Chapter 54: I Need You

Next, Xiao Ran explained one by one the outstanding characteristics of scripts he had analyzed in his “dreams,” which truly amazed the students. Near the end, Xiao Ran summarized: “Basically, in my view, scriptwriting can never do without these four words: innovation, uniqueness, precision, and ingenuity!”
“That’s all for today. I hope my words will be beneficial to everyone!” Xiao Ran smiled slightly, glanced around the room, and added, “If you think you’re capable enough, consider working at Shadow Company after graduation. I’d be more than happy to have you!”
Applause erupted in the classroom like thunder, with students clapping so hard it seemed their hands might break—proof of how successful Xiao Ran’s lecture had been. After all, what he had shared were the essence and insights gained by top experts over twenty years of studying the decline of Hong Kong cinema. To say it wasn’t remarkable in this era would be an act of extreme modesty.
As dozens of students crowded outside the classroom cleared the way, Xiao Ran and the others moved forward. Before leaving, worried that Lin Qingxia might get bumped into, Xiao Ran instinctively took her hand. Unexpectedly, the students, already impressed by his speech, politely gave way to them.
Amidst students who looked at him with admiration, Xiao Ran suddenly felt that all his efforts hadn’t been in vain. Moreover, he experienced a strange sense—as if the whole world was in his hands. It was a feeling far beyond mere pride, a powerful confidence stemming from those around him.
From that moment on, he believed he could turn the tide and save Hong Kong cinema, without hesitation. He knew he could handle anything, overcome any difficulty—no more doubts…
After leaving Jinmei, watching the company’s scriptwriters leave, Wei Jiahui gazed at the cars speeding by on the road and sighed, “A Ran, I really hadn’t thought about the issues you raised today. I always thought making movies was easy, but it seems not necessarily so…”
Lin Qingxia looked at Xiao Ran differently, as if seeing a genius—though Xiao Ran knew he was just a fake genius. Faced with Wei Jiahui’s indirect praise, Xiao Ran couldn’t help rubbing his nose to hide his emotions. “Ultimately, it’s the systems of local film companies that are the problem. If we could establish a proper system comparable to Hollywood’s, there would be less concern!”
Xiao Ran knew this, and so did Wei Jiahui. But it wasn’t that easy. At least 80% of film companies were engaged in short-term investments for profit. Only Cathay-Keris and Shaw Brothers could be considered the most dedicated in the industry, yet even they had systemic issues.
Before 1987, short-term investments in the film industry weren’t widespread. A few years later, the whole of Hong Kong seemed to go mad investing in movies—true madness. Even in Xiao Ran’s eyes, New Art City and Deppa, the most powerful companies aside from Cathay-Keris, seemed to engage in short-term tactics.

Both New Art City and Deppa stopped production at the height of their success, which remains a great mystery in Hong Kong’s film industry. The former’s decision could be understood due to issues among its executives. Deppa, on the other hand, focused on high-quality films and consistently made it to the best film categories at the Golden Horse and Golden Statue Awards, enjoying great success. Yet at the peak of its glory, Pan Disheng, the major investor in Deppa, suddenly announced the cessation of all film operations. What secrets lay behind this remains unknown.

The upcoming shutdown of New Art City also raises doubts. At the time of shutdown, New Art City still had a film contract with Chow Yun-Fat. Given Chow’s box office appeal at that time, that film would have been a huge success. Yet Lei Kaitai seemed unwilling to earn even that last sum of money and hastily ended New Art City, which is extremely strange.

Wei Jiahui paused, his expression resolute as he looked at Xiao Ran and said, “A Ran, if you don’t mind, I’d like to join your company.”

Xiao Ran didn’t show the slightest surprise. After his recent realization, he knew he had changed in some ways. Of course, he wasn’t unwilling to have talent like Wei Jiahui, especially since Wei also had a genius like Shuang You under him.

In the past, he would have been overjoyed. But now his thinking was crystal clear—he knew that geniuses aren’t born that way; they’re shaped by their environment. Xiao Ran was well aware that Wei Jiahui’s talent had been nurtured at TVB. If he took Wei Jiahui under his wing now, that talent might wither away.

But he was even more aware that he couldn’t wait—he didn’t have much time left. The peak of Hong Kong cinema was just a few years away, and Xiao Ran needed to gather all his strength to save it. Wei Jiahui was undoubtedly an excellent piece on the board. With this thought, he had an idea: why not train him himself?

According to history, Wei Jiahui wouldn’t emerge until 1994. Though Xiao Ran was patient, he wouldn’t be foolish enough to wait that long. After considering everything, he nodded firmly at Wei Jiahui, “Xiao Bao, on behalf of the company, I welcome you, as well as Ah Hai and Ah Zhi! By the way, Xiao Bao, if you think there are any other talents, feel free to bring them to me!”

After Wei Jiahui and the others left, Lin Qingxia invited Xiao Ran into the car. But instead of starting the engine right away, she turned to look at him and said, “A Ran, to be honest, do you want to sign me?”

“That’s right, Sister Lin. You know that Mirage Company doesn’t have many notable actors right now. Mirage needs you!” He looked at Lin Qingxia sincerely and confessed everything.

Lin Qingxia turned her face away, looking out the window. Xiao Ran almost seemed to hear her say, “Why don’t you need me?” Shocked, he looked at her closely but saw no sign that she had spoken. He could only console himself by thinking it was just an illusion, but could he really forget those words?

That day, Xiao Ran sent someone to meet Lin Qingxia’s agent. The news of Mirage successfully signing Lin Qingxia to a long-term contract quickly became the entertainment headline in newspapers the next day. Although everyone knew Xiao Ran and Lin Qingxia had a good relationship, no one expected it to be good enough for him to make her an artist under his company with just a word.

Meanwhile, Xiao Ran took this opportunity to announce that the production of Phantom’s first film was about to begin. Three days later, Phantom had Chen Kexin under his control. Another day passed, and Yu Yuyu submitted a list of the crew members involved in The God of Gamblers to Xiao Ran. Xu Ke called and agreed to review the script before deciding whether to direct The Legend of the Ghostly Beauty. A week later, Wang Zuxian, Zhang Min, and Wu Junru signed long-term contracts with Phantom Company. Unfortunately, Hui Yinghong refused to sign anything, preferring to remain independent. Also a week later, Zhang Wanding and Luo Qirui agreed to direct Phantom’s film, A Fairy Tale in Autumn. A few days after that, Xiao Ran successfully secured permission from New Art City to have Lin Lingdong and his brother Nan Yan produce Prison Storm.

At present, Phantom Company is quite small, not much different from ordinary small firms. However, its filmmakers are undoubtedly talented, and Xiao Ran does his best to recruit anyone he can find.

One day, as the acting production manager, Xiao Ran received a budget report from his producers. The budget for The God of Gamblers had already been determined a few days earlier—only 4.2 million. As for A Fairy Tale in Autumn, it was still in the planning stage, so there was no specific figure yet. The budget for Prison Storm also did not exceed 5 million.

After carefully examining the budget report, Xiao Ran smiled slightly. With his career about to begin, success was inevitable. After some thought, he obtained the current financial status from the finance department. In fact, Phantom hadn’t spent much money yet, aside from several million spent on signing artists.

It’s worth mentioning Phantom’s contracts with filmmakers, which mainly fall into two types. The first type involves signing direct contracts where the company pays a monthly salary as a guarantee, along with regular payment for performance fees, ensuring a steady income. However, very few people get such contracts; they are reserved for the top talents in various fields.

For example, among directors, only Du Qifeng, Liu Zhenwei, and Chen Musheng have signed contracts, while photographers include Huang Yongheng and Du Kefeng. The art director is Zhang Shuping, and the action director is Cheng Xiaodong. Unfortunately, some positions are still unfilled, such as editors, costume designers, and sound engineers, which clearly frustrated Xiao Ran.

The second type is the most common contract arrangement in the film industry, divided into long-term and short-term contracts. Long-term contracts involve producing several films over two to three years, while short-term contracts cover the production of one film in a short period. In short, anyone Xiao Ran requests either signs a long-term contract or a short-term one. Short-term contracts are readily available, so there’s no rush.

Among all the behind-the-scenes staff, only screenwriters have a different status. Only screenwriters enjoy the same treatment as artists and can sign formal contracts with Phantom. Of course, their compensation is excellent. Generally, screenwriters earn less than 60,000 per month, but top-tier screenwriters like Xiao Ran can earn over 100,000.

At Phantom, screenwriters not only receive a basic salary but also a surprisingly high fee for their work. This fee is also tied to awards and box office performance, with a basic salary of at least 60,000. Of course, these are not the highly inflated awards like the Hundred Flowers Awards in the mainland.

Of course, Xiao Ran wasn’t stupid. He knew that in a creative profession like this, it was impossible to allow laziness to set in. To address this, Xiao Ran had thoughtfully implemented restrictions. The contract stipulated that if a screenwriter failed to complete even one script within a certain period, they would be dismissed without exception.

Xiao Ran was aware that this could easily lead screenwriters to work alone. Yet he deeply longed for the collaborative environment akin to that in New Art City. He wasn’t worried about this, though, because every script had to be reviewed by Wei Jiahui, the specialized script reviewer. If certain plot points or sequences didn’t pass the review, other screenwriters would be organized to make revisions. Naturally, these revisions came with payment, paid by the original screenwriter.

But Xiao Ran didn’t want Wei Jiahui tied up by such trivial matters, so he had Wei Jiahui quickly train several reviewers with professional insight, so he could free himself up to assist. With Wei Jiahui as his asset, Xiao Ran really wanted to enter the television industry. But from what he knew, TVB’s pressure on competitors was something he couldn’t withstand, so he gave up on the idea.

The producer of “Prison Storm” was a newcomer named Mo Tianxin. When Xiao Ran saw this name, he burst into laughter, remembering a very sexy actress in Taiwan named Tianxin. But despite his laughter, he was fully confident in Mo Tianxin’s abilities.

Mo Tianxin was a very rigid person. To put it exaggeratively, Xiao Ran even doubted he knew how to laugh. But when he saw Mo Tianxin take the script of “Prison Storm” from him, have Nan Yan make certain revisions (Xiao Ran often intentionally left gaps in his scripts to give his company’s screenwriters a chance to shine. Besides, his scripts were only long enough for 90 minutes, so revisions by other screenwriters were necessary), assemble the team, set the budget, and arrange everything related to the filming process with great precision, he knew he had struck gold.