Chapter 652

Actually, Huang Jiaozhu is quite easily swayed, and for his wife, his character is already quite good.

Da Baobei's trajectory in the entertainment industry over these past few years is clear: from an unknown minor model, she grew into a top-tier actress.

During the period she was with Huang Jiaozhu, she thrived; the moment she left him, she immediately faltered.

Huang Jiaozhu has the ability to promote someone—he has money and connections—but promoting someone else consumes his own resources.

In other words, helping her was exhausting: he lifted his wife up, drained his own network, and himself declined, because his resources and connections could only support one person.

When he poured all his resources into his wife, he himself declined—that's why Da Baobei reached her peak fame while Huang Jiaozhu seemed to fade.

In short, his capacity was limited.

But after giving so much, helping so much, he ended up hearing: "My success has nothing to do with you—it's all my own effort."

Who could take that? It's like you fawn over a woman, tightening your belt, cutting every expense, and sending her eight thousand yuan every month without fail.

Then she tells you you're useless, and smiles faintly at another man—isn't that a killing blow?

Give too much, and it starts to feel like your duty.

Da Baobei really could say that—during her peak fame, she told the media: "My face is worth eighty million."

She also said: "My journey hasn't been entirely smooth; if it had been, I'd have swept every award into a grand slam."

Liu Tianxian worked hard for years, Fang Hong supported her for years, giving her the best scripts, yet none of them would dare say such things.

Old Huang spoiled his woman too much, just like Ye Ke later did—spoiling her into arrogance.

Outside, all kinds of undercurrents stirred, yet The Martian was still being filmed, with two crews now merged together.

Fang Hong didn't need to be so busy anymore, because two assistant directors, Wen Muye and Shen Ao, were helping operate the cameras.

The filming now only required the final scene: the transport ship catching the protagonist in space.

Due to environmental constraints, this scene needed a distant Mars backdrop, so it was shot against a green screen, with no dangerous stunts—just hanging to simulate weightlessness.

They already had extensive experience and numerous high-difficulty movements from filming Gravity.

The Martian didn't require such high-difficulty movements to film.

This scene's plot required precise mathematical calculations: the protagonist's jetpack thrust speed, his position in space, and whether the transport ship could intercept him.

Their speeds had to be perfectly matched; even a one-meter-per-second difference would rapidly widen the gap, making rescue impossible.

Spaceships, unlike airplanes, have predetermined orbits—once off course, you must wait for the next cycle.

Roughly speaking, the ship must complete at least one full orbit around the sun—about two years—before it can approach Mars again.

So if you miss the catch, it's permanent separation—the protagonist dies, with no second chance.

Spaceships aren't like airplanes; airplanes can turn, reverse, adjust course—spaceships can't. They must follow orbital mechanics.

If you ignore physical laws, the orbit goes out of control, and the ship either plummets into the sun or flies into deep space, ending as a fuel-depleted space coffin.

In space, fuel is the scarcest resource, nearly impossible to replenish.

Of course, movies are romanticized—even with technology ten years ahead, no nation could realistically catch a person in Mars orbit like this.

A hair's breadth off means a thousand miles wrong—just one mistake, and it's forever.

Missing the catch is the inevitable outcome; it's a movie, so it's normal.

Inside a vast studio, the ceiling was at least three stories high—about nine meters—making people look tiny standing there.

But one area was covered by a massive green screen as background, including the floor, which was also laid with a huge green screen.

At this moment, Liu Tianxian's stunt double, Ceng Yi, was suspended midair by over a dozen thin steel cables—cables wrapped around her legs, waist, and arms, densely packed.

Of course, what you see on set won't appear in the final film—the background will be deep space and Martian terrain.

She needed to perform a series of unpredictable rolls and spins: cutting her glove open and using jet propulsion to drift toward Commander Liu Tianwang.

Like Iron Man's jet propulsion, the entire sequence carried some danger, so they used a stunt double.

After all, she was suspended high up, covered in steel cables—how could Liu Tianxian herself do it? She only needed to appear on camera.

Just like Gravity before it.

Opposite her stood Liu Tianwang in an astronaut suit, which looked unusual—seemingly designed for sitting.

Behind Liu Tianwang ran a rope connected to something unseen—actually, someone was pulling it, and the rope linked to the transport ship.

Several cameras were filming them from all around.

Below stood many people: crew members operating the wires; the actors didn't move at all—they were entirely controlled by the crew.

Other key creatives were also present: actor Chen Daoming and other leads were there, but the two Hollywood actors had already finished and left.

Fang Hong and Liu Tianxian stood beside the monitor, glancing at the screen, then up at the filming.

"Increase the movement amplitude—add more sense of danger," Fang Hong told Wen Muye.

Wen Muye nodded and spoke into the walkie-talkie.

Above, Ceng Yi spun and twisted like a runaway puppet—sometimes whirling completely, sometimes yanked to one side, then pulled back.

This made Ceng Yi feel dizzy and nauseous, but she gritted her teeth—she didn't need to show her face, so her expression didn't matter.

"But you need to show that tense expression—even though this shot lasts only a flash, you still have to deliver it," Fang Hong said to Liu Tianxian beside him.

"How?" Liu Tianxian asked instinctively.

Without warning, Fang Hong raised his hand and slapped her.

Liu Tianxian's eyes widened, but she didn't move at all.

"You're not even scared!" Fang Hong stopped mid-swing, sensing she wasn't afraid, wasn't tense at all.

Chen Daoming crossed his arms, watching the two with interest—he'd never seen the Principal directing an acting scene before.

Mainly because they'd never collaborated before—this was their first time.

Last time, he'd only discussed the character's emotional state.

"Why should I be scared? I knew you wouldn't hit me," Liu Tianxian said confidently, almost smugly—they knew each other too well.

Of course, for a split second, she'd been nervous—what if this man actually hit her?

"That's not fair," Fang Hong said.

He'd just been testing, trying to get Liu Tianxian into character—he never meant to actually slap her; if he had, both their mothers would never forgive him.

Now, Liu Tianxian is a lady of noble birth—she can't be struck or touched.

"It's mainly because we know each other too well. I just can't scare you," Liu Tianxian laughed.

Chen Daoming stepped forward, tapped Liu Tianxian on the shoulder, and said, "Getting that sudden sense of tension is easy—you don't need to do it like this."

Seeing Chen Daoming, Liu Tianxian's expression turned respectful.

Chen Daoming continued, "Go pour me a glass of water. I'll teach you."

"Okay!"

Liu Tianxian didn't understand why, but she did as told—after all, he was teaching her acting, just like a teacher.

She walked over and poured a glass of water using a glass cup.

Just as she was pouring, Chen Daoming signaled a camera assistant to aim a lens at her.

Fang Hong guessed part of it and said nothing—he respected professionals.

Although his acting was often criticized, it was full of spectacle—you felt a powerful tension watching his performances, something thrilling, like a power fantasy, which made it feel unnatural.

Watching Wang Zhiwen's acting, you'd feel less spectacle, less passion, but more immersion and empathy.

That's the difference between them—neither is better or worse, just a matter of taste. Those who consider themselves artistic will praise Wang Zhiwen as a god.

The general public will think Chen Daoming is a god too.

But Chen Daoming is Method Acting, unlike Liu Tianxian's Experiential Acting.

When Liu Tianxian returned, she handed the glass to Chen Daoming: "Teacher Chen, please drink."

Chen Daoming reached out to take the cup; as soon as Liu Tianxian slightly loosened her grip, he gently released his too—the full glass fell without warning.

Liu Tianxian was caught off guard, thinking she'd dropped it—her heart clenched, her eyes widened, her mouth opened involuntarily, her face filled with panic.

With a sharp "Bang!" the glass shattered instantly.

The sound startled everyone nearby—they turned their heads in shock, faces bewildered, unsure what had happened.

"Your expression just now was perfect—just a bit exaggerated," Chen Daoming said, ignoring the others' stares, and waved for the cleaner to sweep up the mess.

Only then did Liu Tianxian calm down and nod—so he'd deliberately taught her acting.

Chen Daoming then walked over to the cinematographer and replayed Liu Tianxian's expression: "This is your expression just now. You don't need to widen your eyes so much—you're an astronaut, you're mentally prepared for what's coming. My drop was sudden—you weren't prepared. That's the difference."

Liu Tianxian watched solemnly, thinking it made sense—the astronaut must be calm and composed, something Fang Hong had told her earlier.

"So for this scene, the tension should be there, but fear must be hidden. Your expression should be like this." Chen Daoming demonstrated right in front of her.

His pupils slightly dilated, his mouth slightly open, facial muscles tense—as if truly nervous, even slightly afraid—then he quickly returned to normal.

"When a person is tense, their muscles tighten involuntarily. Of course, you won't see it through the spacesuit, but your face will show exactly this," Chen Daoming explained.

"I understand, Teacher Chen," Liu Tianxian thanked him.

She felt it too—in that instant when the glass fell, her body had tensed up.

Other extras nearby had listened too—Zhang Yi, Lei Datou, Bai Yu, and several lead actors stood around; Zhao Xiaodao even mimicked Chen Daoming's expression using a small mirror.

He couldn't quite replicate Chen Daoming's look.

"Let me tell you the simplest acting method: happiness is a lifted corner of the mouth and narrowed eyelids; sadness is squinted eyes, tightened brows, and downturned lips; fear is wide-open mouth and eyes, raised eyebrows, and flared nostrils; anger is lowered brows, furrowed forehead, and tense eyelids and lips."

With each emotion Chen Daoming named, he made the corresponding expression—anger, sadness, contempt, fear, joy—he did over a dozen in quick succession.

Each expression was distinct, clearly conveying the emotion behind it.

Those watching were stunned, thinking: "Old master actor—he really knows how to control his face."

"These are just the basics. Controlling your face to express emotion is formulaic. To act well, you need inner feeling—you need substance," Chen Daoming, ever eager to teach, added.

"That means having layers," Fang Hong summed up in one sentence.

If you perform exactly as Chen Daoming described, it'll feel fake—lacking layers.

Of course, it's enough for TV audiences.

But on the big screen, it's obvious—it looks fake, the acting is terrible, utterly lacking immersion.

That's why young idols can't make it on the big screen—they're exposed instantly. Acting is magnified, and flaws are magnified too.

"If you don't have inner feeling, how can you create layers through body language?" Liu Tianxian asked.

"Do you know that scene in Zhang Manyu's Comrades Almost a Love Story? She was smiling—truly smiling—but then, as she smiled, she started crying. If there's a technique for layering, it's emotional conflict."

"Sadness and joy, love and hate—two conflicting emotions. Simple example: you just bought a house worth millions, and now it's abandoned. When you hear that, don't you want to cry? Then laugh—laugh loudly, laugh wildly—and as you laugh, tears will roll down your cheeks. That makes the audience sense your inner contradiction—layering emerges."

Fang Hong explained the technique.

But this was still within the realm of technique—it wasn't about genuinely expressing inner emotion.

Hearing this, Zhang Yi, Lei Datou, Bai Yu, and others lowered their heads in thought. With this insight, they realized some veteran actors really did perform this way.

Crying while smiling, smiling while crying—they'd thought it was brilliant acting before. Now, with the Principal's explanation, it seemed something they could practice too.

The Principal really knew things.

Zhao Xiaodao kept practicing in front of the mirror—crying while smiling, smiling while crying.

"That's also a valid approach," Chen Daoming nodded in agreement.

This method is relatively simple; for actors with less depth, if used well, it can produce remarkable results—elevating the character.

Liu Tianxian had grasped some key insights.

But this scene didn't require this level of depth—she'd still use Chen Daoming's method, keeping her own inner performance intact.

(End of Chapter)