Chapter 122: Longmen Inn

The underworld is different from Fang Ruohai—the latter understands what long-term interests are, whereas the underworld does not. Making movies is a great way to launder money and earn quick profits. So, once they get involved, they will surely rush through productions carelessly, which is definitely not what Xiao Ran wants.
The idea of suppressing the three movie companies controlled by the underworld was thus settled by Xiao Ran. As for the revenge from the three major gangs, he had his own ways to deal with it. In fact, it wouldn’t be necessary to suppress them at all—if only they would abide by the rules of the film industry, Xiao Ran might not have taken such actions.
What made things even more complicated for Xiao Ran was that even Fa Ge had started thinking about taking on projects regardless of quality just to make money. What about other actors, directors, and film professionals? The number must be enormous, and he could even imagine many people complaining that there weren’t enough roles offered by the companies.
Xiao Ran specifically asked the company’s contracted artists and film professionals to stay. After seeing off the three big bosses, he stepped onto the stage with a serious expression. Holding the microphone gently and looking at the confused faces below, a mocking smile gradually appeared on his face. He really didn’t know how many of them shared Fa Ge’s mindset, or even worse.
Just think—during Liu Hua’s peak year, he took on over a dozen films. Although some of them might have been out of necessity, Xiao Ran still believed that only a few of Liu Hua’s more than a hundred films could be considered masterpieces. If it weren’t for Liu Hua’s popularity, hard work, and some classic works, it was doubtful whether anyone would still remember him even after decades.
Xiao Ran didn’t expect every actor to be perfect—after all, many actors honed their skills through countless poor-quality films, and they all needed to act. But for actors like Zhou Xingchi and Fa Ge, who were already gaining fame or were already famous, self-control was essential.
Xiao Ran had a very good way of understanding this. If a director could consistently produce successful films, their value would surely rise steadily, until it reached its limit. The same applied to actors. There was an unwritten rule in Hollywood: if an actor’s three consecutive films failed at the box office, it was time to cut their salary. Xiao Ran wanted to be even stricter, as he definitely didn’t want stars’ salaries to soar out of control. Controlling stars was absolutely necessary.
After scanning the crowd for a long time, Xiao Ran’s solemn expression inevitably made the originally cheerful atmosphere heavy. After a long silence, he turned his gaze toward several actors who had become famous with the company’s support, such as Zhang Min, Wang Zuxian, Wu Junru, Liu Qingyun, and Zhou Xingchi.
After making them feel guilty, Xiao Ran smiled faintly but spoke slowly and deliberately, word by word: “The company allows you to take on outside projects because you all need to make money, while I need you to gain sufficient acting experience!”

“Looking at it now, the situation is quite good. Some people might not have opportunities within the company, but they can still get roles outside through the company’s recommendations or personal connections.” His gentle tone suddenly shifted, becoming extremely sharp: “But I absolutely don’t want established actors to continue taking poor roles. It’s not a company rule, but it’s my advice to everyone.” This statement immediately sparked discussions among the audience, who all turned their attention to Zhou Xingchi and Zhang Min, as these two were the most popular in the company at the moment. Of course, except for Lin Qingxia. “However, I haven’t seen such a situation yet, which is great!” At this point, Xiao Ran smiled, but it quickly turned serious: “But that doesn’t mean it won’t happen in the future. In the future, each of you will have the chance to become top stars. You must stay clean and cherish everything you’ve achieved through hard work!” Lin Qingxia quietly watched Xiao Ran on stage, whose presence became increasingly hard to look directly at. She felt that he had a special charm at that moment—a force and authority that made people reluctant to resist. She suddenly realized that Xiao Ran was changing rapidly, evolving from a seemingly playful and lively young man into someone with a growing sense of maturity, beyond his years. Yet, she still preferred his cheerful and lively side. Perhaps it was this trait that had attracted her in the first place, along with his unique blend of youth and maturity. Xiao Ran had no idea how many people had heard his words, but he had done his best. If anyone really made this mistake, he would try to help them; if it was hopeless, he would abandon them without hesitation and promote other artists instead. On the third day, he was going to Macau to start filming the new movie “Dark Flowers,” so on the second day, he spent the whole day in the office handling affairs. In addition to finalizing the script review, he also had to decide whether to proceed with filming. Right now, he was working on finalizing the production of “New Dragon Gate Inn” to prepare for the early stages. The role of producer was not easy—it was one of the few positions that spanned from the early stages to the final production. The producer had to determine the cast and crew, carefully select every element needed in the film, and distribute the script to set designers, cinematographers, prop handlers, as well as those in charge of transportation and costumes. These people would then calculate the costs for each item and develop a shooting plan. In short, at least half of a film’s success or failure depended on the producer. Being a producer was a very demanding job; they were responsible for everything related to the crew’s needs. They had to oversee everything from the early preparations to the final production, and they also had an important responsibility: securing sponsorships. Of course, for “Shadow,” sponsorships were optional, but Xiao Ran still wanted them to get as many advertisements as possible.

For such an important role, Xiao Ran didn’t dare to fully entrust it to a newcomer. Although there were plenty of producers in the company, few had sufficient experience. Xiao Ran believed those new producers needed some time to gain experience before they could be trusted with such a task. This time, he chose Chen Kexin.

After asking An Yuxuan to inform Chen Kexin to come over, Xiao Ran quietly thought about which actors should be finalized in advance. Lin Qingxia was definitely essential as the female lead. As for the role of Jin Xiangyu, after much consideration, he ultimately chose Feng Feier instead of Zhang Manyu.

It was a risk, but not really one either. When “New Dragon Inn” was released in 1992, Zhang Manyu’s acting skills had already been recognized. But now, she was merely a beautiful ornament; rather than using one from another company, Xiao Ran preferred Feng Feier.

For the male lead, it was naturally Liang Jiahui. His contract with Yin Du was about to expire, and having an actor who was relatively pro-Peking would help break through the psychological barriers in the mainland. As for the main villain, Xiao Ran still chose Zhen Zidan, even though he wasn’t under contract with Shadow Company at the time.

But that didn’t matter. Considering that “Spy Change” might need Zhen Zidan as the lead, and that Xiao Ran envisioned many more films suitable for him, he called in An Yuxuan. Glancing briefly at the attractive female secretary, Xiao Ran said calmly, “A Xuan, tell President Wei to sign Zhen Zidan! At least for a two-year contract.”

An Yuxuan glanced at her boss, who was still buried in work, feeling an indescribable curiosity. She had heard other employees mention that Zhou Xingchi and Liu Qingyun were initially overlooked by others but were chosen by the boss for their potential. She was very curious about this Zhen Zidan—what kind of person was he to catch the boss’s attention?

Unaware of An Yuxuan’s thoughts, Xiao Ran thought for a moment and decided to choose Huang Zhan for the soundtrack. As for cinematography, he finally stopped relying on the company’s contracted cameraman and chose Huang Letai instead. For art direction, he hired Zhang Shuping.

“New Dragon Inn” couldn’t afford any mistakes—it would be the first step for the new generation of wuxia films. So Xiao Ran made every effort to select a crew with higher reliability. With that in mind, he wrote down all the actors he had chosen. Before long, Chen Kexin arrived.

Xiao Ran stood up, rubbed his tired back, and sighed, “Getting old really means you can’t do much anymore!”

Chen Kexin almost laughed. Xiao Ran, who was only in his twenties, dared to say he was old. After joking to lighten the mood, Xiao Ran handed him the script and said seriously, “This script needs to be handled with double the rigor. There must be no mistakes, but the budget can be relaxed a bit.”

“Yes, President Xiao!” Chen Kexin nodded, glanced through the script, and was slightly surprised.

“Go back and think about how to approach it!” As Chen Kexin reached the door, Xiao Ran suddenly called out to him, “A Xin, do you want to be a director? Work hard. If you do well with this film, I’ll allow you to direct a movie next year.”

Inspired by Xiao Ran’s words, the young Chen Kexin became excited—becoming a director was his dream. Seeing Chen Kexin leave happily, Xiao Ran was pleased. He planned to give Chen Kexin the project “A Tale of Two Cities” next year. However, he would have to act as producer. He had already helped many filmmakers embark on their own paths, and to ensure they truly had enough skill, Xiao Ran believed it was essential to act as a producer for new directors.

The director of “New Dragon Inn” was Xu Ke, and Xiao Ran had already discussed the matter with him a few days ago. As long as Xu Ke finished his current work, he could start immediately. Lei Kaitai had no objections—after all, New Art City and Shadow had such a good relationship, so borrowing someone wasn’t a big problem.

After dealing with this matter, Xiao Ran asked An Yuxuan to summon a producer named Tian Tian and Chen Musheng to the company. This time, he took the time to carefully review the scripts, going through several before deciding which ones deserved to be filmed. Then he picked up the last script, one by Wang Jiawei’s, with the title “Carmen in Mong Kok” clearly written on the cover.

It had finally arrived! Xiao Ran’s smile widened. 1988 was the most crucial year for Shadow’s development. They needed to overwhelm the three major companies with top-quality films and a large number of projects to win negotiations for distribution rights in Southeast Asia, thereby turning the tide in the Hong Kong film industry.

In fact, he knew he was already influencing the film industry. Thanks to his status as the recognized top screenwriter, director, and film company owner, the importance of screenwriters was now widely recognized by other film companies. Basically, Deppa had already started adopting Xiao Ran’s system of signing screenwriters. Jiahé was still hesitant to shed its big-company attitude and imitate Shadow, while New Art City was already strong in directing.

After spending some time carefully reviewing the script and confirming it was no different from those he had seen before, Xiao Ran finally breathed a sigh of relief. He had long been looking forward to Wang Jiawei’s directorial debut. Once Wang Jiawei filmed this movie, it would surely deliver the extraordinary results Xiao Ran expected.

Xiao Ran didn’t even intend to give this script to the writing team to revise the technical details, fearing that even minor changes could lead to failure. After asking An Yuxuan to inform Wang Jiawei, Du Qifeng, and the two producers, Xiao Ran’s workload became much lighter.

Wan Ziliang was already cast in this movie, and since the idea of collaborating with him had been mentioned before, he was chosen right away. After all, he was a seasoned actor who could be relied on. After some consideration, Xiao Ran decided to go with him.

The company’s writing team had submitted many scripts, several of which had considerable commercial value. Of course, Xiao Ran didn’t think starting so many films at once was a good idea. So, he kept some scripts aside to plan for later.

However, there were still two scripts that could be filmed right away. One was the first script written by Qiu Yu, a police thriller with a sci-fi twist. Earlier, Xiao Ran had asked the writing team to remove the sci-fi elements and add more logical plot development.

The other script was also by Kong Jiaqing, a member of the writing team. It was a literary-themed script, and once directed well, it had a chance of winning an award. Neither of them was any of the films in Xiao Ran’s memory, showing how greatly the film industry had changed, with more and more outstanding screenwriters emerging rapidly.

Chen Musheng and Du Qifeng arrived first. Chen Musheng is still Du Qifeng’s assistant director today. After they and a producer named Hu Ziwen arrived, Xiao Ran didn’t waste time—he simply handed the script to the producer and confirmed that Old Du would be the director.

After giving these instructions, Xiao Ran smiled faintly and stared at Chen Musheng, slowly saying, “Asheng, how confident do you think you are now? I mean, directing a film on your own—what kind of themes interest you?”

Chen Musheng was stunned for a moment before bursting into joy. Since Xiao Ran said this, it meant he intended to support him—how could he not be happy? Without hesitation, he blurted out, “Bro Ran, I personally prefer action scenes!”

*****
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