Chapter 430: The Rescue Hero: Chen Kaige

Today, while showering in the dormitory’s water room, Zhang Yimou hummed the pop song “Goodbye” with excitement.

Chen Kaige came in to wash his towel and smiled: “Someone about to get married is different—you never used to sing.”

Zhang Yimou was usually quiet and reserved; Chen Kaige had rarely seen him like this.

Zhang Yimou shook his head: “It’s just a ritual—of course I’m happy, but not this ecstatic.”

Chen Kaige paused, then suddenly asked: “Did Beijing Film Studio hire you? But weren’t you already assigned to Xi’an Film Studio?”

Zhang Yimou shook his head: “This is even happier than that.”

Chen Kaige was now baffled—what could be happier than staying in Beijing? “Did the school arrange for you to study abroad?”

If that were true, Chen Kaige would definitely resent it—Zhang Yimou’s English wasn’t nearly as good as he claimed.

Old Zhang waved his hand: “Not that extreme—it’s Hong Kong.”

“Hong Kong? You?”

“You look down on us Shaanxi folks? Not only am I going, Feng Xiaoning is too.” Zhang Yimou grinned, showing his big teeth.

This wasn’t classified, and soon the entire male dormitory buzzed: Zhang Yimou and Feng Xiaoning had been chosen by Wei Ming to shoot a mysterious short film—they themselves didn’t even know what it was about.

But this practice short film was meant to prepare for the studio’s upcoming feature, adapted from Wei Ming’s most outstanding novella, “The Spring of the Sheep Herding Class.”

Chen Kaige, who rarely went home near graduation, returned home that night and mentioned it to his father, Chen Huai.

Chen Kaige was about to join Xi’an Film Studio, which was newly founded with no big-name directors; logically, his chances were good, so he spoke of it with some resentment.

Tian Zhuangzhuang got assigned to Beijing Film Studio and snatched away the shooting opportunity—Chen Kaige could accept that, since Tian was his childhood friend, and the studio head was his mother—but he never expected Wei Ming, a writer, would come over to snatch it too.

Chen Huai shook his head: “That’s Wei Ming—he’s the kind every cultural worker in the country should learn from. He has every right to.”

Seeing his father side with Wei Ming, Chen Kaige muttered: “It’s just not his field.”

After dinner, Chen Huai left silently and visited Yu Lan’s house nearby; they talked for over an hour.

As he left, Chen Huai said solemnly: “Sister Yu, I’m counting on you.”

Chen Huai was actually a year older than Yu Lan, but since he owed his position to Factory Director Tian Fang, he called her “sister.”

Yu Lan smiled: “It’s nothing. Kaige grew up under our eyes—I honestly think he has more talent than Zhuangzhuang. He’s the most promising directorial graduate from this year’s Film Academy.”

Chen Huai hurried to downplay it: “He’s got big ambitions but little talent—he still needs polishing.”

Parents who love their children plan deeply for them. Chen Huai was asking Yu Lan to make Chen Kaige Wei Ming’s assistant director—he trusted Wei Ming’s talent; if the film succeeded, Kaige would gain a valuable learning opportunity and a strong credential.

There was another reason Chen Huai didn’t mention: if the director’s skill proved inadequate and filming stalled, someone reliable would have to take over.

Then, as assistant director and a Xi’an Film Studio insider, wasn’t Kaige the most likely candidate to become the “rescue hero”?

Chen Huai had no objection to letting his son be Wei Ming’s rescue hero—the original novel’s influence was undeniable; it was a solid project.

Now they’d see what this writer Wei Ming could produce in Hong Kong—he hoped Wei Ming would deliver something decent, so “The Spring of the Sheep Herding Class” could launch smoothly.

That night, Wei Ming returned to Nánluógǔxiàng and found both his sisters home.

Gong Ying knew he’d been to Beijing Film Studio that day, so after returning home, she called Zhu Lin over to wait for news.

“How was it? What did Xi’an Film Studio say?” Zhu Lin asked eagerly.

Wei Ming: “They agreed—but with a condition. I have to shoot a short film they’re satisfied with before I can make the feature.”

“A short film?” Gong Ying immediately thought, “Why not pick one from your own novels? Like ‘The Duck That Knows First’? I’ll go with you to Shanghai to shoot it.”

Wei Ming shook his head: “I’ve decided to shoot in Hong Kong.”

“Hong Kong? What for?” Zhu Lin asked.

“I haven’t decided yet—but I’ve chosen Hong Kong. My parents and I haven’t seen each other in months; this is a good chance to visit.”

Both sisters looked reluctant. Zhu Lin asked: “Why not write a script and let us act in it? Then we could go to Hong Kong with you.”

Gong Ying quickly said: “I can’t—I might shoot ‘Under the Bridge’ any time now.”

Hearing that, Zhu Lin remembered: “Oh no—I promised to play the B-role of Cai Feng in ‘The Two Donkeys’—I have rehearsals. I can’t leave.”

The A-role of Cai Feng was Song Dandan; Zhu Lin didn’t want to be outshone by that gossipy girl.

Wei Ming spread his hands: “Since neither of you can go, I’ll take Xiao Hong instead.”

Thinking only of the crew, Wei Ming suddenly realized Xiao Hong had never properly been to Hong Kong—she’d always wanted to see its stock market; this was the perfect chance to show her.

Tomorrow, I’ll go back to Beijing Film Studio and request an extra Hong Kong quota.

“When are you leaving? ‘Midlife’ is about to premiere,” Zhu Lin said, holding Xiao Wei’s hand.

“I won’t leave until I’ve watched the movie with you both,” Wei Ming replied—he was eagerly looking forward to Lin’s painstaking work.

That night, Wei Ming stayed overnight at the Overseas Chinese Apartment and began drafting the short film’s script.

What should he write?

Many future famous Hong Kong films could be condensed into short segments—extract their highlights, then expand later—but too many choices made his head spin.

Forget it—I’ll write the comic script I promised to A Long first. The project had been moving slowly, focusing only on character designs and visuals; today was the first day I started writing the plot.

He wrote until nightfall, satisfied with the few pages he’d produced. Just as he was about to sleep, he noticed a stack of newspapers on his desk corner—sent by A Min last time—mostly entertainment and culture pieces. One small square on top reported a Shaw Brothers news item.

It said Shaw Brothers had invested in a Hollywood sci-fi blockbuster with a budget exceeding 200 million Hong Kong dollars, soon to be released.

The film’s title: “Blade Runner.”

Of course, Shaw Brothers wasn’t the main investor, but the film’s massive losses did accelerate Shaw’s eventual closure.

“Blade Runner” was the first film to establish cyberpunk’s visual aesthetics and core themes—and cyberpunk fit Hong Kong perfectly.

Wei Ming now knew roughly what he could shoot—but it was late. Time to sleep. He’d write tomorrow.

The next morning, Wei Ming woke early and wrote. When he got hungry, he went out to eat, then returned to Beijing Film Studio to get a permit for Wei Hong.

“She’s a Peking University student—a pillar of the nation. How can a filmmaker like me approve her?” Yu Lan shook her head.

“But I’m from Peking University too—I’m a pillar of the nation, right?” Wei Ming ended, slightly embarrassed.

Yu Lan: “You’re special. You’re officially registered with the Ministry of Culture. I even consulted Old Xia.”

Helpless, Wei Ming returned to campus to ask Uncle Anping for help.

But as soon as he left Yu Lan’s office, he ran into Li Chengru.

“Old Li, what are you doing here?”

Li Chengru smiled: “We borrowed a studio from Beijing Film Studio to shoot scenes of the Supreme Elder’s Palace. Teacher Wei, Consultant Wei—come take a look.”

Wei Ming didn’t hesitate: “Let’s go.”

Wei Ming knew Zheng Rong, the actor playing the Supreme Elder, was a veteran of the China National Theatre, famous for playing Chang Siye in “Teahouse.”

But as soon as he entered the Doushao Palace, a clumsy young Taoist acolyte bumped into him. Wei Ming joked: “Was that Golden Horn or Silver Horn who just hit me?”

“T-T-Teacher Wei!” The delicate young acolyte instantly recognized him, stammering: “I’m not Golden Horn or Silver Horn—I’m Xu Qing.”

Wei Ming looked closer—yes, it really was her! How old was she? Round-faced, like Jia Ling—she’d look even better once she matured.

The girl was a fan of Wei Ming’s books, and so was her sister. Seeing him, she clung to him like a shadow.

Wei Ming chatted with Director Yang Jie and Elder Zheng Rong about the filming—they were shooting the later episodes of the Doushao Palace scenes first, then letting Sun Wukong smash them later.

“Teacher Wei, what have you been up to lately? Haven’t checked on us in ages,” Yang Jie teased.