Chapter Eighty-Nine: Zhang Le’s Standards for Casting

Chapter Eighty-Nine: Zhang Le's Criteria for Casting

The films of the Great Master Zhou bore a strong personal stamp. No matter how gifted the director, working with him would still leave that director in the shadows. Take A Romantic Scholar’s Quest for Love, for example. When people mention that film, who thinks first of Li Lichi, the man who was both screenwriter and director?

The Great Master Zhou’s contribution to that film could not be ignored. And Li Lichi? Of course, the reason Zhang Le chose this film was that it had too many highlights, from the dialogue to the fight scenes and beyond. Its extraordinary imagination, which overturned the old-world costume genre, was packed with postmodern flourishes: performance-art painting, modern percussion, a model’s runway stride, a poison introduction drenched in advertising jargon, and comic inventions like the Face-Destroying Kick.

It was a work utterly opposite in style from The Crazy Stone, which relied on plot-driven comedy.

“Director Zhang, did you invite Feng Lei to play the lead in this film because of Teacher Feng, or because he is your closest brother?” a reporter asked.

“I chose him as the male lead mainly because, among the signed actors at our company, he was the one whose image best fit Tang Bohu. Of course, the prerequisite was that he had to lose weight. Now you can all see the fat man from The Crazy Stone has become a male idol. He lost the weight so successfully—if I don’t choose him, who would I choose?” Zhang Le said with a smile.

“Do you mean that, when casting, you prioritize actors signed to your own company rather than choosing from the needs of the film itself?” Another reporter seemed to have caught a loophole in Zhang Le’s words and asked.

“Didn’t you just say it yourself? Prioritize. You understand what that means, right? Under equal conditions, what’s wrong with giving preference to our own people? Do you expect every film a studio makes to become a wedding garment for some other company?” Zhang Le said with a laugh. “If there isn’t anyone suitable, of course we’ll invite actors from other companies. Wasn’t Chen Xiao one of them?”

“Chen Xiao had worked with Director Zhang before. So after prioritizing actors from your own company, do you then consider actors you’ve previously worked with?”

“Actors you’ve worked with before are familiar. When you’re already familiar, you save the process of getting to know each other, which improves efficiency on set. Besides, when people talk about who is suitable, the first thing that comes to mind is always someone they already know.” Zhang Le said with a smile.

“Miss Yang Xin’er, this is your first real collaboration with Director Zhang. If he scolds you on set, will you be heartbroken?” one reporter turned the target toward Yang Xin’er.

“Of course I’d be heartbroken. If a director scolds you, it only proves you didn’t act well,” Yang Xin’er said with a smile.

The reporter was evidently dissatisfied with her evasive answer and turned to Zhang Le. “Director Zhang, could you bear to scold Miss Yang Xin’er?”

“Do you mean in daily life, or when filming?” Zhang Le glanced at Yang Xin’er and asked with a smile.

“What about in daily life? And what about during filming?” the reporter asked.

“In daily life, of course I couldn’t bear to scold her,” Zhang Le said with a smile. “As for filming, that won’t be known until we get there. Last time we shot The Crazy Stone, there was no chance to find out.”

Nonsense. The reporters also knew that Zhang Le was rarely in the media’s crosshairs, but he was very seasoned in answering questions—practically an old hand from the entertainment world.

“Mr. Feng Lei, this is the first time you’ve played the male lead in a film. Do you feel pressure?” one reporter shifted the target to Feng Lei. They had been unable to get the answers they wanted from Yang Xin’er and Zhang Le. Those polished, official responses were anything but explosive.

“Although this is my first time as the male lead, I grew up on film sets since I was a child. Even now, I couldn’t tell you how many roles I’ve played. I still have confidence in my acting. Besides, I believe that effort brings reward. How much effort I put into this film—just look at my body now and you’ll know,” Feng Lei said with a smile.

Feng Lei had indeed worked very hard for this film; losing weight was only the most obvious result. There was much more effort whose effects would only be tested once filming was underway.

Feng Lei was not the Great Master Zhou. At the beginning, even the absurd, postmodern notions Zhang Le mentioned were only vague concepts to him.

Zhang Le had been pondering all along whether, if this film were shot in some other way, it would turn a classic into a bad film. The script itself was undoubtedly excellent, but without the Great Master Zhou’s distinctive style, Zhang Le himself felt a kind of mutilated loss.

With that loss, even a classic could be reduced to trash.

Naturally, Zhang Le would not allow himself to turn a former-life classic into a bad film. In a world without the Great Master Zhou, the absurd and the postmodern were still immature, and the difficulty of filming this work was imaginable.

The Great Master Zhou performed countless classics, but that too was the result of steady accumulation, bit by bit. By the time A Romantic Scholar’s Quest for Love was filmed, his style had already matured. It was obviously impossible for Zhang Le to have Feng Lei achieve it in one stroke.

Plagiarize, imitate, borrow, and then blend in one’s own ideas to form a personal style?

Zhang Le thought about many things, but in the end, much would have to be decided by the effect on the day of filming.

Fortunately, this world had no Great Master Zhou, no classic films of his, not even anything similar. Even if the imitation was only half convincing, no one would know.

In his former life, no matter how closely one copied, it was still merely taking another’s leftovers. Now, no matter how unlike the original the imitation might be, it was still one’s own style.

Filming did not go very smoothly. The results never quite matched what Zhang Le wanted, and sometimes a single shot had to be retaken countless times. Only then did Zhang Le truly understand how arduous it would be to create a Great Master Zhou in this world.

Still, there was a gratifying side as well. In the original version from his former life, Gong Li had felt somewhat awkward when acting in this film. This was not because her acting was poor, but because she came from an academic background and did not understand the Great Master Zhou’s style. Many scenes were even rejected by her because she thought the other side was deliberately making things difficult for her.

Yang Xin’er, of course, would never think Zhang Le was trying to make things hard for her in the film. She was not from an academic acting background either, and she was very natural in her performance. Of course, being natural still had its limits. If it went as far as a complete over-the-top farce, the whole film might well have turned into a joke.

In any case, Yang Xin’er’s performance exceeded Zhang Le’s expectations.

Feng Lei was tormented by Zhang Le to the point of near mental collapse. But as filming continued, he gradually found the feel of the role. The number of retakes slowly decreased.

“I’ve watched The Crazy Stone many times. The style of this film is so different from that one—aren’t you afraid that changing so much at once will make fans unable to accept it?” Tang Xiao looked at Zhang Le and asked.

“As long as the film is good to watch, fans won’t care whether your style remains the same as always,” Zhang Le said with a smile. “I don’t want my style to become fixed.”

“Acceptance should take time. The way you’re doing it is a bit risky. If your style isn’t accepted by fans, the impact on you won’t be small,” Tang Xiao said.

“If you’re going to try, don’t be afraid of failure,” Zhang Le said with a shake of his head and a smile. “There’s a scene tomorrow that’s short an actor. Come make a cameo.”

“Me?” Tang Xiao was somewhat surprised.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m making a cameo too,” Zhang Le said with a smile.

“That scene?” Tang Xiao had been following the crew and, as Zhang Le’s assistant, had naturally studied the script as well.

“The four great talents go out on an excursion. I’ll play Wen Zhengming, you’ll play Xu Zhenqing. The four great talents—we two brothers will play three of them.” Zhang Le said with a smile.