Chapter 79: The God of Acting

When Gao Jin appeared at the beginning of the film, an absolutely inspiring piece of music filled the cinema. The film’s composer was not any renowned artist in Xiao Ran’s memory, but rather a newcomer who had only been in the film industry for two years. Of course, compared to this newcomer, Xiao Ran was even newer himself.
The reason a famous composer wasn’t chosen was because Xiao Ran was well aware that composing music was something he could handle, unlike cinematography, which required extremely high skills. At least Xiao Ran knew very well what kind of music suited which film. In terms of music composition, he believed his taste was quite excellent, and his horizons had been broadened by the works of Zhong Zhirong from Galaxy Images.
It was a helpless situation—under the influence of such masterful works, it would be strange if one’s horizons weren’t broadened. Xiao Ran tried several composers for the soundtrack but wasn’t satisfied until he found this young man named Lin Yundao, whose work seemed decent to him. In Xiao Ran’s eyes, this was undoubtedly another talented artist who hadn’t achieved much in the film industry.
When Long Wu appeared on screen, Xiao Ran chuckled. It was just a subway fight—he could handle it. Back then, filming that scene had been quite difficult for Xiao Ran. After all, there were no computer effects back then, and no protective gear to wear that could be removed during post-production. So, Xiao Ran had to rely on his own fighting skills, with Cheng Xiaodong acting as the action director. However, Cheng Xiaodong wasn’t very good at such brute-force action sequences, so Xiao Ran had to recall classic fight scenes from his memory to simulate them. It was a truly grueling scene—Xiao Ran ended up with countless bruises from filming just that simple scene.
Thinking of this, Xiao Ran admired action actors even more—what they did wasn’t acting at all; it was risking their lives. The audience below was stunned when Xiao Ran appeared, then burst into laughter, likely recognizing him.
It had to be admitted that Xiao Ran’s entrance was extremely cool—three times cooler than Long Wu’s version in the original film. Unlike in the original film where Long Wu took some time to defeat his opponents, he dealt with them swiftly.
However, Xiao Ran felt a bit regretful. If Guan Xin had been the action director, the fight scenes might have been even more intense. With this thought, Xiao Ran glanced at Guan Xin. Coincidentally, Gao Jin on screen indirectly revealed Long Wu’s identity: “Truly worthy of being from the South Vietnam Special Forces…”
Upon hearing those words, Guan Xin frowned slightly. Xiao Ran chuckled again. He now had more and more evidence regarding Guan Xin’s identity. There were three parts in “The God of Gambling,” and Xiao Ran planned to use the concept of a trilogy—making a sequel and a prequel as well.
So, he planted many clues in the script. For example, Long Wu and Gao Jin were supposed to meet for the first time, but Xiao Ran deliberately made it seem like they had been good friends since long ago. This way, the issue of a prequel was resolved. In the scene where Gao Jin suffered a concussion, Xiao Ran also had the doctor inform the audience that Gao Jin had previously been injured in the head, thus providing enough groundwork for Li Ming’s “The Young God of Gambling.”

Let’s continue to enjoy the movie. When a scene of a subway battle ended, Xiao Ran could even faintly hear the audience in the front holding their breath—such fierce action sequences were undoubtedly very manly. When Gao Jin started falling down the mountain due to a misstep, even the more easily startled audience members gasped. It was clear that this movie touched everyone’s heart. Their emotions grew even more intense when they saw the villain played by Wu Zhenyu betraying Gao Jin. Xiao Ran gradually lost interest in observing the audience’s reactions as his attention was fully drawn to the movie. It was a truly outstanding classic—absolutely so. Even Xiao Ran himself was extremely excited. His appreciation skills were already strong, and when evaluating his own work, he could also spot what wasn’t right. In Xiao Ran’s eyes, and in the eyes of the audience, there was almost only one man in this movie: Gao Jin, portrayed by Zhou Runfa. Perhaps there was half a man, namely the extremely fierce Long Wu. As for Liu Hua, he was quite frustrated, realizing that although he had performed well—thanks in part to Xiao Ran’s guidance—he was still completely overshadowed by Fa Ge, whose acting skills had improved even further. Especially when watching the scene where Gao Jin foolishly took a bet, and Zhou Runfa displayed an extremely strange sense of detachment through his body language, gaze, and expressions, Xiao Ran was utterly shocked. He swore that Fa Ge’s performance here was even better than the original version he had seen. His expression seemed foolish and vacant, yet his gaze was extremely sharp, with his body language perfectly reflecting both aspects. Now, Xiao Ran had only one thought: Fa Ge was a god, the god of acting. Just that one scene was enough to confirm his supreme status. Then, in the final battle scene, Fa Ge casually took out chocolate. The method of stuffing the whole piece of chocolate into his mouth was something Fa Ge suggested on his own—he told Xiao Ran that this would maximize the portrayal of Gao Jin’s status and give him a superior air of dominance. As a result, Gao Jin easily defeated his opponent while chewing chocolate… Apart from Fa Ge, no one could play the God of Gambling. Once Fa Ge decided to take on this role, Gao Jin became synonymous with him. Xiao Ran finally realized that it wasn’t Wang Jing who created the classic “The God of Gambling,” but Fa Ge. Wang Jing only earned the title of a pioneer in gambling movies, and that was only possible because of Fa Ge—without him, it all would have meant nothing. Xiao Ran was right; Fa Ge’s performance in that scene became one of the classic examples that all actors around the world would have to study in the future. This was an unprecedented level, one that only the god of acting could achieve. Zhou Runfa was also very satisfied with his performance, but he was even more grateful for Xiao Ran’s on-set guidance. Without Xiao Ran’s personal advice, he thought it would have been difficult for him to achieve such a good result.

Never think that Xiao Ran lacks acting skills and is therefore not qualified to give advice to Stephen Chow. A director doesn’t have to be an acting master, but they must be someone capable of guiding actors to improve their skills, as their judgment is sharp and strict, allowing them to spot flaws in an actor’s performance. Just as Du Zifeng helped Liu Hua win two coveted Best Actor awards, this doesn’t mean Du Zifeng is a good actor himself.

If Stephen Chow represents unwavering passion in “A Hero’s Heart,” then in “The God of Gamblers,” he embodies wisdom—unparalleled wisdom—and maturity, a kind of mature charm that can drive both men and women crazy.

In fact, when the final battle scene of Stephen Chow was shown, some women started screaming for him. Xiao Ran smiled bitterly; he guessed that, if nothing went wrong, Stephen Chow would likely receive an unprecedented four nominations at the 7th Golden Horse Awards.

As soon as the subtitles appeared, the audience began to applaud wildly until they ended. When the lights came on in the cinema and the creators, including Xiao Ran, appeared in the back row, the audience applauded them again, just like in “A Hero’s Heart,” with excited and enthusiastic expressions.

Many audience members rushed forward to Stephen Chow, asking for autographs. Interestingly, some even asked Xiao Ran for one, saying his portrayal of Long Wu had been so cool. No one could resist the audience’s enthusiasm, as it was so exhilarating.

Xiao Ran felt very lucky. Wang Jiawei had almost been beaten during a preview, while he could repeatedly enjoy the audience’s applause and the honors and flowers showered upon him—it was truly fortunate.

Suddenly, he remembered his feelings after the preview of the prequel to “A Hero’s Heart,” a script he had written himself. When the audience started applauding him and everyone else, the sense of honor was indescribable and irreplaceable.

He didn’t understand why so many directors made poor films in the future, but he thought that if those directors were brought to this era, they would likely be trampled to pieces by angry audiences. It was both a motivation and pressure, as well as the highest honor.

Nothing could be more exciting, as it meant his talent had gained recognition from more people—a confirmation that was indeed the greatest pleasure in life. Although “The God of Gamblers” was largely based on the original, Xiao Ran didn’t think it had much to do with Wang Jing; it should have been his own work, just not pure enough.

The audience gradually left, leaving only about a dozen people behind—mostly reporters, as well as Xing Jiafeng, Liu Guanglu, and a few friends from the police station. Liang Jiabao came up to Xiao Ran, gave him a thumbs up, and then went to interview Stephen Chow, knowing that Xiao Ran must have something valuable to offer.

Xing Jiafeng and Liu Guanglu stepped forward and patted Xiao Ran’s shoulders hard. Xiao Ran immediately frowned and shouted, “Stop! It hurts!”
Xing Jiafeng smiled awkwardly, “Sorry, I forgot your injury isn’t healed yet. But you did an absolutely great job on this film—I really can’t say more! Anyway, I really like it!”

Chatting and laughing all the way, they returned to their hideout. As soon as they sat down to rest, Xiao Ran suddenly asked, “Master, why did you frown just now?” Actually, he already had a vague idea of the answer.
Guan Xin glanced at Xiao Ran in surprise. He hadn’t expected Xiao Ran to have noticed his reaction. After pondering for a moment, he said, “Why South Vietnam? Why have a favorable impression of South Vietnam? Is it because they’re capitalist? Or because of North Vietnam…”
Xiao Ran smiled. “Movies sometimes reflect reality. Hong Kong people don’t have much goodwill toward North Vietnam. It’s as if the time of return had already been decided, yet Hong Kong people are more panicked than pleased about it. I think you can understand…”
Guan Xin sighed deeply. How could he not understand? Xiao Ran smiled again. “Actually, you don’t need to worry about Hong Kong drifting further away from the Chinese government. We’re all Chinese, and public opinion might not necessarily lean toward Europe and America. You know, movies can also have a great influence sometimes!”
Guan Xin’s eyes lit up. “Are you saying you’re interested?”
“That’s right. I used to have the idea of collaborating with Yin Du, but unfortunately, I gave up on it temporarily because of other collaborators!” Xiao Ran chuckled. “I think there will always be opportunities in the future!”
Wei Dongling, who had just brought water, looked confused. “What are you talking about? I don’t understand anything.”
Of course you don’t! Xiao Ran laughed. This was something he had realized long ago: Hong Kong movies couldn’t rely on the local market. Looking to the mainland was definitely a good idea. But back then, movies like “Dear Cousin, You’re So Wild” heavily mocked and even severely attacked the mainland, causing the Chinese government, which initially wanted to support Hong Kong films, to immediately change its mind.
So, it was essential to build a good relationship. Without a stable film market, it’s hard for a film industry to survive relying solely on external markets. This was Xiao Ran’s thinking, as well as the long-term strategy for Future Shadows…