Chapter 945: The Real Comedy

Geng Jiao lay sprawled on her bicycle, her tight sportswear accentuating her figure like a storm about to break; due to her posture, her already ample buttocks appeared even more lifted.

Since Biohazard, any film starring Luo Quan seems to open with a generous treat for the audience.

Previously, the crude method of waking up from a bathroom scene, using camera illusions to build atmosphere, was still in use.

Now she had learned a more advanced technique: sometimes, not showing anything is more compelling than showing it.

Unfortunately, the highlight of this film wasn’t uniform seduction; Luo Quan’s stunning figure had barely appeared for a few seconds when the starting gun fired.

All female cyclists immediately pedaled furiously, sprinting toward the finish line.

As the protagonist, Geng Jiao easily gained an advantage and led all the way to the end.

With her flamboyant personality, she believed victory was certain; before reaching the finish line, she raised her arms in celebration, while the second-place rider, right behind her, crashed at the final moment, looking utterly humiliated.

After crossing the line, everyone assumed Geng Jiao had won first place—congratulations, interviews, and gold medals came pouring in.

But before she could savor her triumph, the results suddenly changed.

It turned out that the second-place rider, who had fallen off her bike at the finish line, had crossed just barely ahead—so Geng Jiao was actually the silver medalist.

In an instant, all the flowers and adoration shifted to the true champion; Geng Jiao, holding her silver medal, struggled to accept the outcome.

As Geng Jiao sulked alone, Li Fala approached her, dressed sharply but speaking to her with deep respect, bluntly requesting she endorse his product in an advertisement.

Geng Jiao told him in fluent Chongqing dialect: “You’ve got the wrong person—the gold medal’s over there.”

After speaking, she turned and walked away.

“Silver’s better.” Li Fala grabbed her arm, his expression earnest.

The camera cut to the two of them filming the ad in a hallway.

Then came the film’s first iconic scene.

“Men need strong kidneys—drink Shen Bao.”

“White Silver Deer Antler Shen Bao: one bottle refreshes your mind, two bottles eliminate fatigue, three bottles grant immortality.”

After reciting the ad, Geng Jiao finally understood why Li Fala had chosen her—the product’s name contained “White Silver,” so naturally, the silver medalist had to endorse it.

But having a woman endorse a sexual stimulant looked absurdly comical.

After reciting the lines, Li Fala made her drink the Shen Bao.

For the endorsement fee, Geng Jiao didn’t overthink it—she downed it in one gulp.

Immediately, her beautiful face twisted in agony, as if she’d swallowed intestine sashimi boiled in herring-can broth; after a long while, she forced out the final line with a mournful tone:

“White Silver Deer Antler Shen Bao—tastes amazing.”

No sooner had she finished than her master appeared, berating her without warning: “I’ve been searching everywhere for you, you little bastard—get your ass to the urine test right now!”

Geng Jiao, raised under her master’s fists since childhood, dared not defy him; she didn’t even collect her endorsement fee, dropped the Shen Bao, and ran off.

But that single gulp of Shen Bao caused her urine test to fail.

A no-brand, no-license, no-source sexual stimulant—its ingredients needed no guesswork; it undoubtedly contained massive amounts of stimulants.

After drinking it, her test came back positive—her medal was revoked, her results nullified, and she received a lifetime ban; the culprit, Li Fala, had vanished without a trace.

In a torrential downpour, Geng Jiao’s master couldn’t bear the blow; after kicking his student a few times, he collapsed straight to the ground.

The scene shifted to the sea.

A fishing boat from Baodao was locked in fierce combat; the heavily tattooed Ah Jie fought with terrifying prowess, effortlessly slaughtering the entire crew.

Finally, the dying captain was dragged onto the deck, where Ah Jie’s boss—nearly three hundred pounds—sat heavily on a small stool, anxiously demanding where his money was.

Just moments ago, they’d been playing mahjong, and the money had been right under his stool; in the blink of an eye, it was gone.

The dying captain lifted a card: “Change… change the wind.”

The gang boss blinked, then slapped his own head: “Damn it, I forgot you have to change the wind in mahjong.”

Sure enough, beneath the stool he’d sat on during his first round, the box containing the money still lay untouched.

And after speaking, the captain breathed his last.

The men stared at each other, unsure how to sail to the mainland.

Next, the main supporting characters appeared one by one.

A Thai trafficker with a menacing face, a professional assassin saving up to marry a wife, Li Fala the sexual stimulant boss who hired hitmen, Li Fala’s wife even fatter than the gang boss, and a cemetery salesperson spouting endless rhymes.

Each supporting character had a distinct personality, and within just a few lines, the audience memorized their archetypes—each had iconic lines that became unforgettable.

Together with the protagonist, they wove a comedy so absurd it made audiences laugh and cry at once.

The plot twisted and turned, multiple storylines converged seamlessly, with flawless pacing that rivaled any dramatic film—its brilliance left viewers gasping.

And unlike most contemporary comedies, the ending didn’t resort to sentimental melodrama to deepen its theme.

The goal of Crazy Racing wasn’t to create depth or artistic value—it simply aimed to bring joy.

There were no cryptic lines, no profound philosophical musings—only simple truths even a child understood: good deeds bring good results, evil deeds bring evil consequences.

The entire story revolved around this theme.

At just one hundred minutes, Crazy Racing was slightly shorter than today’s typical two-hour films.

Yet audiences left deeply satisfied—the film felt complete, every plot point resolved, every setup paid off, and the happy ending was universally loved.

After the screening, viewers immediately began heated discussions—with companions, or online with strangers.

Before noon, Crazy Racing topped trending lists, even pushing aside Eight Hundred, which had been guaranteed the top spot.

As a National Day tribute film, Eight Hundred featured over twenty stars, including multiple Best Actor and Best Actress winners, with massive fanbases.

Originally destined to dominate the National Day box office, it was now overshadowed by a film costing less than one-tenth of its budget—even its rating was surpassed, a shocking turn of events.

Eight Hundred’s Douban rating stood at 7.9; Crazy Racing’s was 8.1.

Though Douban disfavored mainstream films, it disfavored domestic comedies even more.

Aside from Stephen Chow’s childhood classics, few comedies ever cracked a 7.

That Crazy Racing reached 8 meant audiences held it in extraordinarily high regard.

Though the score was newly released and based on few voters, making it slightly inflated.

But an 8.0 debut meant that unless Luo Quan bought fake reviews, the score wouldn’t drop below 7.5.

In terms of word-of-mouth, Crazy Racing achieved massive success.

As for box office, there was no need to rush.

In China, any film with explosive word-of-mouth sees its box office skyrocket; at this point, Crazy Racing was already guaranteed success.

Soon, the first professional reviews came out.

“Professional” was a stretch—there were hardly any famous professional critics online; most were paid to praise.

Take the earlier Lion Dance Boy—everyone online hated it, yet a group of critics openly called it “the pinnacle of domestic animation.”

After that, netizens realized these so-called critics were neither professional nor sincere, and their opinions carried little weight.

Fortunately, this time they did something right—their reviews of Crazy Racing were overwhelmingly positive.

Still, audiences preferred watching video reviews by Bilibili UPs.

The most popular video, titled “The Real Comedy,” had already surpassed one million views.

The UP said in the video:

“This is a true comedy—it brutally exposed the pretentious directors who think they’re profound with convoluted plots.”

“A successful comedy should make you laugh from start to finish. It’s not that you can’t teach—it’s fine for the director to let characters voice insights or let the plot illustrate them.”

“But remember one thing: never let the message overshadow the comedy.”

“Sadly, today’s directors don’t understand—or care—what audiences want; they just dump hollow moralizing down viewers’ throats, thinking they’re deep.”

“The result? Films that are neither commercial nor artistic, neither funny nor serious—purely a grotesque hybrid.”

“If you can’t even unify your film’s tone, how can you make a good film? That’s pure fantasy.”

“Luo Quan is incomparably superior to these half-baked directors—most crucially, she knows what audiences want, and what she should film.”

“She’s said she dislikes tragic endings, preferring happy ones.”

“But when making art films, she won’t force a happy ending just to please.”

“How tragic is Farewell My Concubine? Only the male lead survives—yet does anyone say she filmed it badly?”

“Similarly, Biohazard doesn’t waste time on gimmicks—it simply shows the heroine’s curves and long legs, then lets her carve through zombies in a bloody frenzy. One word: thrilling!”

“That’s Luo Quan’s strength—I call it purity.”

“Some directors want everything—and end up with nothing.”

“Others, to sneak in their ego, deliberately disgust audiences—making commercial films while hating commerce, pretending to be noble by adding ‘elevating’ scenes. Utterly foolish.”

“So I say Luo Quan slapped these clowns in the face—she showed them how to make a successful film!”

………………

This was only an excerpt—the UP’s tone was passionate, clearly having long resented these absurd directors.

Now that Luo Quan stood as the perfect counterexample, he immediately used her to shame them.

Though Luo Quan had urged fans not to compare her to others, netizens loved nothing more than using her to crush disliked directors and stars.

After all, comparison isn’t illegal—could those targeted directors and stars really sue?

Besides, the UP didn’t name names—if anyone rushed to self-identify, they’d only invite merciless mockery.

Of course, netizens were currently busy praising Crazy Racing.

Not just for its brilliant comedy, but also for its exceptional cinematography.

The film opened with multiple storylines, peaking at four concurrent plots.

Despite so many threads, the film never felt chaotic; when they merged, it felt natural, with no forced stitching.

That’s the mark of a director’s skill.

In China, few directors can handle a film this well.

Because many domestic directors also enjoy multi-narrative structures, but the results often appear jarringly fragmented, utterly unable to match Crazy Stone.

Beyond the director’s technique, the casting in this film was perfectly suited.

Those supporting actors had little online fame, but because they had appeared in so many works, their first appearance instantly gave audiences a sense of familiarity.

Moreover, in this film, nearly every actor spoke their native dialect, and this melting pot of dialects from all corners of the country made the movie feel far more grounded.

And one must admit, some dialects are genuinely hilarious—the moment they’re spoken, audiences can’t help but laugh.

First and foremost was Luo Quan’s delivery of “Shen Bao”—the theater audience burst into uncontrollable laughter.

No one had imagined that this stunning beauty, after deliberately playing ugly in a comedy, could deliver such outstanding results.

Besides this, the film delivered numerous iconic scenes, such as the cemetery sales pitch monologue.

“Underground CBD, life’s backyard garden, eighteen farewells all black, wish I could just buy myself a full set”—the audience never stopped laughing.

But the funniest was still the pair accusing the assassin; they delivered the film’s most numerous and brilliant lines, such as:

“No burning, not professional,” “Love what you do,” “Full of tongue-twisters, you’re taking the postgraduate exam?” “Many evil deeds invite one’s own downfall…”

Each line struck the audience’s comedic nerve.

All of these gradually topped trending lists and became standalone search terms.

For a film to generate so many memes on its first day of release, one can imagine just how wildly popular and beloved it was.

And all of this was concretely demonstrated by its astonishing opening-day box office of nine hundred million yuan.