Chapter Twenty-One: Filming Begins

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“What were you doing!” The military commander, played by Huang Hong, bellowed at the top of his voice.

Zhang Shangwu, portrayed by Chen Kun, remained silent, his eyes clouded with confusion.

“Do you realize that because you weren’t present, your acting company commander sacrificed his life during the flood relief efforts? Do you know how ashamed I was today? When I announced commendations to the troops, how desperately I wished the honor belonged to me! When the people needed you most, my son was absent from his post! I, I…”

Faced with his father’s furious reproach, Zhang Shangwu was shocked, yet he could not utter a single word in defense.

“That’s enough, enough. Can’t you see your son is wounded, too? Don’t you want to ask about it?” Teacher Song entered at just the right moment, bringing out a glass of water to douse the flames.

“You’ve spoiled him! Look at what he’s become! I truly wish I didn’t have a son like this!” Not even a glass of water could extinguish the fire raging in his heart.

“I don’t want to be your son either!” Zhang Shangwu finally couldn’t hold back; he began to rebel…

Cut! At that moment, Director Wu Xiang called for a halt. This was not the first time he had done so; every time they reached this scene, Wu Xiang was dissatisfied.

This scene portrayed the protagonist Zhang Shangwu, who, after taking leave to arrange his discharge and find a job, encountered a flood on the way back. He actively rescued people, but he was indeed absent from the post where he should have been. Upon returning home, he was fiercely berated by his father, the military commander, leaving him somewhat aggrieved. To be honest, this scene was difficult to handle.

But the situation now wasn’t ideal. The shoot had only just begun, yet they’d already hit a bottleneck, with numerous retakes; the film stock wasn’t cheap.

Filming didn’t follow the chronological order of the story—it would be far too inefficient. They started with the indoor dialogue scenes, then moved to the outdoor shots, since many locations needed to be built, even though the Bayi Studio had its own exterior sets; otherwise, it would have been much more troublesome.

“Wu, I think it’s alright.” At this moment, Elder Zhai, sitting in the assistant director’s seat, spoke up. In domestic productions, assistant directors generally don’t participate in shooting; they handle casting and scheduling. But Wu Xiang broke with convention, letting Elder Zhai sit in the main seat, while he watched from the side like a student. So, his repeated calls for ‘cut’ were a bit…

“Let’s all take a break, have some water.” Wu Xiang was good at handling people; there were heavyweights present, but he wasn’t intimidated. He continued, “This scene, in my view, is where we can really dig into the characters. Why? Because the military commander father represents the older generation, symbolizing old ideas—rigid, disciplined, outcome-focused, making people feel constrained. The son’s character? Simple. He’s our generation—we’ve absorbed new influences, have ideas, are rebellious, yearn for freedom. So, there will be conflict, there will be…”

Wu Xiang hadn’t finished when Kun interrupted, “You mean my rebellious emotion isn’t strong enough?”

Most would assume so, but Wu Xiang’s response surprised everyone.

“No!” Wu Xiang flatly denied it.

“No?” The others were puzzled, Kun even more so.

Wu Xiang smiled slightly, “In fact, quite the opposite, Kun—you went too far.”

“Too far?” Kun furrowed his uneven brows.

“Yes, too far. Kun, that’s a father and son, after all. No matter how rebellious, it’s still an internal conflict among the people; we shouldn’t be at each other’s throats. In your last few expressions, I didn’t see respect for your father. Even if you’re angry, that element was missing, that…”

At this point, Wu Xiang hesitated, because he remembered Kun came from a single-parent family and had some issues regarding fatherly love. So this matter…

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Wu Xiang’s words made several people think of other matters, though none voiced them.

“Xiangzi, I understand, but in this aspect…” Kun truly struggled; he hadn’t felt fatherly love in years.

“Why insist on that… that state?” Huang Hanbo watched from the side; he wasn’t as reserved with Wu Xiang.

Wu Xiang immediately explained, “That state is simply the present state, the mindset of young people today. It’s also the key to whether our film will make money!”

“This… this will make money?” Huang Hong couldn’t help himself.

“Immersion! Only when the mindset of young people is reflected can they relate, and thus like our film. Young people are the main consumers, especially in the film market. So if we capture their psychology and get them to like the movie, we have a shot at making money.” Wu Xiang voiced another of his ‘theories.’

“What about Hollywood…” Elder Zhai wanted to ask, as Wu Xiang’s previous theories had shocked him.

“Hollywood uses sound, special effects, and skilled shooting to create immersive experiences.” Wu Xiang glossed over it; if he delved into ideology, he’d need several days to explain.

“So, what now?” Huang Hanbo knew Kun’s situation, and guessed that was the issue.

What else? Time to find a solution!

Wu Xiang pondered, scanning the room. When his gaze landed on Teacher Song Chunli, who had remained quiet, he slapped his thigh. “I’ve got it!”

“Kun, here’s what you’ll do…” Wu Xiang began instructing…

Action!

“What were you doing!” The commander father, played by Huang Hong, bellowed.

…“I don’t want to be your son!”…

“Oh, what are you saying! Really, is there such a son and father?” Teacher Song appeared again to calm things down…

Okay!

Finally, they nailed it!

Wu Xiang’s method was simple: when filming Chen Kun’s shots, he had Kun face Teacher Song Chunli, not Huang Hong—in other words, he shouted at ‘Mom’ instead! Surprisingly, it worked wonders; his eyes, his expressions, were spot-on. Of course, this required clever editing—wide shots paired with close-ups—to be handled in post-production.

With just this simple trick, the hurdle was overcome. Not only was Wu Xiang satisfied, but the others, especially the senior veterans, changed their opinion of him. Remember, Wu Xiang was still an unknown twenty-year-old, with no prior film experience. Now, he seemed reliable—not just talk.

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Filming proceeded smoothly; the other scenes went well, especially the dialogue—since all the actors were professionally trained, Wu Xiang saved considerable time and money.

However, the real bleeding began now.

Exterior shots—these required significant funding in Wu Xiang’s plan. Even with Bayi Studio’s full support, the money flowed like water.

“Why do you insist on shooting like this?”

In a two-story building at Bayi Studio’s photography base, Teacher Mu Deyuan was discussing shot design with Wu Xiang.

Shot design is crucial in filmmaking. A film is, essentially, a series of images; if your camera positions aren’t right—if you don’t know when to pan or zoom—no amount of star power will save it.

“Because it looks stylish!” Wu Xiang gave a vague reply.

By now, the crew of “The Great Flood” had been divided into three teams. One team was filming disaster relief scenes without the protagonist, including Li Jia (played by the senior brother) sacrificing himself as acting company commander. Another team, Huang Hanbo’s group, would feature his heroic death carrying sandbags up the embankment.

The third group, led by protagonist Chen Kun, was under Wu Xiang’s direct supervision.

This time, Wu Xiang insisted on designing the shots himself—it was no ordinary scene. They had acquired a helicopter as a prop!

In those days, helicopters weren’t common. Even if the nation’s helicopters were a bit old-fashioned, having one was already a privilege. Besides, it wasn’t actually shabby—its combat capability was impressive.

Through Colonel Huang’s connections, Wu Xiang borrowed a Mi-171. It looked rustic but wasn’t cheap. They said, since it was for a film benefitting the disaster area, they’d only charge for the fuel—thirty thousand yuan for each flight.

Wu Xiang was nearly scared witless; the fuel consumption was outrageous.

In fact, they were being quite reasonable.

Wu Xiang’s so-called ‘style’ was essentially Hollywood flair. Haven’t you noticed that whenever a Black Hawk appears in Hollywood movies, stirring music accompanies it?

How to achieve that style?

Wu Xiang’s idea was to use a tracking shot for a first-person perspective, then have the helicopter rise from below, creating a breathtaking effect. The scene he envisioned: protagonist Zhang Shangwu and disaster victims trapped on a rooftop by floodwaters, on the verge of despair, when suddenly a Mi-171 enters their view.

In “Raging Storm,” there had been helicopter rescue scenes, but the technique was old-fashioned: the commander gave the order, the helicopter deployed, rescued people, and that was it. Frankly, the approach was out of touch—nowadays, even domestically, no one films like that.

Could Wu Xiang’s vision be realized? Could he really capture Hollywood style?