Chapter 9

Chen Zhixi lowered her head and thought for a moment; this was indeed true—if she cut costs carefully, it might actually be possible to pull it off.

If it succeeded, whether or not the film was a hit, it would greatly benefit her, because actually producing a film would give her invaluable experience.

"Then good, I support you. I have 1 million in savings—I'll invest it all." Chen Zhixi decided.

Three million plus her one million makes four million; the gap has narrowed further.

This woman's got some money, Fang Hong said: "Alright, if we make a profit, I'll give you your share according to the rules; if we lose, don't blame me."

Chen Zhixi nodded, showing she understood.

She wasn't investing because she thought the script was great—no matter how good the script, it still needed someone to shoot it, and if shot poorly, it'd still be trash; what she truly valued was Fang Hong himself.

"Now that we've secured four million, we can start right away. You put your one million in first, then I'll deliver my three million."

Fang Hong pulled out a sheet of paper: "We'll split the tasks. Here's the plan. You go confirm the shooting locations—the equipment and props needed are clearly listed. Contact rental companies based on this list."

Chen Zhixi held the paper; the film's required equipment, devices, props, and locations were all clearly written out, with prices and the total budget marked.

It made the man look like the proper Producer, while she felt like an assistant.

"What about the remaining shortfall?" she asked.

Four million was still not enough—if everything was prepared but they ran out of money halfway through, that would be disastrous.

"I'll figure that out," Fang Hong said.

Chen Zhixi said nothing more; she now had full faith in this man's ability—let him lead. After all, she didn't understand much anyway.

She was already, consciously or not, following in Fang Hong's footsteps, centering herself around him.

It was a subtle, gradual shift—and Fang Hong had deliberately caused it, to make this girl understand who the leader was.

Their roles had subtly reversed! The next day, Fang Hong had someone register a film company for him.

Registering a film company yourself was still troublesome—you needed a lot of documents and met many requirements.

For example: three film industry personnel with professional qualifications, plus a legal representative, shareholders, supervisors, a commercial registration address, and a whole host of other conditions.

So Fang Hong didn't bother—he just paid someone to handle it all, everything could be done, even temporary stand-ins for required personnel could be arranged, and they could exit after the company was established.

He'd nearly spent the 10,000 yuan Liu Tianxian had lent him—he still needed a rich woman; without one backing him, he'd have to struggle on his own.

Fang Hong named his company: Yutu Film Industry! Shortened to Rabbit Factory.

Alongside Tencent, Pig Factory, Cat Factory, Fox Factory—though now weak, one still needed dreams!

To make a film, you needed an entity—that is, a company. Though personal investment in film projects was now allowed, approval and review still required a company.

If you wanted to screen on the big screen, you had to do it this way; if you didn't, no one cared—you could freely upload your content online.

As long as it wasn't harmful to society! And in this era, online content review was lax—plenty of content unsuitable for children could be seen, like KuaiBo.

Even how KuaiKe later surged to dominate the market was thanks to this.

You could sneak and steal, but when you grew big and bold, and the iron fist came down, you'd better watch out.

After arranging all these matters, Fang Hong returned to Beijing Film Academy; he was still a student, just with poor grades.

His grades weren't bad because he wasn't smart or unprofessional—Director Department was Beijing Film Academy's The Ace program, the hardest to enter and most competitive, packed with talent.

So he simply didn't stand out. Most people were ordinary; even a reincarnator didn't grow an extra brain.

Besides Director Department, Beijing Film Academy's other two top departments were Photography and Animation; Performance ranked last, even below Literature and Screenwriting.

The old campus of Beijing Film Academy was near Haidian Xitucheng Jimen Bridge; by later standards, it looked utterly shabby—the campus was tiny, the gates low and worn, nothing like the grand scale one imagined.

Rumor had it that back then, due to lack of funds, they sold half the already small plot to Lao Han, making it even smaller—a bachelor's degree institution smaller than an average high school.

Dorms were especially crude, but that wasn't the worst—the worst was how expensive meals were; the cheapest egg-and-tomato rice bowl cost at least ten yuan.

Students were poor; rumors said students had staged uprisings demanding rights, loudly and passionately—the school lowered prices by one yuan, but portions shrank and takeout now cost extra.

They made a big fuss—and got nothing.

The school's academic ability was solid, but administrative efficiency was low.

Entering Beijing Film Academy, you saw students everywhere, and some future famous stars—but most remained unknown; few ever broke through.

Among director students, less than 10% survived in the industry; many switched careers.

Saying directing had no barriers was false—it had extremely high barriers: money and connections.

The absence of barriers was the highest barrier of all!

He went to the Photography Department building and found his past-life friend and partner, Yu Xian, in a classroom.

In his past life, they were inseparable—started businesses together, shot web dramas together, washed feet together—revolutionary friendship.

Now their relationship was average, because they hadn't yet been tested by time.

They knew each other, but weren't close.

They'd met during a short film exam—they'd collaborated before. Each semester, students had to submit short films as practical assignments.

They were in the same cohort, Class of 2006, finishing this year and facing the grim job hunt—both poor students with no connections.

"Old… Yu."

Fang Hong almost blurted out his past-life nickname—he sat right beside him, leaning in with an overly familiar air.

Present-day Yu Xian was still very naive—not as naturally composed as he'd become later; now he was shy, his face dotted with acne.

Yu Xian had been reading; suddenly seeing someone so close beside him, he shifted away uncomfortably and asked, puzzled: "What do you want?"

"I want you to shoot a film with me. You in?" Fang Hong was direct.

Yu Xian blinked, eyes wide: "We haven't even graduated—you're already making a film?"

This guy was bold—everyone else started with shorts; he hadn't even left campus and was going straight for a feature.

To students like them, a film was something lofty—some senior director students spent their whole lives without ever touching one.

Only a few ever did; most faded into obscurity.

Like Fang Hong in his past life—he stopped at web films; everything he made died without ever hitting theaters.

This time, he was starting with a film—no choice; the web drama market wasn't ready yet, traffic hadn't taken off—he had to make a film.

(End of this chapter)