Chapter 107: This Time, He's Going for a Grand Production (Part 1)

Chapter 107: This Time, He’s Going for a Major Production (Part One)

Li Jie, originally a martial arts athlete rather than a formally trained actor, had mostly appeared in action films. This background inevitably limited his growth and refinement in acting skills.

His acting had long been criticized, even after breaking into Hollywood and becoming one of the few Chinese actors to establish a foothold there. His acting ability remained the biggest obstacle in his Hollywood career.

Though Li Jie’s acting was lacking, with over twenty years of experience, he had developed a discerning eye. He could still distinguish a good script from a bad one.

Upon reading the script, he was intrigued. Although “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon” was a martial arts film, its essence lay in human nature. Yet what troubled Li Jie most was the young, emerging director Zhang Le—could he capture the soul of this story and wield it skillfully?

Moreover, Li Jie’s career in Hollywood meant he rarely accepted roles in domestic productions anymore. But this script stirred his interest.

From the script, it was clear that Li Mubai was not the absolute protagonist; in fact, the story had no definitive lead or overt emotional bias. This was a stark contrast to the martial arts films he usually acted in. And it was precisely that difference that captivated Li Jie.

Li Mubai, world-weary and experienced, understood that the martial world was no place for retreat; he wished to lay down his sword but could not. In contrast, Yu Jiaolong was a fledgling who saw the martial world as a refuge from reality, a place to seek justice and vengeance. This stark contrast led to the tragic outcome where Li Mubai refrains from killing Bo Ren, yet Bo Ren dies because of him. It seemed to suggest that “adhering to the rules of the martial world” was not antiquated, but rather wise.

The film’s martial perspective was not about chivalry, but about the jianghu—the complex social world of martial artists. The intention was to depict, present, and analyze jianghu as a unique social structure. A neutral narrative perspective was thus inevitable.

This neutrality lent the film a calmness; even its tragic ending lacked excessive emotional outbursts. Audiences might find it harder to immerse themselves, yet this viewpoint spared them from the embarrassment of “not recognizing the true face of Mount Lu because they are in the mountain.” It allowed for a deeper understanding of the story’s underlying meaning—only by observing the jianghu with detached eyes can one grasp its true flavor.

This was not a film that simply pandered to the audience.

Li Jie was drawn to the film but remained hesitant. If the script had not come directly from Zhang Le himself, he might not have been so torn.

“What’s got you so interested? Looks like this script is unexpectedly good,” his wife Zhao Min teased with a smile.

“It really is good! But how many great scripts have been ruined by directors?” Li Jie shook his head before speaking.

“This script was written by Zhang Le himself,” Zhao Min said. “I looked into him when I came back—he’s an interesting guy.”

Li Jie looked at her curiously.

“He’s directed two films whose combined box office exceeded a billion yuan. His box office appeal is certainly no less than that of big-name directors,” Zhao Min explained. “Ah Jie, the domestic film market has grown rapidly in the past two years. It might even catch up to or surpass North America. Hollywood studios will inevitably pay more attention. And you have a natural advantage there.”

“You mean you want me to take this role?” Li Jie asked, looking at Zhao Min.

“I just hope you won’t ignore the domestic market. After all, that’s your foundation for standing firm in Hollywood. If you go too long without appearing in domestic productions, it will erode your influence,” Zhao Min said. “If this script is truly that good, you should consider it. Zhang Le may be young, but he is undeniably talented. If you really lack confidence, why not ask your old friend Chen Ke? He has worked with Zhang Le and should know him well.”

Li Jie lowered his head, lost in thought, still conflicted.

“Zhang Le is not even twenty-five yet but has already achieved what many can only dream of. His potential is self-evident. Taking this role now and forging a good connection might bring unexpected rewards in the future,” Zhao Min added.

Li Jie nodded, accepting his wife’s advice.

When an actor decides whether to accept a role, the decision is about more than just the script—there are many factors involved. Many actors knowingly take bad films because their hands are tied.

One is never truly free in the jianghu—that tangled world of social dealings. Isn’t the entertainment industry itself a kind of jianghu?

At a hotel in Hawaii, Yang Xin’er asked Zhang Le, “Are you really planning to invite Li Jie to play Li Mubai?”

“Among all Chinese actors, he exudes the most heroic aura. He is undoubtedly the perfect choice for Li Mubai,” Zhang Le nodded.

“Do you think he’ll accept? Nowadays, he’s focused on Hollywood. Many top domestic directors have invited him, but all were rejected—even when the pay exceeded what he earns in Hollywood,” Yang Xin’er said.

“Li Jie isn’t short of work these days. A single film can pay him over ten million dollars. Plus, his wife Zhao Min is a savvy businesswoman. His status is so high that money alone won’t move him,” Zhang Le smiled and shook his head.

“That’s true. If he does take the role, that would be fantastic. He also has good box office appeal in Europe and America. If he stars, the film could even be released overseas,” Yang Xin’er nodded.

“If he accepts, I hope his salary isn’t outrageously high,” Zhang Le chuckled, shaking his head.

“And if it is?” Yang Xin’er asked with a teasing smile.

“As long as it’s within a reasonable range, it’s acceptable. Considering his box office draw in Europe, America, China, and other parts of Asia, a higher salary is justifiable. More importantly, he truly fits the role of Li Mubai best,” Zhang Le pondered aloud.

“What’s the upper limit?” Yang Xin’er nodded in approval and asked.

“Twelve million dollars. Anything above that, and we find someone else,” Zhang Le said thoughtfully. “Without Zhang the butcher, do we eat raw pork?”

“Let’s see if he accepts first,” Yang Xin’er laughed.

Yang Xin’er wasn’t concerned about the budget for the new “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.” Li Jie’s Hollywood salary hovered around ten million dollars. Even if he gave a friend’s discount, it couldn’t be much less. His pay alone exceeded the combined budgets of Zhang Le’s previous two films, and then some.

So the total investment for this film was easy to imagine. Regardless of how much it was, Yang Xin’er didn’t care—not because she had great faith in Zhang Le’s films or in Zhang Le himself. She supported Zhang Le, but by now, there was no longer any reason needed.

Besides, the money for these films was earned by Zhang Le. Yang Xin’er never bothered to think about whether the money belonged to her, Zhang Le, or both of them.

“We’re here to travel, yet we end up talking about work again,” Zhang Le smiled.