Chapter Five: Documentary-Style Detective Films

Yan Xu clutched today’s newspaper tightly in his hand, the bold headline stirring an uncontrollable excitement within him. Nearly every paper in Hong Kong was reporting this story, sweeping away the gloom that had weighed on him for days. For days, he had racked his brain about what kind of film to make. This project could not fail—it must succeed. Yet the film could not be too avant-garde or daring; it needed to fit the sensibilities of contemporary Hong Kong people, spark their interest, and, most importantly, operate with very limited funds. There would be no grand scenes; it was, in essence, a micro-budget production.

The headline screamed: “The Dismemberment Demon Lin Guoyu Granted Clemency.” The massive, dark letters assaulted Yan Xu’s eyes. The paper detailed how Lin Guoyu was pardoned by the Governor with the Executive Council, his sentence commuted to life imprisonment. This ignited fervor across Hong Kong, with numerous critics leaving their commentary across several pages.

It all began with the 1982 human dismemberment case. Later, a photo studio in Wan Chai turned up a trove of limb photographs. After a secret tip-off, police arrested twenty-seven-year-old taxi driver Lin Guoyu on August 17, 1982. Soon, a spate of dismemberment murders surfaced. Lin Guoyu not only cruelly murdered four women, but also desecrated their corpses, dissected them, made specimens, photographed their remains, and preserved certain intimate organs. More shockingly, he filmed the entire process to revisit later.

Police later found a large collection of close-up photographs, over forty videotapes, and the camera and tools used for the crimes in Lin Guoyu’s home. These discoveries stunned not only the police but the entire city. Because most of Lin’s crimes took place during rainy nights, he became known as the “Rainy Night Butcher.”

In his confession, Lin Guoyu claimed he wanted to preserve the photographs so the whole world could see them. He said his interest in dissecting female corpses and corpse desecration stemmed from a deep fascination with anatomy and intense curiosity; he had even purchased numerous anatomy books. Lin believed that if he hadn’t developed the photos at a studio, the Hong Kong police might never have uncovered his identity. With a police solve rate of just over forty percent, there was no telling how long it might have taken. Until his imprisonment, Lin Guoyu never showed a hint of remorse.

August 17th was the day Lin Guoyu was arrested; yesterday, two years later, on August 17th again, his sentence was changed from death to life imprisonment. Such a decision was a bombshell, guaranteed to become a heated topic for Hong Kong residents for a long time.

Back in 1992, Li Xiuxian’s Huichuan Films brought this story to the screen, earning twelve million seven hundred thousand at the box office, ranking twenty-eighth that year—surpassing even the Western cult classic “The Lamb.” If Yan Xu could now adapt this story for the screen, he could ride the current wave of public interest. As a documentary-style detective film, the subject and shooting method would be novel for Hong Kong audiences. Crucially, the settings were few: the photo studio, Lin Guoyu’s home, the police station, and, vitally, the taxi.

The cast could also be pared down. The original film had many police characters, most just background extras. Small scenes, few actors, and a true-crime angle—this was exactly what Yan Xu thought most suitable.

For the next few days, Yan Xu stayed holed up in his shabby ten-square-meter room, relying on his memory to write the script. Although he had studied directing and systematically learned screenwriting, after graduating he had only worked around the industry, never directly with scripts. His promotion to assistant director had come through different channels. Now, picking up the pen again, he found it far less smooth than he’d imagined.

He revised again and again, from start to finish, searching his memory for every detail, painstakingly refining the dialogue. Beyond the script, as a director, he had to make the shot list clear and precise. He didn’t stick strictly to the original memory of the film—he boldly cut out some unreasonable parts, and even collected various materials on the case. As it was a hot topic now, many sources were firsthand, later impossible to find. This enriched the script’s passing scenes. He even studied psychological profiles to determine Lin Guoyu’s traits.

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“Bang! Bang! Bang!” After several days away from the company, Yan Xu’s first act was to take his script to Bald Qiang’s office. Though he and Bald Qiang had long been informal with each other, now Bald Qiang was the company’s general manager, and Yan Xu couldn’t just barge in. Besides, Yan Xu’s body now housed another soul altogether; the three years of camaraderie with Bald Qiang existed only as memories, not as lived experience.

“Come in!” Bald Qiang’s voice sounded from inside, and Yan Xu opened the door and walked in.

“It’s you, kid. Why bother knocking? Just come right in.” Bald Qiang had been sitting formally at his desk, but seeing Yan Xu, he relaxed, leaning back in his chair and propping his legs up on the desk.

“You’ve been gone for days. I told you to shadow Old Nine for a while, get the hang of things, then I’d hand the reins over to you. But you took the easy way out—where have you been? Did you spend the company’s ten thousand reward already? I always tell you guys not to splurge; save some for emergencies.” Bald Qiang began to nag as Yan Xu sat down. Only Yan Xu and two others were his trusted confidants, controlling the company’s key departments; only then did Bald Qiang feel he truly had the company in his hands.

Listening to Bald Qiang’s rambling, Yan Xu smiled slightly. He could hear the concern in Bald Qiang’s words, and that warmth filled his heart. In this unfamiliar era and city, a single word of care brought a pleasant warmth to his soul.

“Big Brother, I haven’t been out playing these past days. I have something I’d like you to see.” Yan Xu solemnly placed his script in front of Bald Qiang.

“What’s this?” Bald Qiang lowered his legs, picked it up, and asked casually.

“It’s a script I wrote.”

Yan Xu’s words nearly made Bald Qiang leap out of his seat. Had he been drinking tea or coffee, he would have spit it out instantly.

“You… what did you say? You must be joking!”

Bald Qiang spoke haltingly. Yan Xu had worked with him for three years—he knew Yan Xu’s abilities well. Now, Yan Xu was presenting a script he’d written himself; it was a shock he couldn’t hide.