Chapter 178: Endless Gratitude

While Xiao Ran was lost in thought, Jiang Zhi left. He couldn’t help but shake his head—what business did that cold-hearted Huang Qun have with him? Sitting there, he pondered the issues of various companies, especially ATV, which he was concerned about. Whether it was technology, equipment, talent, or funding, ATV’s requests had never been denied.

His requirements for ATV were quite simple: to avoid poaching from TVB and instead cultivate its own talent. ATV had always liked to recruit from TVB, but those brought over might not become famous, and their own people ended up as background actors—how could that win hearts?

As for the rest, although Shadow might not have as many actors as TVB, it certainly had far more big stars. It wasn’t an exaggeration to say that Xiao Ran could turn any obscure person into a big star with the help of all his subsidiaries. With such support, if ATV still couldn’t surpass TVB, Xiao Ran would rather die.

The only thing confusing Xiao Ran was that although ATV’s new dramas hadn’t been released yet, it had already surpassed TVB in variety shows and similar programs. TVB merely responded by launching similar variety shows instead of resorting to despicable tactics like in history.

For a moment, he forgot that in history, ATV never had a backer like Shadow. When it came to actors, with just one word from Xiao Ran, either Fa Ge or Hong Gu could come to ATV to shoot a drama. With its massive film industry backing it, Old Shao naturally felt uneasy and wouldn’t act rashly.

However, Xiao Ran was too lazy to deal with ATV’s affairs; his main focus was still on films. Other matters could be handled by Wei Dongling and the others. Films—when would they reach such a scale?

That evening was the preview screening. Xiao Ran and Lin Qingxia went together. He thought he could now understand why the practice of preview screenings was eventually abolished—probably due to piracy. If pirated copies were leaked through preview screenings, it would be a devastating blow. No wonder, in history, gangs even went so far as to raid cinemas to steal copies.

The cinema was packed. Chen Kexin was sweating profusely, constantly wiping his hands on his clothes, showing his nervousness. This was his debut film. If it faced widespread criticism, it would likely take years before he could recover.

It should be noted that the production cost of “Love Beyond Life” was 25 million, of which Lin Qingxia’s share was 2.5 million, while Xiao Ran’s… Xiao Ran’s share was an astonishingly low figure—200,000.

Strictly speaking, this was Xiao Ran’s second acting role, and since he wasn’t a big star, his salary was naturally low. Even though he had considerable influence, that had nothing to do with his acting career. As a result, a billionaire worth billions had a net worth of only 200,000. Of course, this was mainly because Xiao Ran preferred to follow the rules.

As the noise from the audience gradually subsided, the film showed a few commercials totaling only three minutes before revealing the trailers for the two movies released by Phantom. One of them was “If Heaven Has Affection,” starring Liu Hua and Wu Qian; it was still in production and scheduled for release at Christmas. While the trailers were playing, Xiao Ran listened attentively to the audience’s reactions. Clearly, the audience had accepted the presence of commercials and trailers before each movie, and they found these trailers to be quite impressive, as could be heard from the sounds around them.

As Phantom’s logo appeared, the film by Phantom Images began. Its opening featured two interlocked, rotating metal rings, giving it a tangible quality. The movie started, and unlike Xiao Ran and Chen Kexin’s usual approach, Chen Kexin displayed the title first before adding subtitles.

Entering the main plot, the scene began with Xiao Ran and Lin Qingxia moving into their new home to prepare for marriage. Chen Kexin handled this scene with sensitivity—handling it lightly without any physical contact between the two, leaving only a subtle hint of emotion. Next came the scene where Xiao Ran was shot in an alley; the audience saw him slowly and incredulously fall, evoking a sense of sorrow for someone who tried to help others only to be killed. The subsequent scenes effectively engaged the audience’s interest, though the supporting roles played by Luo Lan fell short of those in the original version.

Among the audience was someone who had met Xiao Ran a few times—the enthusiastic fan introduced by Situ Zhuohan. This fan, named Zhang Xinggui, was already a member of Phantom Friends. He loved movies dearly and could be considered a fan of Xiao Ran’s.

Zhang Xinggui was in the theater, quietly enjoying the film. He was greatly surprised when he saw Xiao Ran, with his beard shaved off, moving through walls on the screen. Other companies did have similar special effects, but none were as impressive as these. Of course, he didn’t know it was the work of the special effects team.

As he watched Xiao Ran constantly searching for his wife, his eerily calm expression, and his occasional movements revealing deep concern, he felt truly moved. When Xiao Ran and Lin Qingxia were together yet he couldn’t touch her, the panic and despair in his eyes were fully expressed. Zhang Xinggui no longer had the mind to think about anything else, nor the energy to analyze how excellent Xiao Ran’s acting was, as he was completely immersed in the story.

Most of the audience in the theater felt their noses sting, with an indescribable urge to cry building within them, ready to burst out at any moment. Yet they paid no attention to this, as their attention was entirely focused on those two strangers on the screen.

In the scene where Lin Qingxia played with clay alone, Chen Kexin cleverly avoided using montage to interweave memories with the present scene. Instead, he had Lin Qingxia appear distracted, unconsciously shaping a clay figure in her hands.

In the way this scene was presented, Chen Kexin was even more subtle—there wasn’t even a half-shot of Xiao Ran—but people could clearly sense the deep longing in the film. One could even imagine Lin Qingxia kneading clay in such an environment with Xiao Ran in their minds. When Xiao Ran saw this scene, he couldn’t help but silently applaud. Lin Qingxia failed many times during filming because she couldn’t experience that feeling; it was only after Xiao Ran demonstrated it himself that she realized it. This had nothing to do with Lin Qingxia’s acting skills—it was purely a directorial innovation that she found difficult to understand. Xiao Ran even dared to bet that no one had used such a bold approach to handle similar scenes up to that point. The filming method for this scene was actually his idea, or rather, his guidance to Chen Kexin. Zhang Wanding, the producer, was also present. After hearing Xiao Ran’s idea, she merely pondered it briefly before hesitantly saying, “This requires the actor’s performance to be absolutely perfect!” Indeed, in scenes like this, the actor takes full control. If Lin Qingxia’s performance wasn’t at its best, failing even to reach that level, the scene would surely become a flaw in the entire film. That’s why few people dared to use such an unconventional method to deliberately convey longing and memories through acting. It was very difficult—truly difficult—even more so than building up the emotion in the final scene. Lin Qingxia could never meet those demands. What needed to be understood was that her performance in this scene wasn’t just about showing longing and sadness; most importantly, it had to indirectly lead the audience to perceive it as a memory scene, which required extremely superb acting skills. Fortunately, after wasting countless rolls of film and effort, the scene finally achieved perfection. Watching this, Chen Kexin couldn’t help but shed tears—not for any other reason, but because he was moved by the emotion. Suddenly, he realized that Xiao Ran’s directing ability was far stronger than he had imagined. Just the way this single shot was handled brought all the audience’s emotions to their peak, creating the first major climax. In reality, Xiao Ran wasn’t as sharp as Chen Kexin thought, but this technique wasn’t stolen from anyone—it was entirely his own creation. Of course, it couldn’t really be called a creation, as there were similar techniques in countless films he had admired, but none as perfect or infused with genius as his. Zhang Xinggui felt his face gradually weten. The nearly static shot on the big screen didn’t make him feel dull or bored; instead, it brought his emotions to their peak, making him cry uncontrollably. The theater was silent, with only the song “Endless Melody” (it’s unknown which year Bob sang it; let’s assume it was 1990) drifting softly through the air. The music was like a force that penetrated the soul. Though it sounded gentle, it had an endless ability to permeate, softening everyone’s hearts and immersing them in that deeply moving music.

A thread of sorrow, a thread of bitterness, a thread of pain, a thread of truth… The melodious song played at just the right moment, enhancing the melancholic and painful atmosphere on the screen. In everyone’s mind, scenes of Xiao Ran and Lin Qingxia playing with soil emerged, demonstrating the charm of music combined with visuals.

“Heavenly music” — perhaps this is the only term capable of describing the power of this song at this moment. The theater was filled only with that soft, trembling female voice, mournfully narrating a beautiful love story. The audience didn’t even dare to move, fearing they might disrupt the emotion it brought them.

But time didn’t stand still; the film continued, and the audience’s emotion persisted. Until the end, when Xiao Ran finally saw Lin Qingxia again — only to realize that reunion meant separation as well.

Throughout the three-minute ending scene, not a sound came from the screen. Lin Qingxia on screen was surrounded by beams of light, their eyes locked on each other, the world around them disappearing.

It was in this scene that Xiao Ran began to feel nervous. He had directed this scene himself, knowing full well he wasn’t suited for directing, yet he couldn’t bear to let his inspiration go to waste.

Much like the earlier scene, Xiao Ran hoped Chen Kexin would use a similar approach. But he didn’t expect Chen Kexin to go even further, removing all sound except for the eye contact between him and Lin Qingxia.

This was a huge risk — such a scene could easily lead to silence, relying entirely on the actors’ performance. Yet Xiao Ran didn’t know that Chen Kexin had originally planned another approach, but after hearing Xiao Ran’s suggestion, he decided to go even further. He was convinced this scene would never fall silent; if an exaggerated phrase had to describe Xiao Ran and Lin Qingxia’s performance, it would surely be “the actor and the role becoming one.”

At least Chen Kexin could swear he had never seen such a passionate performance in a film, nor had he witnessed such seamless chemistry between actors. So he adopted this approach without hesitation, even more extreme than what Xiao Ran suggested.

Xiao Ran and Lin Qingxia’s hands were tightly clasped, both feeling each other’s heartbeat through their palms. They weren’t worried that the audience wouldn’t accept them together, but that the scene wouldn’t pass the test — after all, such a scene in any other film would turn a classic into a flop.

The scene on screen seemed to become real in that instant, playing out before everyone’s eyes, with that silent eye contact. In that moment, everyone could sense every trace of regret in their gazes, a surge of emotion rising from deep within.

Zhang Xinggui had forgotten everything outside, his mind filled only with this almost still scene that delivered such profound psychological impact. Especially when Lin Qingxia floated higher and higher, the eyes and expressions of the lead characters made him hold his breath.

“The Endless Melody” rang out once again at just the right moment. If earlier it could only be described as a masterful backdrop, then here, everyone could only use one word to describe it: flawless. The transition was so clever and perfect that it allowed everyone’s emotions to continue without interruption.
The movie ended at its climax, and everyone took a deep breath, inhaling the air they had forgotten earlier. They stared blankly at the subtitles on the screen.
Xiao Ran and Lin Qingxia had let go of each other’s hands, as they had both been completely immersed in the emotions just moments ago. Now, as if returning to that state of emotion, they quickly grasped each other’s hands tightly, fearing they might be separated forever, just like what happened on screen.
Xiao Ran wasn’t worried at all now; he knew the movie would definitely succeed, just as Chen Kexin believed. As the movie’s subtitles neared the end, sparse applause started, and gradually more people stood up to applaud in the brightly lit theater.
*****
I couldn’t update recently as I went home to visit family. Please understand!