ran’s deeper goal was to establish initial connections with the mainland government to facilitate future plans. As for his even more ambitious goals, he couldn’t reveal them for now.

“I think it’s not difficult; we’ll find a way to solve it!” Guan Xin smiled slightly. He needed to report this to his superiors to get an answer and didn’t dare give a definite response right away.

Upon arriving at Shaw Brothers’ studio and finding the filming location for “The Ghost Story of Pingyao,” Xiao Ran spotted Xu Ke from afar, giving instructions. He and Guan Xin approached. The crew tried to call out to him, but he just waved them off—there was no point in distractions during work.

When they reached Xu Ke, who was sitting in the director’s chair, admiring the newly filmed scene, fully immersed in it, Xiao Ran fully understood Xu Ke’s dedication. After all, Xu Ke had even worked continuously for three days with IV fluids—this level of commitment was nothing much.

“No, do it again!” After being lost in thought for a while, Xu Ke suddenly raised his head and shouted. Only then did he notice Xiao Ran smiling at him, startlingly. “A Ran, when did you arrive?”

“I just got here. How’s progress?” Xiao Ran didn’t waste time and got straight to the point. “This scene seems to take place in the town, right?”

Xu Ke nodded. This scene was difficult to control; he tried to convey a sense of chaotic violence. Then he smiled. “To be honest, the equipment here works much better than mine!”

Wang Zuxian and Zhang Guorong approached them. One called out “President Xiao,” while the other said “Brother Ran.” Xiao Ran nodded and gestured for them to sit aside before asking Xu Ke, “What do you think is the problem?”

“I’m thinking that using just such a plot to convey a message might not be enough.” Xu Ke looked at Xiao Ran, his expression filled with longing. “Besides, after seeing how you use the film, I’m struggling to decide which filter to use!”

Xiao Ran narrowed his eyes and thought for a moment. The scene in the town was one of the few daytime scenes in the film, so theoretically, it only needed to contrast with the nighttime scenes. But for this film, it wasn’t that simple—it also needed to convey a gloomy mood.

“But I’ve always felt like there’s something wrong with this scene, a strange feeling, you know!” Xu Ke frowned deeply, making his already thin face look even thinner. “And the actors’ performances don’t seem to match what I imagined!”

Xiao Ran was slightly surprised. He hadn’t expected such issues with Xu Ke’s work. After thinking about it, he felt relieved—Xu Ke was human, and everyone makes mistakes. He nodded at Xu Ke and went to check the shots and effects taken earlier.

Although there were only a few shots—just those of Zhang Guorong looking at the painting—Xiao Ran still sensed something was off. It was hard to describe exactly what it was, but he, like Xu Ke, felt that it wasn’t just the actors who had problems; it seemed even the director’s approach had issues.

“Ran Ge, what’s wrong? Is there a problem?” In fact, Zhang Guorong was older than Xiao Ran, but given their status… it wasn’t strange for him to be called Ran Ge, and Xiao Ran had gradually gotten used to it from those who knew him well.

Xiao Ran glanced at Wang Zuxian. This girl with long legs looked extremely innocent and lovely, and her ancient-style outfit was downright enchanting. Among contemporary female actors of her generation, aside from Zhang Manyu and others, Wang Zuxian had relatively good acting skills, far surpassing Li Jiaxin and Guan Zhilin. It was a pity she hadn’t put in enough effort to refine her acting skills when she was younger, so she couldn’t become another Zhang Manyu.

He smiled at Zhang Guorong and gestured for him to bend down and take a look. After this scene was shown several times, both Zhang Guorong and Wang Zuxian, who had also stepped forward, felt something was off, but they could hardly describe exactly what it was.

Xiao Ran looked at Xu Ke, who was frowning deeply, and couldn’t help rubbing his slightly sore nose while touching his beard. Theoretically, this approach shouldn’t be a problem, but something about this scene—or rather, certain aspects of the entire film—seemed off.

Was something missing? Or was something extra? Xiao Ran was very puzzled, his mind racing. Suddenly, he remembered something and realized, “I think I’ve found the problem!”

At these words, all the crew members who had been gathered there looked up at Xiao Ran, with Xu Ke staring intently at him, hoping to grasp the key to the problem. Xiao Ran smiled softly and said in a low voice, “The problem lies in the atmosphere and pressure! This film isn’t light in tone; instead, it has a very oppressive atmosphere. Old Xu, over 90% of the scenes here take place at night, and with demons and monsters appearing as well, these mysterious elements easily create a depressing atmosphere.”

Cinematographer Huang Yongheng was stunned, art director Zhang Shuping was stunned, and director Xu Ke was also stunned. Xu Ke looked thoughtful, murmuring to himself for a moment before quickly understanding Xiao Ran’s point: “I know what you mean. OK! Everyone, get ready—we’ll start shooting right away!”

Xiao Ran was slightly surprised. He had been waiting proudly for Xu Ke to ask questions, but he didn’t expect Xu Ke to understand so quickly. Truly, he was a master with a very agile mind. With that thought, his desire to impress Xu Ke grew even stronger.

Actually, earlier Xiao Ran had told Xu Ke that the atmosphere was too oppressive, and that they needed a scene or shot that could help relieve some of the negative emotions by being more relaxed. Yet Xu Ke had made even the market scene extremely oppressive, which naturally made the audience feel uneasy—no wonder there was something off.

But when he saw Zhang Guorong and Wang Zuxian about to head to the set, Xiao Ran couldn’t help shaking his head. Xu Ke could be quite impatient sometimes. He called out to Zhang Guorong and Wang Zuxian as they walked toward the performance area, “A Rong, A Xian, come here for a moment!”

Seeing Xiao Ran’s actions, Xu Ke was briefly stunned before he couldn’t help but show a hint of amusement. Now he finally remembered that he had forgotten to assign someone to oversee the actors. However, he trusted Xiao Ran to handle it. Many people thought Xiao Ran had only directed two films, and although both were highly praised, that didn’t necessarily prove his talent, so not everyone considered him a great director. But Xu Ke had personally promoted Xiao Ran, so he clearly knew of his abilities.

“The atmosphere is about to change, and you all need to adjust your acting methods slightly to meet the director’s requirements!” Xiao Ran said with a light laugh as he patted Zhang Guorong’s shoulder. Zhang Guorong was still a cheerful young man at that time, though it would be twenty years later…

Shaking his head gently, Xiao Ran left with Guan Xin. Xu Ke was currently working with Lei Kaitai, so there was little chance to bring him over. Forcing him would only offend Lei Kaitai. It was indeed a difficult task. Xiao Ran had long wanted to see new-style wuxia films like *New Dragon Inn* and *The Smiling, Proud Wanderer* that set new trends.

On the other hand, over twenty years earlier, master Li Hanxiang had directed a film titled *The Ghost Lady*, though it wasn’t as successful as this one. Xu Ke loved reusing old formulas in new ways, and that’s exactly what Xiao Ran was betting on—exploiting Xu Ke’s mindset.

Li Hanxiang was definitely a master who had directed countless classic works, especially palace dramas. Leung Ka-fai won his first Golden Horse Award for starring in one of Li Hanxiang’s films. Director Li had a deep affection for the Chinese mainland. It was because the filming took place in Beijing twice that Leung Ka-fai was banned by Taiwan, a memory he still remembered vividly.

Thinking of this, Xiao Ran grew worried. Next year, he was about to start shooting a new film in collaboration with the mainland, and he might lose the Taiwanese market. Politics was truly deadly! With these thoughts, he still felt that Taiwan fell short in this regard. But being banned just for filming in Beijing twice? Then surely they couldn’t retain the Taiwanese market even if they collaborated with the mainland.

Upon further reflection, Xiao Ran felt something was off. If he remembered correctly, it was because as the ban on Leung Ka-fai faded, Taiwan gradually accepted the fact that Hong Kong films were being shot on the mainland. Since films like *New Dragon Inn* were made in collaboration with the mainland and still released in Taiwan, if things continued as they were, Taiwan might even try to ban them.

After checking on sets like *The God of Gamblers* and finding that filming was progressing smoothly without any interference from the underworld, Xiao Ran returned to the company with Guan Xin. On the way back, his thoughts wandered. Company management wasn’t really his forte—formulating long-term strategies was more within his ability. Moreover, he didn’t need to handle the details personally; his subordinates were already taking care of them. That was the true hallmark of a large enterprise. If the president was always busy, it only meant the company’s employees were incompetent.

The film rating system was finally introduced in October. At that time, Xiao Ran was still in a fierce battle with Fang Ruohai. But that wasn’t important, because under pressure from the three major studios, the Hong Kong-British government gave up the idea of selling quotas.

At the same time, satellite companies are not eligible for third-class film quotas. This means that no matter how many subsidiaries such companies establish, there are only a limited number of quotas available. Unlike what Xiao Ran knew, satellite companies do not have quotas either.
This is definitely advantageous for weaker companies. However, in Hong Kong, only the three major giants, along with a rising star in the film industry—Mirage!—actually possess distribution capabilities. In Xiao Ran’s view, this is undoubtedly an imitation of Hollywood’s approach. Still, it’s quite good.
Since Hong Kong film companies don’t place much emphasis on distribution, this move will surely force production companies to rely more on distribution companies. For Xiao Ran, this is an excellent opportunity to bring production companies under his control.
When they got out of the car at the parking lot, a car came from afar. Guan Xin faintly saw someone in the car holding an object that resembled a weapon. Her expression changed instantly as she pushed Xiao Ran aside and grabbed the pistol at her waist with her left hand…
*****
Fictional name: Li Hanxiang
Real name: Li Hanxiang
Li Hanxiang was a director from the same era as Zhang Che and Hu Jinquan. The three are recognized as the three masters before the New Wave. Master Li was particularly skilled in court dramas and fictionalized stories, using absurd comedic techniques to depict even more ridiculous and bizarre realities. His court dramas were unparalleled, earning him the title of master rightfully. Of course, since there was no rating system at that time, each film still contained some suggestive content, but it’s unlikely to have been considered pornographic in the eyes of audiences.
Notable works: “The Warlords,” “Qianlong’s Journey to the South,” “Rule by the Empress Dowager,” “The Burning of the Old Summer Palace,” and so on…
Recommended novels: Works by Tang Jia Sanshao: “The Only Immortal” http://www.feiku.com/showbook.asp?bl_id=40717; Humorous works: “The Man with a Thousand Faces” http://www.feiku.com/showbook.asp?bl_id=40743