Chapter 138: Action Choreography

The international awards won by Mansion Number One caused quite a stir in Hong Kong’s entertainment circles. Hong Kong films had not won prizes outside Southeast Asia for a very long time, and Yan Xu and the others returned home in a manner entirely different from their discreet departure. This time, they came back in triumph, and the reporters waiting at the airport surrounded them so completely that not even a drop of water could pass through.

Almost every media outlet heaped praise upon Mansion Number One. Its victory was not merely a glory for the film, but for Hong Kong cinema as a whole.

From the moment he stepped off the plane, Yan Xu plunged into a hectic life. Interviews with radio stations, television networks, newspapers, and magazines had nearly filled his schedule for the next several days, leaving him no choice but to entrust the preliminary planning for A Chinese Ghost Story to Pan Jiade.

“Young Master Yan, Mr. Cheng has arrived. He’s waiting for you in the conference room.”

After completing an interview with a Japanese magazine, Yan Xu courteously saw the reporters off. Pan Jiade, who had been waiting nearby, then walked over to him.

Mansion Number One had already gone into full release in Japan. The two awards it had won at the Sitges Film Festival had provided the Japanese release with many additional promotional angles and drawn in huge crowds. According to the reports coming from Japan, attendance had continued to climb, reaching ninety percent. At some theaters, tickets were even impossible to obtain. The film’s phenomenal reception had prompted several Japanese media outlets to fly all the way to Hong Kong to interview Yan Xu.

After hearing Pan Jiade’s report, Yan Xu hurried toward the conference room. Through the open window, he immediately spotted a man looking around with evident curiosity. The short, slim figure with long hair covering his ears was vastly different from the sharp-looking, short-haired man Yan Xu remembered. Even so, a faint resemblance could still be discerned in his features.

“Hello, Mr. Cheng.” Yan Xu opened the door and warmly approached the small-framed man.

“Hello, Young Master Yan.”

Cheng Xiaodong did not look down on the young man who had just entered merely because of his age. Yan Xu already held a certain standing in the industry. He had made films that were major box-office successes, won awards overseas, and, despite his youth, was the owner of a film company. In every respect, Cheng Xiaodong was far behind him.

“How has Elder Cheng been lately? I’m very fond of his The Fourteen Amazons and The Great Gambling Scam.”

Although Cheng Xiaodong was already a renowned action choreographer in the industry, the only film he had personally directed was Duel to the Death. His father, Cheng Gang, on the other hand, was a famous director. His Shaw Brothers productions—The Twelve Gold Medallions, The Call Girls, and Eighty Thousand Sinners—had repeatedly shattered the box-office records of their time, making him Shaw Brothers’ most successful director. Unfortunately, his temperament was somewhat harsh and alienated people. On one occasion, he had even driven a film company owner to slap him across the face. After that, he vanished from the industry.

“My father has been doing behind-the-scenes work in Taiwan lately. He also took Chu Yen-ping on as a disciple,” Cheng Xiaodong said.

His father had offended many people in Hong Kong and had been forced to leave when he could no longer make a living there. Although he never again had the opportunity to direct in Taiwan, he had trained a disciple who was now enormously popular there. One Good Kid had practically made Chu Yen-ping a household name.

“So Chu Yen-ping is Elder Cheng’s disciple. It seems that not only are great fathers blessed with worthy sons—even their disciples can be exceptional. His One Good Kid broke the record for Taiwanese films.”

Chu Yen-ping would later become one of the pillars of Taiwanese cinema, and Yan Xu had never imagined that he was Cheng Gang’s disciple.

“I asked you here because I’m looking for an action choreographer for a film. I’d like to know whether you have the time and the interest. I watched your Duel to the Death, and, to be honest, the use of wires and the design of the fight scenes were truly eye-opening. The style also matches the new film I’m making extremely well.”

After their initial exchange, the two men had lost much of the unfamiliarity between them, and Yan Xu went straight to the point.

“You mean A Chinese Ghost Story?” Cheng Xiaodong looked at Yan Xu.

Those in the industry were already well aware of Yan Xu’s next move. No one knew the exact details, but everyone knew he was planning something on a grand scale. Unlike his previous films, this one had even required the construction of outdoor sets on Lantau Island, as well as the rental of a studio from Shaw Brothers.

“Yes, that film.”

Yan Xu nodded. If he was going to make A Chinese Ghost Story, Cheng Xiaodong was indispensable. As the original director of A Chinese Ghost Story, Cheng Xiaodong had created superb action sequences and made brilliant use of wires. He had now left Shaw Brothers but had not yet joined Tsui Hark’s film studio, making this the perfect opportunity to recruit him.

“I hope you’ll join Dragon Film Industries and serve as both the film’s associate director and action choreographer.”

If Cheng Xiaodong joined them, making the film would be twice as effective with half the effort. His abilities would also be needed for future sequels to A Chinese Ghost Story and A Better Tomorrow.

More importantly, Cheng Xiaodong did not represent only himself. He also had an entire team of martial artists behind him, precisely the kind of team Dragon Film Industries was lacking.

“Join Dragon?”

Cheng Xiaodong glanced at Yan Xu. He had left Shaw Brothers and was urgently looking for a new company where he could establish himself. Several smaller film companies had already extended offers, some with extremely generous terms, but he was still considering them. At his age, what mattered to him was no longer what a company could offer him immediately, but what kind of future he would have after joining and what sort of films he would be entrusted with.

Cheng Xiaodong also knew that A Chinese Ghost Story was likely to be Dragon’s flagship production. Although Dragon was shooting three films at the same time, the one most highly anticipated by the industry was Yan Xu’s A Chinese Ghost Story.

Wong Jing’s modern urban comedy had a certain audience, but judging from the theatrical performance of his previous urban comedies, its box-office potential seemed almost fixed. Breaking through would be extremely difficult. As for John Woo’s A Better Tomorrow, its combination of a down-and-out director, a box-office poison, a pop singer, and a faded star was even less promising in the eyes of the public.

The plot of A Chinese Ghost Story, however, had been kept strictly secret. Outsiders knew only that it was a period film based on Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio. Which story it would adapt was the subject of endless speculation. Because of Li Han-hsiang’s film of the same name, many people had guessed that it would involve Nie Xiaoqian.

Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio had already been adapted countless times by many directors. Bao Fang’s Painted Skin, Li Han-hsiang’s The Ghost Lovers, A Chinese Ghost Story, and The Fourteenth Lady, as well as King Hu’s A Touch of Zen, were all classics of the genre. Since Yan Xu’s first three films had all brushed against themes of sex, violence, and graphic bloodshed, many also speculated that his new film would resemble Li Han-hsiang’s The Ghost Lovers in certain respects.

“I’d like to know what kind of story A Chinese Ghost Story really is. How is it different from Director Li’s film?”

Cheng Xiaodong did not accept immediately. Instead, he looked at Yan Xu and asked his question.

“My new film and Director Li’s are both based on the Nie Xiaoqian story from Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio, so there are quite a few similarities in the plot. But unlike ordinary ghost stories, my film will be a supernatural tale with a touch of fantasy.”

Yan Xu looked at Cheng Xiaodong. He knew that if he wanted to recruit such a valuable man, he needed a script compelling enough to attract him.

“I’ve already finished the screenplay. You can take a look.”

Yan Xu had Pan Jiade retrieve the script from his office and handed it to Cheng Xiaodong. A Chinese Ghost Story was one of Yan Xu’s favorite films, one he had kept on his computer for years. He possessed not only the original 1987 version, but also the restored edition from 2011. Every scene had been etched in detail into his memory, allowing him to reproduce it meticulously on the page.

“Excellent! Excellent! Excellent!”

Cheng Xiaodong took the screenplay and soon became completely absorbed in it. He had read countless scripts, but this was the first one he had encountered that described every movement in such detail. Much of it—including the wirework and the action choreography—was clearly written by someone who understood the craft from the inside.

Scene after scene unfolded in his mind. Some things he had never fully understood suddenly became clear, and he slapped his thigh repeatedly, exclaiming his approval three times in succession.

“Who wrote these action sequences and the wirework? They’re incredibly impressive.”

Cheng Xiaodong looked at Yan Xu. After reading the screenplay, many problems that had troubled him suddenly seemed to have been solved. So this was another way of making a film. It was undoubtedly a golden path for an action choreographer.

“I wrote it,” Yan Xu replied.

His answer left Cheng Xiaodong astonished. The newspapers had praised Yan Xu as a genius more than once, but he had never imagined that Yan Xu would be so accomplished in action design as well.

Seeing the admiration and surprise in Cheng Xiaodong’s eyes, Yan Xu felt somewhat embarrassed. These were all Cheng Xiaodong’s own achievements; Yan Xu had merely reconstructed them from memory and committed them to paper. If he had truly been asked to direct the action himself, he would not have known where to begin.

“These are only things I imagined,” Yan Xu said. “If they’re actually going to be filmed, we’ll still need people like you—professionals in martial arts direction.”

“Heh.”

Cheng Xiaodong smiled faintly, his gaze never leaving the screenplay. As he followed the story, his expression shifted from a frown to a look of satisfaction and back again. He kept asking about certain passages, and Yan Xu patiently answered each of his questions.

“There should be a more intimate scene here,” Cheng Xiaodong suggested when he reached the middle of the screenplay. “The two characters’ feelings have already reached a certain point. If we simply rush past it, the transition will feel too abrupt.”

He was referring to the sequence after Ning Caichen leaves, steals a horse, returns to Orchid Temple to rescue Xiaoqian, and confesses his love to her.

“Hmm.”

Yan Xu glanced over the passage and nodded slowly. When he had reconstructed the screenplay from memory, most of the images in his mind had come from the 1987 version—and specifically the television cut, which he knew best because it had been broadcast so many times. Compared with the theatrical version, and given the era and circumstances in which Yan Xu had lived, that cut naturally contained numerous omissions.

The restored edition from 2011 included a small amount of more passionate material at this point. Yan Xu had also read an article stating that the original intimate scene had been considerably longer. The filmmakers had intended to include the additional footage in the restored edition, but the running time was already too long, and no one knew where the missing reels had gone. It was truly a regrettable loss.

“Then may I ask whether you’d be interested in taking on this project?”

To be continued.