Chapter 646: How to Perform Is All That Matters

Games at least involve production, generate economic benefits, promote employment, can be exported, and have some technical content.

The fan circle is truly deeply harmful.

Know that the authorities dislike games not for any other reason, but because many serious social incidents have occurred.

Someone stole bank money to play online games, spent over a decade in prison, and ruined their entire life; someone defrauded relatives and friends' money to play online games, leaving families destitute and parents begging on their knees.

Some civil servants embezzled and took bribes to play online games.

Such cases are countless and have huge impacts—fundraising, suicide, sudden death, fraud, embezzlement—you say the authorities could possibly like this stuff?

So they've repeatedly imposed many restrictions on online games: no publishing licenses issued, anti-addiction systems, real-name authentication, time limits, parental supervision, spending caps—all rolled out in waves.

Even if minors make payments, you must refund them—what capitalist could possibly do that?

But there's no choice; children's self-control is too poor, and without restrictions, many families' hard-earned money will be swept away.

Fortunately, things have become more rational since then.

Similarly with the fan circle: a middle schooler borrowed money just to buy an album by a South Korean group, took out 120,000 yuan in online loans, and their parents sold their house to repay the debt.

A fan, to prove love for their idol, carved the idol's name into their arm with a razor blade during a concert, leading to infection and hospitalization.

Some fan clubs even circulate the twisted belief that "hurting yourself is the only way to move your brother."

When an idol announces a relationship, someone livestreams swallowing sleeping pills on social media—how vile.

Cyberbullying, dumping milk, family breakdowns, black industry chains, historical distortion—all are countless.

A college student was doxxed and sent funeral clothes as threats by fans after criticizing an idol's dance.

Some fans argue with their parents over idol-related spending.

Some fans use AI face-swapping to forge "anti-China videos" of rival artists, causing brand contract terminations and losses exceeding ten million yuan.

Statistics show that 83% of maliciously edited images a certain female star receives daily come from rival fan groups.

Where did Liu Tianxian's malicious attacks come from? Exactly like this—many are completely fabricated.

Such a circle has no positive aspects at all, only negatives—how could the authorities not intervene?

And all this is happening, continuously happening—the era of entertainment unto death is arriving.

This is another reason many entertainment companies have collapsed: the authorities cannot allow such trends to grow, so they must restrict entertainment.

Restricting entertainment means restricting star IPs, which causes their income to plummet and entertainment companies' revenue to shrink.

This is also why entertainment companies have low market valuations—they cannot be over-entertained.

Many people don't understand the authorities' intentions; only over the past few years has Fang Hong gradually understood: for entertainment, be proactive and positive; anything causing social harm or affecting adolescents' physical and mental health must be restricted.

Even family tragedies triggered by external factors must be restricted.

For example, that middle schooler borrowing 120,000 yuan to chase stars—China's Banking and Insurance Regulatory Commission issued a document to overhaul the entire online lending system: anyone who lends to minors must quit the business.

Anyone who pursues repayment offline is breaking the law.

These capitalists are truly insane; by tying themselves to stars, they must monetize through traffic and fan economy.

The fan economy is made up of which group? Adolescents. Studies show 23% of post-2000 fans have borrowed money to spend on idols—this data is terrifying.

These capitalists and stars gamble, and must make adolescents pay the price, because older people are already mature.

So entertainment is restricted, and you see "little fresh meat" being stigmatized by society—all intentional.

Without stigmatizing them, people won't wake up.

"So then, future film and TV stocks won't have much potential," said Liu Xiaoli.

"No, the bubble will be popped," said Fang Hong.

Liu Xiaoli nodded silently, her answer settled—because her son-in-law had never been wrong in his predictions.

Moreover, with rising status, he now has some advisory power—he can propose suggestions and ideas about this industry.

Whether they're adopted is up to the authorities' discretion.

Like last time with "Limit Foreign"—the authorities thought it was positive and beneficial for the entire film and TV industry, so they considered adopting and implementing it.

If Fang Hong now proposes "Remove Over-entertainment," it will definitely crush a huge segment, shaking up massive interests.

The previous "Limit Foreign" helped the entire film and TV industry, giving everyone work and directing capital's money toward them.

But capital's money also flowed into star IP building and idol talent shows.

"Remove Over-entertainment" will cause their star value to plummet drastically.

Because all industries will be hit—fan photography, voting, data fraud, idol-related spending—all will suffer.

How can you spend if online lending is banned? How can you spend if minor payments are restricted?

This invisibly deprives stars of a huge consumer base.

Even Variety shows—whether talent shows can continue is uncertain, but they will definitely be restricted.

As the two talked, Liu Tianxian was filming; Xi Yi and the crew weren't resting, still working hard to finish shooting this month.

Next month it will turn cold here.

Wen Muye, Liu Tianwang, Zhang Yi, Zhao Xiaodao, and five other members came—they were here to rehearse, to show Fang Hong the filmed footage.

They also wanted to review the script with him and Liu Tianxian, to check for inconsistencies in plot or performance.

Liu Tianxian's scene involves establishing contact with Earth's Space Administration, but the method is primitive: initially, she can only write on cardboard, and the Space Administration controls the camera to turn toward the written characters.

For example, if Liu Tianxian writes "good," the Space Administration turns the camera toward the character "good."

This communication method is primitive and inconvenient; the Space Administration uses pinyin to spell out words and teaches Liu Tianxian how to hack the Rover's system.

Then they connect the Rover's network to Zhurong.

Zhurong is the Tianwen-1 Mars probe, originally remotely controlled and networked by the Space Administration.

But during this timeline, Zhurong hasn't been launched yet—it won't launch for five years; the film is just borrowing it in advance.

After all, going to Mars will certainly involve a probe.

Finally online, Liu Tianxian became as excited as chatting on QQ.

This is reshoot footage from before the scene; the turning point still comes after the Pressure Chamber explodes, but life must go on.

Liu Tianxian began repairing the exploded Pressure Chamber, removing her own hair—these were strands she had previously cut, used only as props; when ignited, the smoke from the hair could reveal air leaks.

If not repaired, another explosion would make survival truly impossible; only after repairing the Pressure Chamber could she pressurize her living environment.

An accident occurred with Liu Tianxian, shortening her survival time; the Space Administration needed to launch a spacecraft as soon as possible to deliver supplies.

But due to the tight timeline, assembly was reduced from thirteen days to two days, and the rocket exploded before it was properly prepared.

With no other option, they sought help from the U. S., Russia, or Ouzhou; there were rejections, but our genius scientist came up with another method.

This is the story filmed on the other side; here, Liu Tianxian learned of the rocket's explosion and sank into deep despair.

There was no time left to build another spacecraft; constructing one took a long time and was not easy.

Liu Tianxian, clad in a spacesuit, sat on the reddish-brown stones of the Gobi, silently gazing at the distant reddish-brown sky—the color resembled rusted iron, the entire scene vast and grand.

Sitting like this, she felt a sense of lost loneliness.

Outside the shoot, Fang Hong reached out and pressed lightly, signaling a pause; the director, Wen Muye, stopped watching the monitor.

Those watching the shoot—Liu Tianwang and others—saw Fang Hong holding the script, walking up to Liu Tianxian.

Fang Hong said: "You need to add a sense of longing."

"Longing?" Liu Tianxian looked up, puzzled.

"You can't go back—don't you miss your parents? Don't you miss your family? If you can add guilt—guilt that you can't be beside your parents," Fang Hong explained.

"That's too hard—so many emotions, how can I express them all?" Liu Tianxian felt overwhelmed.

Fang Hong patted her shoulder, guiding her to bring her torso closer to her knees, then said: "Your body should have a slightly curled posture—that's longing, a subconscious behavior."

"Your gaze must feel hazy. What is hazy? It's unfocused eyes—if you don't understand, imagine your vision is blurred, like nearsightedness."

"Nearsightedness?" Liu Tianxian pondered.

Fang Hong's advice was always practical—he told her exactly how to act, how to use her body and organs to express emotion, never what she should feel inside.

Feelings were too abstract; the external was the most direct.

"Yes, you know you can't go back—you must feel longing and loneliness," Fang Hong said.

Liu Tianxian leaned forward slightly, maintaining the curled posture, gazing into the distance, emptying her thoughts; slowly, her eyes took on a hazy quality—a state of blurred vision.

Thinking like this—staring into the distance without knowing what you're looking at—makes your gaze scatter.

Fang Hong gestured for the cinematographer to film Liu Tianxian's face.

On the monitor, Liu Tianxian's current state was displayed; Liu Tianwang, Zhang Yi, and others watched closely, intrigued.

Seeing the close-up of Liu Tianxian's face, her eyes appeared hazy; even without looking at her face, just her eyes evoked a sense of inner unease.

It felt as if she truly carried a sense of longing.

This state could be meditation; meditators often look like this, lost in thought.

Being lost in thought—isn't that a kind of longing? Nothing wrong with it.

This technique was practical; Liu Tianwang exchanged a glance with Zhang Yi—no wonder Liu Tianxian improved so fast, winning award after award.

They don't talk about mindset or inner feelings—they just tell you exactly how to act, how to perform, and that's it.

(End of Chapter)