Chapter Ninety-Nine: Wrapping Up

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(Thanks to Brother Long Shao for the tip, and to ‘aiyisheng’ for the support—much appreciated.)

In the days spanning late September to early October, foreign media were abuzz with reports that the Huaxia nation had mobilized a force exceeding ten thousand troops at a northern border city, sparking widespread international speculation.

CNN even published an article warning neighboring countries to watch Huaxia’s movements closely, labeling such military maneuvers as highly dangerous.

Fox’s O’Reilly hosted an interview with an expert on China-related issues, engaging in a lengthy discussion about the possibility of war.

A cluster of Western media outlets, including those from island nations, actively debated as if World War III were imminent, and humanity was on the brink of annihilation.

In response, a Huaxia military unit immediately adopted a repetitive stance, firmly rejecting any foreign interference in domestic affairs... everyone switched into verbal sparring mode.

None of this was known to Wu Xiang, who remained wholly focused on filming his movie.

The sky was high and clear, with clouds drifting lightly; the north wind howled fiercely. In the distance, mountaintops were crowned with perennial snow. On the flat grassland below, a lofty platform rose abruptly, surrounded by mounted soldiers. In this setting, a young officer clad in Han Dynasty armor ascended the stage.

“...Under the heavens, all lands belong to the king; along the shores, all subjects serve the king...” Ji Ta, portraying General Huo Qubing, faced southward and respectfully bowed—this bow was to Emperor Wu of Han!

“Okay!” This scene was straightforward, nothing much to comment on.

This was the famous historical scene known as ‘Feng Lang Ju Xu.’ The Langju Xu Mountain was originally Kent Mountain near Ulaanbaatar, but Wu Xiang decided that traveling there would be too troublesome, so he chose a location near the Xinjiang Tianshan Mountains instead.

From a cost perspective, filming this scene in Bayannur was feasible, but the season made shooting there difficult—the wind resources were overwhelmingly strong. Fortunately, the shoot was timely; otherwise, it would have been impossible to ride horses without being blown away.

Also, changing the environment added a psychological layer: the snow on the mountaintop clearly signaled that the army had marched far, far away—a very reasonable subliminal hint.

There were downsides, mainly higher costs, but since most of the budget had already been spent, Wu Xiang didn’t mind shelling out a bit more.

The bulk of the budget?

Yes, that was the large-scale battle scene filmed in Bayannur, which alone cost Wu Xiang over 15 million RMB!

Fifteen million RMB—enough to fund several low-budget films. Yet, to Wu Xiang, it was a bargain.

Truly a bargain. Take the ten thousand extras for example—if hired as extras, thirty yuan a day each was negligible and could be ignored. But what about the transportation? The military brought 300 vehicles; renting that many buses for a day costs a fortune. Add food, drink, and sanitation expenses!

And that was just the personnel. What about props? With ten thousand people, they couldn’t all just wield sticks. The cost of bows and crossbows alone was three million RMB. The helmets, long knives, spears, armor, clothing, and hats were all pre-made, but Wu Xiang didn’t even include those expenses in the calculation.

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Then there were the horses—ten thousand horses, at least. Actually, over twelve thousand horses were employed. Even with support from Deputy Mayor Wang and Hongshan Military Horse Ranch granting green lights, the feed costs? The injured horses’ compensation? Those expenses had to be covered.

There were also costs for setting up camps, temporary accommodations, transportation, communications, helicopters, film stock, cameras, dining utensils, and dozens of boxes of Yunnan Baiyao—thankfully, the medical expenses were reimbursed by the military.

On the bright side, there was some income too. Many farmers came over to collect fertilizer, giving Wu Xiang a little money—ten yuan per truckload.

Anyway, enough about that.

Fifteen million RMB was really cheap, really cheap—the more you talk about it, the more it brings tears to your eyes.

Since so much had already been spent, Wu Xiang stopped caring about money and aimed for perfection. The budget had been exceeded, but it didn’t matter anymore. Thus, the final scene of Feng Lang Ju Xu was filmed in Xinjiang.

The scenery there was breathtakingly beautiful. Upon arrival, Wu Xiang marveled at the magnificent landscapes of his motherland.

If only the images were shown to a European or American, they would surely mistake the place for Switzerland, never imagining it was Xinjiang.

The beauty was extraordinary, like a painting sprung from imagination. One had to engage their full imagination to even begin to appreciate the splendor. Such a beautiful and peaceful land deserved to remain perfect forever.

In a place this beautiful, certain people should have been present—such as the three on official tours: Huang Xiaoming, Huang Xibo, and Zhang Jingchu. Yet none came; Huang Xiaoming and Huang Xibo had new roles, while Zhang Jingchu was shooting commercials—everyone was busy.

Wu Xiang still remembered the moment he bid them farewell, tinged with a sense of parting, especially...

“What are you thinking about?” Ning Hao noticed Wu Xiang lost in thought and gave him a pat.

“N-nothing!” Wu Xiang quickly dispelled the somewhat melancholic image in his mind. He really didn’t want to dwell on those thoughts. “I’m thinking about how to edit the film, and the music. It seems like no one I know is very skilled in ancient music.”

“If that’s the case, spend some more money and hire someone, like Tan Dun,” Ning Hao suggested outright.

Wu Xiang was frustrated. He knew Tan Dun, but the man was famous now—could he afford him?

Tan Dun had indeed become prominent since the 2000 release of the well-known costume martial arts film “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon,” which performed excellently at the US box office and received acclaim in mainland China, despite some criticism of the wirework’s zero-gravity style.

How the performances were staged was less important than the East-West cultural blend. The film also launched several stars, including Zhang Ziyi, whom Wu Xiang had initially cast as ‘Qing Wu Fei Yang,’ and Tan Dun himself.

When it came to film scores, especially for costume dramas, Tan Dun was unrivaled in China’s music circles. But now, clearly, Wu Xiang was short on funds and couldn’t afford to hire him.

Though Wu Xiang had planned to work with Tan Dun, it seemed he would have to give up and turn to Wang Feng for assistance instead.

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Scoring was a post-production task. Wu Xiang had wanted Tan Dun from the start, signaling his intention to meticulously refine this film’s post-production. This time, it couldn’t be sloppy, although previous efforts had not been careless.

This film was truly a grand production and could not afford any negligence in post-production. Excellence was imperative. Therefore, Wu Xiang didn’t impose a strict deadline, even willing to wait until the 2001 New Year’s release window, knowing that several major events—world-changing events even—would occur in 2001.

“By the way, there’s something else, Hongzhi,” Wu Xiang suddenly recalled an urgent matter.

“What is it?” Wang Hongzhi was like Wu Xiang’s deputy, what he called his right-hand man.

“You, along with Zhao Xiaopeng, Lin Jidong, Yang Dong, and Yu Le, head to Hengdian. It’s about that thing I mentioned before; you guys discuss and get it done, okay?”

“Okay! No problem. But who’s in charge? Who’s the legal representative?”

“You decide among yourselves, just remember I’m the major shareholder.”

“You’re such a capitalist! Just want to lord it over us working people?”

“Nonsense! You’re shareholders too—didn’t pay a dime but got shares? And still working people? Bah!”

“Hahaha... You dare say ‘bah’ to us? Watch out or we won’t help you get things done!”

“You all have stakes; this isn’t just my business alone...”

What was Wu Xiang talking about? Actually, it was about the costumes and props used in filming.

This production left behind a trove of costumes—over ten thousand items—and countless props: swords, spears, shields. Throwing them away after filming would be such a waste.

Wu Xiang’s idea was to recycle. Since they had all these goods, why not start a company—a prop company?

Prop companies were already common these days. Despite the sluggish film market, TV dramas were booming, especially costume dramas. Thus, prop companies were springing up like mushrooms after rain.

Forming a company meant competition, and with so much inventory, Wu Xiang feared handling it alone. So he recruited several friends to head to Hengdian, going straight to the heart of the market.

Hengdian was the main base for shooting countless costume dramas; doing prop business there was guaranteed profit.

(The Black Car would like to say: although black cars are black in color, they always ride against the light. The Black Car firmly believes that with every step forward by light, darkness falls back one step! This chapter is dedicated to the memory of the departed.)