Chapter Seventy-Four: They Really Ended Up Talking Through an Entire Film

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(Once again, many thanks to “Virtue Like Water’s Emptiness” for the generous tip!)

Wu Xiang didn’t understand Huang Bo’s local dialect, but everyone still caught his meaning, especially someone as sharp as Guan Hu. But would Guan Hu agree so easily? Wu Xiang had to offer a solution.

His idea was simple: let’s make it a comedy!

First of all, Guan Hu’s script already brimmed with comedic elements. Two young men from remote villages come to the capital to work—this setup is full of comic conflict. There are even successful templates for this kind of low-budget story, like the earlier film “A Beautiful New World.” If not for piracy, that movie might have done quite well at the box office, proving there’s an audience for such stories.

Secondly, comedy generally stands a better chance at the box office than pure realism. Audiences here are more eager to experience other emotions through laughter. Just look at Hong Kong films: ghost stories and horror are nearly always tinged with comedy—even the Japanese have poked fun at this in animation.

Comedy, Wu Xiang explained, wouldn’t dilute the film’s realistic undertones. His vision was clear: “I want to make a film that makes people laugh through their tears, that lets them feel heartache even as they smile.”

“To feel it through laughter…” Guan Hu hadn’t expected Wu Xiang to express it so.

“That feeling of leaving home, the gap between reality and dreams, the ache when you like a girl who doesn’t like you back—I want the audience to taste all of this through laughter. If we can manage that, making money won’t be hard.” At that moment, Wu Xiang seemed like Mephistopheles, tempting Guan Hu to fall into his infernal bargain.

“Can you actually pull this off?” Guan Hu, ever shrewd, kept his composure and wasn’t swayed by Wu Xiang’s words.

“I can’t—but I believe you can. Since you came up with the script, you must have it in you. I can point the way, but you’ll have to walk it. Also, I’m ready to invest a million. That ought to be enough, but of course, you can talk it over with Third Master.” Wu Xiang laid his cards on the table, straightforward and open.

“I’m in!” Guan Hu decided on the spot—there was no point in dragging things out.

Afterward, Wu Xiang and Guan Hu discussed the film’s details. Wu Xiang insisted the mountain village must look as beautiful as possible, the people as pure as possible. Beijing, on the other hand, must appear grand and imposing, so viewers instantly sense its allure. And the place where the two village boys end up? The stranger, the better!

Hearing this, Guan Hu let out a heartfelt sigh at finding a kindred spirit so late in life.

The two of them were in lively discussion, but the others were a bit left out—especially Huang Bo.

“Um, Wu Bro, so… what about me?” Huang Bo realized Wu Xiang and the tall guy were now allies. Was he about to act in a film directed by that guy?

He wasn’t stupid—his guess was spot on. Wu Xiang smiled and said, “Hey, we’re all family now. This film is basically mine. You’re still acting, aren’t you?”

With that reassurance, Huang Bo had nothing more to say. “Alright! I’ll do it!”

“Great! Now we just need another male lead—someone who speaks the Shandong dialect, preferably with formal training…” Guan Hu was explaining this to Wu Xiang when he was interrupted.

“No need to look,” Huang Bo interjected in Shandong dialect. “I have a good friend, a Central Academy of Drama grad, grew up with me, a fantastic actor.”

Wu Xiang had been considering recommending Huang Xiaoming, but since Huang Bo had someone in mind, he decided to listen.

“What’s his name?” Guan Hu was curious; he should have heard of such a person.

“Gao Hu!” Huang Bo immediately named his childhood friend.

Ah, Gao Hu. Wu Xiang recalled—another who later did quite well for himself, and by all accounts, not short in stature.

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“I know him. He’ll do!” Guan Hu evidently knew him too.

With both male leads set, what about Guan Hu’s original reason for coming to this bar?

“Brother Wang, don’t you think you should lend us a hand?” Wu Xiang shot a meaningful look at Old Master Wang sitting nearby.

“No need to say more—I get it!” Wang Feng was direct as ever, turning to Guan Hu. “Director, if you’re looking for a bar singer, I’ll do it.”

“Excellent!” Guan Hu was delighted. He’d wanted to say as much, but Wu Xiang’s words carried more weight.

Casting a celebrity in a minor, inconspicuous role is often the formula for box-office success. Like “A Beautiful New World” with Wu Bai, or “Keep Cool,” where stars were so plentiful they could be sold by the pound. As for “The Emperor and the Assassin”—well, that was a flop…

With that, the film deal was essentially sealed. Wu Xiang, just by chatting, had conjured up a movie. It was astonishing—especially to Chen Sicheng.

“Oh, my big brother! You really are something else! You’re a master at talking people into things!”

This, in true Northeastern style, made black lines appear on Wu Xiang’s brow.

Chen Sicheng had observed the whole process, utterly impressed. “Bro, teach me your ways, just teach me how to talk like you. That’s all I want.”

But this was Wu Xiang’s unique talent—how could he give it away so easily?

Yet Chen Sicheng was relentless, almost pestering him. Wu Xiang found it hard to deal with, but seeing this group, this script, in this setting, a thought occurred to him.

“Didn’t you want to learn to sing? I’ve got a song for you—not directly, but you can learn from it.” Wu Xiang spoke to Chen Sicheng, then glanced at Wang Feng.

“A new song?” Old Master Wang immediately caught on, nearly ecstatic.

“It’s for you. I think it could work as the theme song for this film,” Wu Xiang declared.

The bar owner, familiar with Wang Feng and Huang Bo, quickly arranged the small stage. Wu Xiang’s request was odd—no band, not because he feared they couldn’t keep up, but that he himself couldn’t.

Wu Xiang’s singing was, well, such that even top musicians in the country respected him. Who could argue with that?

He began to sing a cappella, after a brief moment to collect himself.

“When I walk down every street here,
My heart never seems to grow calm,
Amidst the roaring engines and electric hum,
I seem to hear its candle-like heartbeat,
Here I laugh, here I weep,
Here I live, here I die,
Here I pray, here I feel lost…”

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“Here I search, here I lose…”

Though his singing was unremarkable and the melody simple, the lyrics alone, even delivered as if recited, touched everyone present.

All conversation ceased; each person was drawn in, almost involuntarily.

“Three blocks between the café and the square,
Like the distance between neon and moonlight,
People comfort and embrace one another in struggle,
Chasing the dying fragments of dreams,
Here we laugh, here we weep,
Here we live, here we die,
Here we pray, here we lose our way,
Here we search, here we lose…”

Wu Xiang kept singing in his unique, modest way, but by now, nobody cared about his technical ability.

“Amazing! Absolutely amazing!” Chen Sicheng could honestly say he’d never praised anyone so sincerely before. He’d always thought himself talented, but today… How could someone with such a rough voice sing a song that felt so powerful?

After that day, as Chen Sicheng matured, found success, and learned humility, he often recalled what happened here.

“Teacher Wu, Brother Wu! You’re my idol!” Huang Bo’s admiration was even more direct.

“This guy is seriously gifted,” Guan Hu couldn’t help but acknowledge.

As for Old Master Wang, he was already tapping the rhythm, planning to study the song closely.

Through it all, Wu Xiang seemed almost uninvolved.

“If one day I must leave,
I hope they’ll bury me here,
For here I can feel my own existence,
Here are too many things I can’t bear to leave behind…”

End.