Chapter 287: Black Cat Detective Animated, Linjie and Linjie Hand Over the Baton

"First merit" is just a humble way of saying it.

Everyone understood that the 600, 00 circulation of "Harvest" was its baseline, and Wei Ming's serialized novel doubled its circulation.

Even Wang Anyi thanked Wei Ming when she invited him for coffee, grateful that his work had reached at least 1. million readers.

She didn't believe readers who spent a yuan on "The Right Path: Middle" would toss aside the entire issue of "Harvest"—any magazine they paid for, they'd read cover to cover.

Wang Anyi's reputation as a literary newcomer grew significantly with the explosive circulation of this issue of "Harvest," earning her wider recognition and acclaim.

She also told Wei Ming: "Just a few days ago, I received a letter from the 1978 directing class at Beijing Film Academy, requesting to adapt my 'Diary of the Locked Courtyard' as their graduation project."

Wei Ming knew about this—it was starring his own Linjie, essentially an early, awkward record of her on film.

"That's great. When you go to Beijing to write the screenplay, I'll treat you to dinner."

This coffee was paid for by Wang Anyi—Wei Ming had come to Shanghai to revise the final draft of "The Right Path."

They met at the Shanghai Writers Association, and Wang Jie insisted on taking him out to taste Shanghai's flavor.

Drinking coffee was secondary; the main point was discussing literature—Wang Anyi longed to write a long novel and wanted to learn from Wei Ming.

After two hours of talking, Wei Ming pointed to his empty cup: "This stuff affects me too sharply—I won't sleep tonight."

Wang Anyi laughed: "Perfect. Then you can revise more drafts."

Wei Ming smiled and shook his head—revising drafts? Not happening.

When he returned to the old villa at No. 12 Huating Road, Linjie was packing her bags—she was leaving.

Wei Ming hugged her from behind, pouting: "I just got here and you're already leaving?"

As they say, old people are like children—Linjie sighed helplessly: "It's work. There's nothing to be done."

"Mom, Please Love Me Again" had officially started filming—already shot several scenes in Shanghai, next heading to Beijing for studio scenes.

Wei Ming arrived in Shanghai yesterday; Linjie leaves tomorrow, and she's had no time to spend with him these past two days. Even with "Midnight" now playing, they hadn't found time to watch it together.

Wei Ming said: "Then I'll revise quickly and join you in Beijing."

Gong Ying turned around, took his hand, and said seriously: "You don't need to rush—and I don't want to see you while I'm filming."

"Why not?"

"I don't want you to see me acting crazy."

"That's it?"

"Also, I've finally gotten into character—but the moment I see you, my emotions go haywire. Jumping in and out is too exhausting," Gong Ying soothed Xiao Wei. "So it's better to remember than to meet. After this film, I'll give you my full attention."

She had a point—this role demanded total immersion. Gong Ying treated it as her life's masterpiece, pouring her soul into it. Even when making love to Wei Ming, she wondered if she'd get pregnant and give birth to a little gourd.

"Then leave me alone in this empty house," Wei Ming said mournfully.

Gong Ying chuckled—she knew the house wouldn't stay empty for long, because Zhu Lin was coming to Shanghai soon.

"Happy Family" was a Shanghai Film Studio production—after shooting on location in Shandong, they'd return to the studio for interior scenes. This was something Zhu Lin had mentioned in her letters to Gong Ying—Wei Ming didn't even know.

But tonight, Gong Ying was determined to properly comfort her little man—otherwise, he'd go mad before Zhu Lin even arrived. Twenty was the most intense age for a boy.

But Gong Ying never imagined it would be this intense—don't you even need to sleep?!

Wei Ming: "Blame Wang Anyi. Why'd she insist on treating me to coffee?"

The next day, Wei Ming watched the exhausted Linjie leave. The weather was nice, so he didn't stay cooped up—he remembered he'd never visited the Shanghai Animation Film Studio on his last trip, so he headed there.

The "The Legend of the Heavenly Book" project had been running for a year. As a key foreign exchange earner, it had drawn the studio's top talent and many extra hands—progress was solid, and now they had animated sequences ready to move.

Yes, that's the vibe—even with foreign investment, the production was more refined. This was meant for export.

At the studio, Wei Ming was still greeted by Workshop Director Wang Bairong, who cheerfully said: "If we're lucky, this film will be released next year."

By cutting out the back-and-forth with the British side, it was faster than the original timeline's 1983 release.

"Director Wang, hello." They then found the film's director, Wang Shuchen, who led them on a tour and explained the process.

He told Wei Ming: "We've spoken with the BBC. If we finish by May next year, we'll take it to Cannes; if by September, to Venice; if we don't finish next year, we'll wait for Berlin in 1983."

Overseas rights outside Asia belong to the British side—they hoped the substantial investment in "The Legend of the Heavenly Book" would fetch a high global price, and the BBC would cover all Chinese crew expenses for overseas promotion.

Wang Shuchen was hinting that Wei Ming might go abroad too.

Going abroad? Wei Ming was certainly willing—more opportunities overseas, more foreign exchange to earn.

But he'd prefer to go in 1982—he feared if he went in 1983, he wouldn't want to come back.

He'd just come quietly to take a look, but when Studio Chief Te Wei heard he was there, he came specially to the workshop to meet him.

A young worker, recently hired into the studio through family connections and assigned to "The Legend of the Heavenly Book," watched Wei Ming surrounded by senior figures and whispered to a colleague: "Who's this guy? So impressive."

Colleague: "You don't know? The author of 'The Legend of the Heavenly Book'—Wei what?"

"He's so young?"

"Of course—he's already the third work the studio has adapted from him. One script's worth over a thousand yuan, and his works are popular abroad too—they earn foreign exchange."

At that moment, an older craftsman told the new worker: "Lou Ye, stop chatting and get back to work."

Always pushing, always pushing—Lou Ye, resentful, stared at Wei Ming and thought: "A true man should be like this." One day, he'd make films the world loved, earn foreign exchange, and have these big shots gather around him.

Studio Chief Te Wei was the first head of the Shanghai Animation Film Studio, leading it for over twenty years. His masterpieces included "The Proud General," "Little Tadpoles Look for Mom," and "The Herdsman's Flute"—he pioneered ink-wash animation, a uniquely Chinese form.

Today, Te Wei had come to talk to Wei Ming about their fourth collaboration.

"I heard your 'The Lion King' is hugely popular abroad—Mr. Why is famous across Europe and America," Te Wei asked. They were now in a private dining room, just the four of them.

Wei Ming didn't humble himself: "It's based on Shakespeare, and Macmillan is an international publisher. Sales in Britain are solid—probably top three in children's books this year."

Te Wei smiled: "What if we adapt it into a film?"

Wei Ming thought it was a bad idea—the studio wasn't the right fit for "The Lion King." They'd always focused on traditional Chinese themes, mostly set in China. Later, "The Magic Lotus Lantern" added African scenes and got harsh criticism.

So he said: "As far as I know, 'The Lion King' is far less popular domestically than my other works. You're thinking of making it for foreign exchange, aren't you?"

Te Wei nodded: "If we fund it ourselves and sell it globally, we might earn more foreign exchange than partnering with foreign agencies."

The country desperately needed foreign exchange—Old Man was truly selfless, no argument there—but Wei Ming still had to caution him.

"If you want to make it and have the world accept it, you must make it a masterpiece. Break free from our local creative style. First, the crew must go to Africa for field research—collect data on terrain, animals, landscapes. That means flying dozens of people, risking illness or even death from unfamiliar conditions. The music must use African styles, possibly hiring foreign musicians. The cost alone would fund several 'Legends of the Heavenly Book.'"

He wasn't exaggerating—Disney began developing "The Lion King" in the late 80s with a $45 million budget, far from a small-scale film.

"Jurassic Park" in the early 90s cost $60 million—that was already a rare mega-production.

Even with Shanghai Animation's cheap labor, a tenth of that cost—$4. million—would still be needed. But $4. million? Even $4. million in RMB was beyond the state's reach.

Spending so much on a film, especially an animated one, could get the producer held accountable.

Remember, CCTV's TV version of "Journey to the West" got only 3 million.

Even if they gave that much, Wei Ming didn't believe Shanghai Animation could replicate Disney's global appeal. High art doesn't guarantee market success.

Te Wei knew Wei Ming's difficulties were real, but "The Lion King"'s overseas popularity gave him hope for the studio's global reach—hence the suggestion.

But it was impossible now—the studio's next film was already decided: "The Golden Monkey Defeats the White Bone Demon," based on the White Bone Spirit arc from "Journey to the West," personally led by Te Wei, continuing Wan Laiming's legacy of "The Monkey King's Uproar in Heaven."

Shanghai Animation couldn't start another feature until "The Golden Monkey" was finished—neither personnel nor funds allowed two major projects simultaneously.

Though Wei Ming didn't believe "The Lion King" suited the studio, he still hoped to continue collaborating with them in the remaining years, making more masterpieces.

The childhoods of the 80s and 90s generations were defined by Shanghai Animation's cartoons and foreign animations—and Wei Ming intended to be the man who owned their childhoods and their childhood goddesses.

"Chief Te, does the studio have plans to produce TV animation?" Wei Ming asked during the meal.

"Like 'Astro Boy' and 'Jimmy the Cricket'?"

"Yes." The first was Japanese, the second American.

Since last year, "Astro Boy" had dominated the prime slot before CCTV's News Broadcast, giving children and adults nationwide a fresh animation experience—and popularizing the term "horsepower."

Last night, while he was exhausting Linjie, she'd told him he had "ten-horsepower strength"—a supreme compliment that led to a fourth round.

Te Wei said: "That would require negotiating with TV stations, since it's meant for broadcast. But our country still has few TVs."

At this time, TV coverage was still less than cinema.

"But growth is fast—last year-end there were 9 million sets, now it's 10 million. The state is heavily investing in TV—recently, the Radio and Television Bureau decided to hold an annual National Outstanding TV Drama Award."

That award would become the Flying Apsaras Award in 1992.

Then Wei Ming began painting a picture, eventually steering the conversation toward "Black Cat Detective."

"I've written nine stories for 'Black Cat Detective'—each independent yet interconnected, perfect for TV animation. They're my young readers' favorites. Every time I publish a new story, I get hundreds or even thousands of letters—my house is nearly full." Wei Ming boasted.

At the beginning of the month, the first physical volume of "Black Cat Detective" was published, collecting the first five stories. The initial print of 500, 00 copies sold out easily across all markets—another printing is inevitable before the second volume even releases.

Te Wei and Wang Bairong exchanged glances—clearly intrigued. The studio's only ongoing animated series was "Afanti," a low-cost puppet animation. They had no traditional animated TV series yet.

They'd also followed "Black Cat Detective"—each episode a self-contained story, teaching kids about nature while showing police catching criminals. No wonder children loved it.

The designs of Black Cat Detective and One-Ear, through countless issues of "Children's Literature," were already deeply familiar—directly usable, saving the trouble of character design.

Maybe start with a few episodes to test the waters.

But at 20 minutes per episode, five episodes equal a feature-length film—this would displace other short films. It must be discussed at a meeting and approved by higher authorities.

Back home, the empty, silent house left Wei Ming with nothing to do but work—he revised drafts, then, unable to sleep, started writing "Jurassic World," nearly finished.

Before coming to Shanghai, he'd asked Ah Long to draw some illustrations for him.

Two more dull days passed—no one to watch "Midnight" with—so Wei Ming went to Shanghai Film Studio to chat with Director Xie Jin.

Xie Jin had just finished "The Legend of Tianyun Mountain" and was in post-production. He'd already decided his next project.

"Since you can't let go of 'The Children of the Century,' I'll just make 'Qiu Jin,'" Xie Jin said, waving the script like a bottle of liquor.

Wei Ming knew this film—it was one of Xie Jin's least known and most poorly received works, not very successful, overly rigid.

Wei Ming also knew this film had kept Linjie waiting for a year—she was originally cast as Qiu Jin, so she improved her health, practiced calligraphy, memorized poetry, and trained swordplay with martial arts coach He Weiqi at the Shanghai Sports Center.

But just before filming, she was replaced—Gong Ying was too thin, too frail in appearance and demeanor—and Li Xiuming was chosen instead.

So Wei Ming asked: "Since you're making Qiu Jin, the actress playing her is crucial. Have you thought of anyone?"

Xie Jin thought: "I still think Gong Ying has good potential."

Wei Ming: "She's too thin."

He could toss her around like a feather.

"You can make up for it with food—gain another ten pounds and you'll be about right."

Wei Ming shook his head: "I still think Li Xiuming is more suitable—even Liu Xiaoqing is better than her."

Xie Jin was greatly surprised; he hadn't expected Wei Ming to be so impartial, not letting his personal friendship with Gong Yu cloud his judgment.

From appearance alone, these two seem to better embody the spirit of the Lady of Jianhu and suit the name 'Jingxiong' better.

Of course, this is just talk for now—the full script hasn't been written yet. Xie Jin is adapting from Xia Yan's play script, 'The Story of Qiu Jin.'

Wei Ming: Speaking of Old Xia, where is my original draft now?

Upon learning he wanted to film Qiu Jin, domestic peers offered unconditional support; Ke Ling, editor-in-chief of 'Mass Cinema,' even provided his own screenplay of the same title for Xie Jin's reference, and Xie Jin then brought in Huang Zongjiang to adapt it further.

Today Wei Ming had come, so he couldn't avoid chatting with him for a while.

Xie Jin had long wanted to film Qiu Jin because his family had been close friends with hers; his grandfather had once worked alongside Qiu Jin and was very close to Xu Xilin, so since childhood he had heard stories about her from his grandfather.

Precisely because of this connection, his version was overly serious and solemn—watching the whole film came down to two words: dull.

It was one of those 'classic old films' Wei Ming had described: you might give a few likes on a short video clip, but you couldn't possibly sit through it without fast-forwarding.

So unless Xie Jin changes his creative approach, this film will never amount to much.

As the two were speaking, someone suddenly arrived—it was Zhu Shimao.

Zhu Shimao came to visit Director Xie and was surprised to encounter Wei Ming.

Wei Ming, equally surprised and delighted: "Did you come alone, or is the whole 'Happy Gate' crew here?"

Zhu Shimao replied honestly: "Our crew returned to Shanghai to shoot studio scenes."

Hearing this, Wei Ming immediately stood up: "Director Xie, you've got a guest—I'll take my leave."

Old Mao felt conflicted: Did Teacher Wei not like him anymore? Why did he leave the moment he arrived?

Wei Ming: "Because I like Sister Lin better!"

He immediately ran to the Shanghai Film Studio guesthouse and found Zhu Lin there.

"Oh my, you're in Shanghai too, Little Wei?"

In front of other crew members, Zhu Lin greeted and chatted with Wei Ming openly and naturally, as if they were just ordinary friends—no trace of their past intimacy.

Hmm, Wei Ming nodded—her acting had improved, very natural and lifelike.

Wei Ming also met the actresses playing his sister-in-law, sister-in-law-in-law, and mother-in-law; they all knew his name. Gong Yu's current standing alongside actresses like Zhang Yu and Li Xiuming was thanks to Wei Ming's 'Herding the Horse.'

Zhu Lin then asked if Wei Ming had eaten, and naturally shifted to: "Then let me treat you—come on, let's find a northern restaurant."

The two walked out of the Shanghai Film Studio together and went on a date.

Zhu Lin knew Wei Ming was staying in Gong Yu's old Western-style house; she'd been trying to figure out how to find him, and now he'd walked right into her lap.

Wei Ming: "It's you who walked into my trap, not the other way around."

Zhu Lin wasn't yet familiar with Shanghai, so she naturally needed Wei Ming, the local expert, to guide her.

"Shanghai has more Western restaurants—let's go to Deda first."

Zhu Lin: "So you've been to Deda with Xiao Xue."

She was right—even the staff at Deda remembered Wei Ming, having seen him dine with Gong Yu, and he was quite handsome.

Another beautiful woman—could she also be an actress?

Zhu Lin and Wei Ming had eaten at Lao Mo in Beijing; she picked up her knife and fork with ease and began cutting her steak.

"Then I won't be polite—I'm grateful for the crew's warmth and the locals' kindness, but the food is terrible. We never see any meat, and what I miss most is still the local pancakes wrapped in scallions and scallions dipped in soybean paste."

Wei Ming: "Then I'll have to try finding some scallions later."

"Naughty," Sister Lin gave him a kick under the table.

That kick jolted Wei Ming awake. He adjusted his posture, letting his lower brain take over, wondering if he could bring Sister Lin back to Xiao Xue's place—there were no photos of Xiao Xue on the first floor.

But that seemed a bit beastly.

What about the Shanghai Film Studio guesthouse?

Too poor an experience—terrible soundproofing.

This was truly troubling.

"Where are you staying now? Still at the Writers' Association guesthouse?" Zhu Lin asked casually.

"Oh, I'm staying at a friend's place," Wei Ming replied, almost involuntarily.

"Won't your friend's family mind you disturbing them?"

"It's their old house—no one lives there normally, so they lent it to me."

"Oh~" Zhu Lin sipped her soup, hiding her smile. She didn't ask which friend was so generous—she knew Little Wei was lying, and he must feel bad about it.

After dinner, Zhu Lin suggested: "Let's go see where you live."

"Huh?"

Zhu Lin: "You don't welcome me? Then I'll just go back to the guesthouse now."

Wei Ming gritted his teeth—fine, beastly it is: "Of course I welcome you—let's take a taxi."

Zhu Lin had to return to the guesthouse that night, so time was limited. As soon as they reached the two-story Western-style house, Wei Ming dragged her into a clean, tidy little room before she could even look around.

Wei Ming kissed her fiercely—because they'd finished the Western meal with ice cream dessert, this kiss tasted of cream, reminding Zhu Lin of the day he'd smeared cake frosting all over her body on her birthday.

Thinking of that day, Zhu Lin went limp instantly—while Wei Ming did the exact opposite.

"Old Dai, Old Dai."

Inside the Shanghai Animation Studio compound, Wang Bairong stopped a middle-aged man with glasses.

Dai Tielang adjusted his glasses: "Director Wang, what's up?"

Wang Bairong: "The director wants to see you—come on, let's go together."

…

(Bonus chapters for 4, 00 and 5, 00 monthly votes! Base update tonight~)

(End of Chapter)