Chapter 243: Experimental Film

Isn’t this funny? Xiao Ran had always believed that production costs were extremely important, yet this time the actual expenses were surprisingly low—those four million already included costs for post-production and other aspects. By this ratio, it not only fell short of Xiao Ran’s ideal 1:4 ratio but was actually the opposite.
Leung Ka-bau was the first journalist to learn that Xiao Ran was starting a new film, and he rushed to interview him right away. However, Xiao Ran had little confidence in creating works with a personal style and simply brushed him off.
Nevertheless, various businesses and companies still stepped in, offering sponsorship or advertising fees, with Mitsubishi being the most enthusiastic, seemingly eager to grab a checkbook and start checking boxes. Ironically, once Mitsubishi’s people found out Xiao Ran was directing an experimental film, they disappeared immediately.
Anyway, many companies believed in Xiao Ran’s abilities. Although Hong Kong has produced many talented people and outstanding directors in recent years, Xiao Ran’s status as Hong Kong’s top commercial director remains firmly established—at least in the eyes of those outside the industry. Sponsorships continued as usual, and Han Long from the planning department smiled so wide his eyes narrowed, because just from sponsorships and advertisements, they had already made millions after deducting production costs.
Who else besides Xiao Ran could generate such momentum, attracting countless sponsors on their own? Yet Xiao Ran wasn’t entirely confident. He felt he might be a competent commercial director, but definitely not a famous one—his skills were still far from those of directors like Wu Yushen.
It’s hard to describe Xiao Ran’s thoughts, but they stemmed from his lack of confidence, which was rather frustrating. However, his lack of confidence wasn’t unfounded; it was clear he wasn’t yet at the level of a famous director, so he tried to find his own style in this experimental film and explore a path suited to him.
Xiao Ran put a lot of effort into selecting the crew members. It was easy to find editors—he used his regular team, as was usual for his works, as only those most familiar with the director’s ideas could collaborate seamlessly.
What troubled him was finding a cameraman. Huang Yongheng wasn’t bad, but he wasn’t skilled in handheld photography. Among Hong Kong’s top four handheld photographers, one was Duke Fung, another was Liu Weiqiang, and the other two were newcomers.
The problem was that Huang Yongheng could understand and interpret Xiao Ran’s ideas well, while Liu Weiqiang wasn’t strong enough overall and might not grasp Xiao Ran’s intentions. In the end, Xiao Ran decided to have Huang Yongheng as the photography director and Liu Weiqiang as the cameraman.
He invited the key crew members to a restaurant, reserved a private room, and after ordering food, Xiao Ran glanced around at his old colleagues: the lighting director Dou Wenbao, photography director Huang Yongheng and cameraman Liu Weiqiang, art director Zhang Shuping, sound designer Xiang Bao (a position that had emerged recently), screenwriter You Hai, and the producer, among others…

Thanks to technological advancements, roles are becoming increasingly specialized these days. So, Xiao Ran couldn’t bring in all the people behind the scenes; he only invited the heads of various departments. Xiao Ran took a sip of water, leaned back in his chair, and said, “I’ve invited everyone here today to discuss the new film!”
“Brother Ran, just tell us directly. We’ll definitely bring out our best skills to help make this film the best it can be!” People say lighting technicians are like the “gods of lights” — rough and tough types, and Dou Wenbao clearly showed that trait.
Xiao Ran nodded, trying to find the right words: “My concept is quite strange. I’ve been thinking — could we use the camera as if it were a human eye to see the world? That’s where this idea came from. That’s why Qingyun and Zhenyu are both supporting characters and protagonists.”
Everyone stared at Xiao Ran wide-eyed. He smiled reassuringly, knowing it wasn’t easy to understand even though he hadn’t yet gotten to the core of it. He gestured and said, “It’s simple. The camera is the protagonist, its eyes. I want to tell a story through these eyes — a story about two thieves.”
They still didn’t quite understand what he meant, and You Hai was even more confused. He remembered Xiao Ran asking him to write a script, a very interesting one. The general plot was about two thieves coincidentally handling the same case, so they started working together. In the process, an innocent and unlucky civilian, forced by various circumstances, was trapped in a house between the two thieves. Soon, the police surrounded the house, and that’s how the story unfolded.
Xiao Ran pondered for a moment. It was indeed hard to explain. Just then, Huang Yongheng gradually showed a surprised expression and suddenly exclaimed, “You mean using the camera as the protagonist and shooting everything from that perspective?”
“Yes. In this film, there will only be the protagonist’s point of view. What the protagonist can’t see won’t appear on screen,” Xiao Ran explained quickly. “And we don’t need the protagonist’s face to appear on screen, so we can use the camera instead!”
With those words, everyone looked surprised and understood Xiao Ran’s idea. Assistant director Yu Jiayu’s heart skipped a beat. He thought Xiao Ran’s concept might be a bit too unusual and experimentally driven.
Seeing everyone’s surprised expressions, Xiao Ran found it amusing. He had come up with this idea accidentally. He wondered why actors were necessary. If the camera replaced the protagonist, it would definitely be interesting.
After much thought, however, he realized actors were essential. Even if the camera took over the protagonist’s vision, people were still needed. Moreover, without people, intense effects couldn’t be created. Xiao Ran wasn’t aware that his subconscious still wanted the film to have some commercial elements.
Later, after much thought, Xiao Ran found inspiration in “Dark Battle.” He thought he could use the camera’s eyes to tell a story of wits and tactics. “Dark Battle” was about cops and thieves — why not thieves against thieves? That’s how the characters of Liu Qingyun and Wu Zhenyu came into being.

Liu Weiqiang finally understood what his task was. He had been resentful all along—after all, he was a renowned cinematographer, yet here he was, working as a subordinate for Huang Yongheng. But after hearing Xiao Ran’s explanation, he immediately became interested and forgot about the idea of being a subordinate altogether.

Xiao Ran knew Liu Weiqiang would definitely be interested. He remembered that after Wang Jiawei directed *Infernal Affairs*, Liu Weiqiang had said he only hoped to have at least one masterpiece in his lifetime; otherwise, it would be as if he had lived in vain.

Xiao Ran was confident, and so was Liu Weiqiang. If this film succeeded, it would be easy for Liu Weiqiang to win an award. After all, he would play the lead role—using his expertise with handheld cameras to act as the protagonist’s eyes and observe everything. This demanded extremely high cinematographic skills, and if he could overcome that, he would definitely be eligible for an award.

“Lao Zhang, we still need you for the art direction!” Xiao Ran smiled, his bright white teeth strikingly visible. “In this regard, I think…”

Since this inspiration had come quite recently, Xiao Ran hadn’t thought everything through yet. He was only certain of one thing: a desire, or rather, an impulse. A particularly strong urge drove him to desperately want to direct such a film.

Art direction is always closely tied to the film’s theme—just as Wang Jiawei couldn’t function without Zhang Shuping, like a hand missing from a body. Since the film’s theme hadn’t been finalized yet, Xiao Ran found it difficult to make a decision.

Other art directors of lower caliber might not be able to create an art style that matched the director’s vision based on the theme and core idea. One factor was skill, and the other was mutual understanding. But Zhang Shuping was part of Xiao Ran’s long-term team, so he was confident they shared that understanding.

In Xiao Ran’s vision, the film could have two focal points: what he wanted to express through it. He could convey the exhilarating thrill of intellectual battles or the distortions and changes resulting from a unique perspective. These two aspects could lead to different artistic creations from Zhang Shuping.

In a sense, these two concepts didn’t interfere with each other—the perspective was a technique, while the intellectual battles were the process. After hesitating for a moment, Xiao Ran quickly made a decision: “It’s simple. The perspective should stand out to convey this sense ofwonderful distortion. The process is the focus—we want to convey a sense of mutual respect, without it being too strong.”

“I see…” Zhang Shuping quickly organized his thoughts, a thoughtful expression appearing on his face. “I think it’s fine. But really, do you not need any additional support for the perspective?”

Xiao Ran shook his head. If he continued to focus on the perspective, it might lead to extremes. He then turned to Dou Wenbao: “Lao Dou, for lighting, you work with Lao Huang. But for the lighting, I don’t need it too bright or too dark. We can make the contrast stronger, a bit like in *Dark Flowers*!”

Dou Wenbao certainly has no problem; being able to be here and communicate with the director is the result of Xiao Ran’s efforts over the years to improve his position in other roles. He and his team are Huang Yongheng’s preferred lighting crew. Each cameraman tends to lead their own team so as to develop better coordination and become familiar with each other’s strengths and weaknesses.

When Liu Weiqiang saw Xiao Ran looking at him, he immediately understood what he meant and stepped forward, saying, “Brother Ran, I get it. I’ll handle the handheld camera. In your words, I’m the protagonist— the camera is my eyes!”

Xiao Ran burst into laughter. Liu Weiqiang was indeed interesting; no wonder he had been able to secure many investments to direct films over the years. Still, Xiao Ran didn’t think it would be a good idea to let this guy direct, even though Liu Weiqiang and Wenjun’s gangster series were quite strong, most of them were terrible movies, like Blue Bloods and The Boxing God.

As for Huang Yongheng, Xiao Ran’s instructions were much simpler: “Use filter lenses to make the base color of the image darker. Also, I need a strong contrast between lights and shadows. You know, like in an abandoned house, where the light inside contrasts sharply with the outside light!”

Huang Yongheng, indeed a cinematographer who worked in perfect harmony with Xiao Ran, quickly raised a question, “If you want a sense of mutual respect, I think the black-and-white contrast shouldn’t be too strong!”

Xiao Ran was momentarily stunned before remembering that Huang Yongheng was also Wu Yusen’s preferred cinematographer. He smiled and said, “It doesn’t matter. This is different from the mutual respect in The Twins. That was a conflict of status and positions. Here, there’s no status—only positions! I think we can use light contrast to enhance that effect.”

Huang Yongheng had no objections. He closed his eyes and imagined the filming process. Perhaps this was also why cameramen were most likely to switch to directing—not because they were closest to directors, but because they needed to control the overall situation, which resembled a director’s role.

As for editor Zhang Yaozong, Xiao Ran actually didn’t need to say much. Zhang Yaozong could basically understand Xiao Ran’s intentions. For the rest, he would need to observe the filming process on set to determine where cuts were needed.

After giving more instructions, Xiao Ran finally saw the food served. He poked the abalones in the pot and smiled lightly, “I’m treating everyone to this meal. Please, don’t be polite—taste these three-headed abalones and Boston lobsters!”

“Since Director Xiao is treating us, it would be a shame not to eat!” Everyone exclaimed loudly and started eating right away. You Hai hesitated for a moment before finally asking, “Brother Ran, I don’t quite understand. Why do you want to direct such a film? I think it’s unlikely to be a box office hit!”

Really? Why direct such a film? In terms of creativity, almost all the screenwriting awards in recent years had gone to ideas from Xiao Ran. Why didn’t he direct those films himself? Xiao Ran knew well that he didn’t want to be a famous director in name only but a true one—he needed to find his own path through low-budget films.

“Honey, I don’t understand either. If you’re fine, why go and direct such a movie?” Lin Qingxia took a sip of the chicken soup that had been simmering for a long time before asking confusedly, “You’re a director as famous as Wu Yusen and the others—there’s no reason for you to do this!”
Xiao Ran stared quietly at his wife. This was at the Fox Mountain Studios. After Jiahe was shut down, the lease for this studio fell to Shadow. “The Three Heroes of the East 2” had just started shooting, and he had taken some time to bring soup to Lin Qingxia and check on her at the same time.