Chapter Eighteen: Colonel Huang of Factory Eight-One

“Film it! Why not film it? I support Xiangzi!” As soon as Chen Kun returned and grasped the situation, he immediately understood everything. At first, he too felt something was off about Wu Xiang, but after he finished reading the script, he changed his stance at once.

Naturally, those who opposed pressed him for his reasons. Kun’s answer was simple, just one sentence.

“If you, like me, had lived through that flood and witnessed the soldiers and civilians battling the waters together, you’d agree to make this movie too.”

With that, no one had anything more to say. So it was settled—they would make “The Great Flood.”

Wu Xiang was elated, mostly because his friends shared his aspirations. The feeling was truly exhilarating—better than anything else, better than any fleeting pleasure.

No, that’s not right—he wasn’t that sort of man, absolutely not...

While Wu Xiang’s thoughts wandered, Huang Yanbo waved him over. “Xiangzi, come here, I have something to discuss with you.”

“What’s up?” Wu Xiang was in high spirits, and hurried over at once.

Huang Yanbo pulled Wu Xiang aside to a quiet spot, clearly with something important to say.

“Your idea is great, really. Using the profits from this film to donate to the disaster areas—honestly, it’s a brilliant plan. But have you considered whether you have enough money to actually make this movie?”

Huang Yanbo voiced his concern. When it came to filmmaking, he was more experienced than Wu Xiang.

“To tell you the truth, I have a bit less than a hundred thousand right now. That should be enough, right?” Wu Xiang laid his cards on the table.

“Damn! You have that much?” Huang Yanbo was instantly indignant. Wu Xiang had always freeloaded at the cafeteria despite having so much cash. Huang Yanbo had always been generous and didn’t mind, but still, this was infuriating.

“Bro Yan, come on, this isn’t the time to talk about that,” Wu Xiang shifted the topic swiftly.

“You little—” Huang Yanbo grumbled, but continued, “Alright, I just want to say—even with that much, it’s going to be tough to shoot this film. I’m not kidding. I’ve actually been on set before—feeding all those people and horses, your money will be stretched thin.”

At that, Huang Yanbo grinned slyly. “But you’re in luck—you’ve got me.”

“Huh?” Wu Xiang was both surprised and confused.

With the 307 Working Group changing direction and a new script in hand, the task that gave Hao Yi the biggest headache was creating new scene designs to fit Wu Xiang’s vision. Fortunately, Wu Xiang was going all in this time—he put up one thousand yuan and told Hao Yi to use it as a bribe for the art students to help out.

To be honest, Wu Xiang was being stingy—even a thousand was meager, though he had little choice. But when the art students read the script, they all refused payment—they volunteered to help for free!

For the disaster area, for their fellow countrymen, no one wanted to be left behind.

Upon hearing this, Wu Xiang was deeply moved, promising he would never forget their kindness. Hao Yi joked that the students only wanted to hear him sing, though Wu Xiang’s singing voice was notoriously awful…

That was no problem—just a matter of belting out a few lines. But for now, Wu Xiang had more pressing matters to attend to; Huang Yanbo had news.

“When you meet him, don’t laugh.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t keep asking about comedy sketches.”

“Okay.”

“And whatever you do, don’t bring up Shaolin Temple, Turpan, or Hainan Island.”

“Pfft! Okay!”

All these exchanges took place before the mysterious meeting. Wu Xiang already knew whom he was about to meet.

“Hello there, this tall fellow’s a good lad!”

The brightness of the voice gave away his identity—today, Wu Xiang was meeting the illustrious “King of Comedy Sketches,” Huang Hong!

A household name, Huang Hong also held a position of authority at the August First Film Studio. Wu Xiang knew that Huang, at present, was a high-ranking officer there; in the future, he would become the studio’s director.

“Hello, Uncle Huang.” Wu Xiang was quick with words, choosing not to address him as “Teacher Huang,” but instead bringing them closer right away.

The rapport was there, but in reality, Wu Xiang had spent plenty of time in the modest office of Huang Hong. It was clean, but hardly luxurious—rather shabby, in fact. The desk was old, lacking even a computer, and the sofa was draped with cloth, its real state hidden beneath. Still, Wu Xiang and Huang Yanbo sat down, and Uncle Huang was as warm as ever.

But Uncle Huang didn’t waste time—he got straight to the point. “Alright, I read the script that Yanbo gave me. Good stuff! There are fewer and fewer young people these days with your vision and drive. Yanbo told me about your difficulties too—I can’t, in good conscience, not lend a hand. However…”

Here came the crux—the “however” was key.

“Speak freely, sir. You’re a seasoned veteran—any advice from you is gold.”

“Then I’ll be direct. This film of yours is a thematic film—you’d agree with that, right?” Huang Hong posed the question.

“Yes,” Wu Xiang nodded. The so-called thematic or “red” films were essentially those promoting mainstream values—love of country, party, and people, or military-educational pieces like “Landmine Warfare” or “Battle of Triangle Hill.” Wu Xiang’s “The Great Flood” fit the bill, though it wasn’t state-funded.

“But since it’s a thematic film, why does the script focus on ordinary people? Why not center on national leaders? From what I’ve read, there’s barely any screen time for top leaders, even military high command. In the past, at least in my experience, no one ever made a film like this. What’s your thinking?”

Huang Hong’s question was not unexpected. Previously, thematic films always depicted lofty heroes—leaders were wise, and adversities were overcome collectively. In 1998, no one had yet tried this new approach.

But Wu Xiang had long since prepared his answer. He smiled and said, “Uncle Huang, I actually want to make a thematic film that makes money!”

“Make money?” Huang Hong’s voice rose a notch.

“Yes, to make money!” Wu Xiang replied with a smile, certainty in his tone.

Just then, a loud voice boomed from outside the humble office. “Good! I like your thinking!”

“…?” A thousand questions flashed through Wu Xiang’s mind. Who could this be? He had no idea.

Huang Hong grinned. “Hahaha, Lao Zhai, you couldn’t help yourself?”

“This kid thinks just like me—how could I sit still? I didn’t want to wait another second. I just wanted to see what kind of young man would have these ideas!” As he spoke, an old man with a face full of wrinkles and heavy bags under his eyes walked in.

Wu Xiang didn’t recognize him at all. Who was this?

Uncle Huang immediately made the introduction. “Xiao Wu, this is Director Zhai Junjie, one of our studio’s directors.”

Wu Xiang was speechless—he’d just met the real deal.