Chapter Forty-Five: Another Dinner Gathering

Liu Qi couldn’t quite understand Gu Zhi’s way of thinking. In her eyes, artists from Hong Kong and Taiwan were no different from those in the mainland; in some respects, they were even more professional and renowned. At present, many actors from both sides of the strait and Hong Kong had already come to the mainland to act, the most famous being the cast of “Princess Pearl,” where nearly half the actors were from Taiwan—Alec Su, Ruby Lin, Jimmy Lin, and so on.

The tangled grievances between Zhou Jie and the Taiwanese cast members also began during this period. Mainland actress Zhao Yanzi, on the other hand, got along exceedingly well with the Taiwanese actors, so much so that she later stood against hundreds of millions of mainland netizens just to hire pro-independence Taiwanese artists.

Among Hong Kong actors, Leslie Cheung starred in “Farewell My Concubine,” while Tony Leung, Chow Yun-fat, and Michelle Yeoh came to the mainland to film “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon,” among others. By this time, the Hong Kong and Taiwan film and television industries had already discovered the potential of the mainland market, and many came deliberately to seek development.

In comparison, the fame of artists from Hong Kong and Taiwan far exceeded that of their mainland counterparts, and they had large numbers of devoted fans in the mainland. Even a dozen years later, their fan base remained formidable. As for their acting skills, they were certainly commendable. Even in period idol dramas like “Princess Pearl,” whose values might be questionable, the actors’ performances were beyond reproach. These artists who entered the mainland industry displayed impeccable professionalism, though their political stances were another matter entirely.

This was the golden age for Hong Kong and Taiwan’s film and television industry. Most mainlanders loved watching their TV shows and movies; the influence and voice of Hong Kong and Taiwan’s entertainment circles in the mainland could not be underestimated. Due to the lack of information exchange, underlying tensions among the three regions remained hidden in the shadows. Except for a handful of actors who experienced things firsthand, ordinary people still believed in cross-strait kinship.

Even if those tensions were exposed, it was usually mainland actors who suffered the consequences. After Ruby Lin returned to Taiwan upon finishing “Princess Pearl,” she appeared on “Kangxi Coming” and recounted how Zhou Jie used his tongue during a kissing scene, claiming she “kept her mouth tightly shut.”

Whether or not the story was true, the dilemma for actors during kissing scenes is real—if you don’t actually kiss, the director won’t approve; if you do, both parties might feel uncomfortable. How can you possibly please everyone? Many only saw Ruby Lin’s complaints about Zhou Jie, as if she alone had suffered. But why wasn’t Zhou Jie considered the aggrieved party? He already had issues with the Taiwanese cast and still had to film a kissing scene with her—couldn’t he have felt disgusted too?

Nobody likes kissing someone they thoroughly dislike. Moreover, Ruby Lin’s husband, Huo Jianhua, had countless onscreen kissing scenes involving tongues; yet she still married him. In the entertainment industry, who’s really any “cleaner” than anyone else? Who has the right to complain?

In the end, it was Zhou Jie who faced public condemnation. The uninformed masses would never side with a plain-looking actor; they basically supported whoever looked better and spoke first, regardless of the truth or who was right or wrong.

Liu Qi had yet to work with any Hong Kong or Taiwanese artists. Because of her preconceptions, she held a great deal of goodwill toward them and couldn’t quite comprehend Gu Zhi’s “narrow-minded” approach.

Still, after thinking it over, she chose to respect Gu Zhi’s wishes.

The reason was simple—Hong Kong and Taiwan artists demanded a high appearance fee.

“My Sassy Girl” was a low-budget romance film. As the producer, she naturally wanted to save as much money as possible. After all, the last film had succeeded without any big-name stars; there was no reason to deliberately hire expensive Hong Kong or Taiwanese actors this time.

After seeing Gu Zhi out, Liu Qi began filing the project application for “My Sassy Girl” at the film bureau and started approaching major talent agencies in search of suitable actors.

The film was tentatively scheduled to start shooting in early November, so she needed to wrap up preproduction as soon as possible.

Returning home, Gu Zhi kept mulling over the choice for the female lead, but no matter how he racked his brains, he couldn’t come up with a suitable candidate.

She had to be beautiful, talented, wild, resilient, tough yet gentle inside, youthful and confident, flamboyant yet restrained...

Where could he possibly find someone like that?

Suddenly, the shrill ringing of the phone interrupted his thoughts.

He picked up, and after a few words, his face lit up with an expression of sudden understanding. After a brief exchange, they hung up.

“How do they all know my number? That shouldn’t be possible—I only just got a new number from TieTong yesterday.”

Overwhelmed by constant interviews, he’d gone and gotten a new landline. He suspected the clerk had recognized him and, as soon as he left, sold his number.

Such things were all too common in the early days of the business halls.

...

At 7 p.m., at Chic Jiangnan in Oriental Plaza.

Chic Jiangnan, which had just opened this year, had established itself as a high-end restaurant specializing in modern Sichuan cuisine. Its defining feature could be summed up in one word: expensive!

It was a favored gathering spot for many of the film industry’s heavyweights—a perfect place for meals and business discussions. Meeting friends here not only showed status but offered a measure of privacy.

“Welcome. This way, please.”

Led by a pretty waitress, Gu Zhi arrived outside a private dining room. Pushing open the door, he found Feng Xiaogang and Wang Zhonglei inside, chatting and laughing. Before entering, Gu Zhi vaguely heard the word “Columbia.”

“Gu, you’re here! Come, have a seat.”

“Hello, Gu! We finally get to meet in person,”

Wang Zhonglei and Feng Xiaogang immediately paused their conversation and greeted Gu Zhi warmly.

“Hello, President Wang, Director Feng.”

Gu Zhi was equally polite, shaking hands with both in turn. It was their first meeting; etiquette could not be neglected.

Though Gu Zhi had never particularly liked Feng Xiaogang—and had suffered a major setback over the release date of “The Butterfly Effect”—as a senior in the national film industry, Feng still deserved at least basic respect from Gu Zhi.

Everyone has their likes and dislikes; standards of judgment differ from person to person. Still, whether you like someone or not is merely an emotional response—it should not be confused with proper conduct.

If disliking someone meant wishing for their death, humanity would have long since perished. Of course, saying so is easier than doing it. Gu Zhi simply tried to hold himself to this standard; if he truly couldn’t contain his emotions, he would follow his heart.

It was Wang Zhonglei who had called him earlier that day, inviting him to dinner here, and he had gladly agreed. After all, being treated to a meal was better than staying home eating his own fried rice.

“First, congratulations, Gu! Not only are you an excellent novelist, but your screenwriting is impressive as well. ‘The Butterfly Effect’ has been a huge box office hit—far better than my own films. Come, let’s have a drink!”

Feng Xiaogang spoke graciously, bringing up box office results himself without putting Gu Zhi on the spot.

He raised his glass, and the three drank together.

There was a round of mutual praise. Wang Zhonglei and Feng Xiaogang were patient, never getting to the point, insisting on drinking with Gu Zhi without considering that he was still underage.

After several rounds, Gu Zhi lost patience. He stopped the two industry veterans from opening another bottle and said bluntly, “President Wang, Director Feng, I really have had enough. If you have something to say, please say it directly.”

Wang Zhonglei glanced at Feng Xiaogang before finally speaking. “Gu, everyone has seen your creative talent. You know the strength of Huayi—we have the capital, the directors, the stars; what we lack is a top-tier creator. Would you be interested in joining Huayi? The two strongest joining forces—the future of China’s film industry would be ours!”

Gu Zhi couldn’t help but smile to himself. Drawing a big pie to lure someone in—he’d used that trick more than once in his previous life.