Chapter Twenty-Four: Post-Production

The entire filming of "The Great Flood" had been completed; now it was time to begin post-production. The most crucial part of post-production was editing—a skill that, unfortunately, Wu Xiang did not possess. Yet, he was in luck. This was the perfect opportunity for him to learn.

There was no helping it; Wu Xiang, a literature major, had never studied editing. Even if he had, at most he’d have a theoretical understanding. After all, he was training to be a screenwriter, so what need was there to know editing? But editing was vital to a film; without it, you’re left with a mere collection of disconnected shots. Editing brings coherence and vibrancy, transforming raw footage into a living story. Editing is the film’s second creation—without it, a film is nothing. Yet, in the domestic scene of 1998, even top film schools didn’t offer a dedicated editing major. Why? Quite simply, no one wanted to study it.

It seemed laughable, but that was the reality. Just as the literature department could only find eighteen students, while the acting department filled all twenty-six spots. Still, a film school is a film school—even if there were no students, there would always be teachers, however strange that seemed.

Wu Xiang was, in truth, a fortunate man. Not only did he have the resources of the film academy behind him, but he was also approached by a female editor—or rather, she sought him out. Zhou Xinxia, a national first-class film editor and current visiting professor at the film academy, had come to Wu Xiang herself, offering to edit his film. It seemed Professor Mu had played a role in this, for Zhou’s first words on meeting him were, “I heard from little Mu that you made quite a film. How about I cut it for you?”—little Mu, of course, being Mu Deyuan.

What else could Wu Xiang say? He immediately got everything ready and became the model student. Zhou Xinxia insisted she wouldn’t accept payment, claiming she’d treat it as a donation, but Wu Xiang couldn’t agree to that. At the very least, he had to give her a token of appreciation. “This is tuition,” he insisted, “just take it as payment for taking on a foolish apprentice.”

Editing, Zhou explained, was about connecting shots according to the logic of life, shaping them into a story. But that was only one approach—there were many editing techniques, some of which could even merge entirely disparate shots. For example, after Zhang Shangwu and the others were rescued by helicopter, Professor Zhou inserted a brief scene of the Yangtze River at peace, symbolizing that the threat of flood had temporarily passed, allowing the audience to breathe a sigh of relief and establishing rhythm. Wu Xiang hadn’t shot any such footage, but the film academy’s archives were full of material like that.

This was a revelation to Wu Xiang—he’d never realized editing could be so fascinating. He was so absorbed that he neglected his literature classes, diving into several books on editing and learning hands-on from Professor Zhou.

Zhou Xinxia, seeing Wu Xiang’s diligence, was delighted, praising his intelligence and calling him anything but a fool.

The editing process went smoothly, but there was much more to post-production. Dubbing was straightforward, with the only challenge being the addition of background effects—a task the experienced team at August First Studio handled expertly. As for visual effects, they were unnecessary. Wu Xiang would have liked to include some, but the domestic industry lagged far behind Hollywood, and the animation students’ textbooks were outdated. Fortunately, most of the film was shot on location, so editing alone sufficed for any effects.

Music was another matter. Wu Xiang had to rely on August First Studio’s resources—he lacked both experience and connections in that field. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the best he could do. While Wu Xiang focused on learning editing at school, the other post-production tasks proceeded simultaneously, so he still had to eat at the cafeteria.

“You really need to tell me,” Huang Huanbo pressed, “how did you come up with so many theories? I’ve never heard any of that before. And you always have some bizarre trick up your sleeve—have you made films before?” Since they were eating, Huang Huanbo wouldn’t pass up the chance to needle Wu Xiang. He still remembered how Wu Xiang, millionaire that he was, used to mooch meals off him—now it was time to return the favor.

“Exactly!” chorused the other freeloaders from Room 307.

Wu Xiang accepted their freeloading in good spirits, but as for their questions, he just smiled and asked, “May I brag a little?”

“Pfft!” A few of them nearly spat out their food. “Come on, we’re eating here! Be serious.”

“I’m only asking because if I answered seriously, you’d think I was bragging anyway!” Wu Xiang protested.

Everyone gave up. “Fine, go ahead and brag.”

Wu Xiang grinned. “Actually, Bo, I can answer your question in one sentence: I just love movies.”

“Bah!” The group was unimpressed.

“I get it,” Wu Xiang continued, still smiling. “But my passion is different from others. I’ve been watching films since I was a child. My family owned a VCR, and I was a gold member at the local video rental. Even in school, I spent at least two hours a day watching every film I could find. There are countless movies I’ve watched over and over, including a fair share of R-rated ones, even the odd adult film when the store owner made a mistake—”

Everyone burst out laughing, but at that moment, Huang Huanbo’s expression changed. He finally understood.

“Do you still watch now?” Hao Yi suddenly asked.

“Of course,” Wu Xiang replied. “Some of you may not know, but our film academy has loads of films I could never find before. Thank goodness my English is decent, though with other languages I have to rely on those dreadful, asynchronous translations—it’s painful.” He was referring to the academy’s archive, which housed an abundance of classic international films, mostly artistic and very old.

Wu Xiang said all this with a smile, but Huang Huanbo no longer laughed. He realized he hadn’t been working hard enough.

“Wu Xiang, someone’s looking for you!” A girl’s voice suddenly interrupted Wu Xiang’s monologue.

The sound startled Wu Xiang, for he recognized it as Huang Yi. He hadn’t seen her in some time—since he’d started shooting, she’d stopped doing his laundry. For reasons he couldn’t fully explain, he found himself missing her a little.

“No, no, no…” Wu Xiang tried to remind himself not to get sentimental. Besides, with Huang Yi’s imposing figure—her fists could stampede horses—there was…

“What’s with your ‘no, no, no’?” Huang Yi huffed. What on earth was this idiot thinking?

“It’s nothing—um, who’s looking for me?” Wu Xiang quickly tried to cover his embarrassment.

“How should I know?” Huang Yi clearly wasn’t keen to talk and marched ahead to lead the way.

Huang Yi herself was feeling confused that day. She’d run into a stranger on campus who seemed suspicious to others, but when he saw her, he burst into song: “Run forward! Face the scorn and ridicule…” The outburst nearly gave her a shock. Clearly, only someone a little mad would seek out Wu Xiang.

The stranger had asked to meet the composer of that song, so, with a sense of duty, Huang Yi agreed to help. Truthfully, she hadn’t wanted to see Wu Xiang. She’d thought of auditioning for his film—her hometown had suffered in the disaster, and she’d been genuinely interested—but when she saw Wen Zhengrong and Zhang Yanyan take the stage, she lost her nerve. Her pride wouldn’t let other girls see her being soft toward Wu Xiang.

So, when they stepped out of the cafeteria and Wu Xiang saw the stranger waiting, he found the man familiar but couldn’t quite place him.