Chapter 453

Later, Wei Ming calculated it all and decided he had to return to the capital.

Leaving aside that the Mao Award was a matter fulfilling Mr. Mao Dun’s final wishes—when he, despite his illness, had written Wei Ming a deeply moving preface before passing away shortly after, his very last written words—just this bond of legacy alone meant Wei Ming had to show up at the ceremony, win or lose.

Also, December 20th was Lin Jie’s birthday; he’d missed his own, so he had to celebrate hers, and while he was at it, pass along the People’s Art Theatre script through her.

He just didn’t know if Xue Jie could make it back—only when all three were together did it truly feel like home.

Besides, his correspondence course final exam was also in mid-December; though the school could let him reschedule his defense, Wei Ming figured he might as well get it all done at once.

But Wei Ming couldn’t leave the four kids behind when returning to Beijing; though the crew was large enough to keep an eye on them, he was the primary responsible party, so he decided to bring all the little brats back with him this time.

And once they were back, he had no intention of bringing them again—he’d use this chance to wrap up their roles entirely, while the rest of the crew could return to Chengdu for a break, roughly a week to ten days.

This would inevitably inflate costs, but better to finish it all at once; the budget had already surpassed 500,000, and any further increase was his own burden.

The only ones he felt bad for were the lead actors and key creatives—Li Baotian and the Ge Cunzhuang father-son duo—so he decided to cover all their expenses in Chengdu, letting them enjoy a proper little vacation.

After making the decision, that evening Wei Ming held a meeting with Han Sanping and Chen Kaige.

Everyone agreed with Wei Ming’s plan to return to Beijing for the Mao Award ceremony; they all believed he was certain to win, so he absolutely should go.

That night they adjusted the shooting schedule: over the next three days, they’d finish all the children’s scenes; if they couldn’t finish, they’d leave Xi Zi’s part for last and prioritize the other kids.

This included a major scene: Teacher Zhong leaves the school, and the students send him off with paper airplanes.

For this scene, they’d specially built a new school in a suitable location, and every day they’d haul equipment up and down slopes to shoot school scenes.

Now, finally, it was time to shoot: all the young actors gathered at the school, listened quietly as Teacher Zhong delivered his final lesson calmly, then said, “Class dismissed.”

The students sat motionless; Teacher Zhong picked up his pre-packed luggage, and outside, a tractor waited, its driver chewing straw.

From the moment Li Baotian stepped out of the classroom, Zhang Yimou’s camera stayed fixed behind him, never showing the actor’s face, following him from classroom to school gate, down the slope, until the tractor came into view.

Zhang Yimou was awestruck—Li Baotian’s acting was that good; just from his back, Zhang could feel the depth of emotion inside Teacher Zhong.

Clearly, there was reluctance toward the students, quiet relief at the reversal of injustice, and a faint resolve to die—small pauses perfectly timed, his silhouette itself acting; Zhang Yimou, as the viewer, found himself hoping he’d turn around.

Until the tractor driver, puzzled, raised a finger toward Teacher Zhong’s back…

In truth, nothing was behind him—but Teacher Zhong needed to turn, to show the quiet joy and emotion of seeing paper airplanes flying out the windows.

Once Li Baotian’s expression was fully captured, they switched angles to film the students.

The students’ acting was inferior to Li Baotian’s, and with so many of them, if one messed up, they had to reshoot—so most of the time was spent on the kids.

Fortunately, Xi Zi didn’t let them down; he was the most crucial part of this scene, his bond with Teacher Zhong deeper than any other child’s, since he had no family.

Teacher Zhong now knew his wife had killed herself after his departure—his soulmate gone, his life’s meaning vanished; though never stated outright, Wei Ming subtly implied through multiple techniques that after settling his wife’s affairs, he might take his own life.

Though he’d helped many children escape emotional despair, he himself couldn’t escape his own.

But now Pi Pi had run out after him, hoping to live with Teacher Zhong.

Teacher Zhong refused—his heart was dead—but he comforted Pi Pi: “The principal will adopt you; call him Father. You’ll be Stone’s uncle.”

The character Ge Cunzhuang ultimately turned out to be a good man, unlike Ge You’s character, who was evil through and through.

Yet when Teacher Zhong boarded the tractor and it started moving, after traveling a while, he suddenly shouted, “Stop!”

Wei Ming told Zhang Yimou to set the camera farther back—he wanted a wide shot, fixed.

The tractor sat at the golden ratio point in the frame; Pi Pi was outside the frame.

In Wei Ming’s handling, this scene had no music—complete silence.

Only after Teacher Zhong left the frame, then returned holding Pi Pi, boarded the tractor, and it drove off, did the music begin.

Together, they waved farewell to the students behind them.

After this shot, Xi Zi, who had moved effortlessly between character and self, suddenly burst into tears.

The behind-the-scenes camera was still rolling, aimed at Xi Zi.

Wei Ming asked him: “Why are you crying? You’re not done yet—you’ve got more scenes after we get back to Beijing.”

Xi Zi wiped his tears, sniffing softly: “I’m crying because I know Teacher Zhong won’t die.”

Li Baotian gave a thumbs-up: “Born actor!”

Chen Kaige, the assistant director, was also quietly wiping tears; this six-foot-tall man wept like a child, and right then he longed to write a poem.

Feng Xiaogang felt only one thing: as a director, if you ever make one film like this, your life isn’t wasted.

At that moment, a seed of a great literary director took root in his heart.

Zhang Yimou knew Wei Ming had hidden Teacher Zhong’s death wish with extreme subtlety—not just through Li Baotian’s nuanced performance, but through countless cinematic cues, all cleverly placed, never once stated outright.

But once you understood these hints, watching the scene again—seeing Pi Pi step forward, seeing Teacher Zhong accept him—you’d feel: good, Teacher Zhong once saved Pi Pi, and now Pi Pi has saved Teacher Zhong.

It was a mutual journey, a mutual redemption.

Wei Ming’s work carries a warm power—he isn’t extreme, but that doesn’t mean it lacks force; this scene was profoundly moving.

After this major scene wrapped, Wang Fei, Liu Lin, and Wu Jing’s roles were done; Wei Ming could now send them back to Beijing.

Of course, Xi Zi would go back too—to visit his parents and little sister before returning.

Wu Jing slipped quietly to Wei Ming’s side: “Director, I haven’t shot enough yet, and I don’t want to leave everyone—can’t I come back with you?”

Winter break hadn’t even started—he was effectively on early vacation.

“You’re clever, aren’t you?” Wei Ming laughed, but refused—he’d hired private tutors for them; they hadn’t attended school for months, and you can’t skip finals.

Besides the four child actors, Wei Ming also planned to bring Pingping and Fangfang, so they could meet their big sister and big nephew.

That made six little brats; Wei Ming worried he couldn’t watch them all, and he couldn’t string them together with ropes.

So he decided to have Chen Kaige return to Beijing too—to deliver the already-shot footage to Children’s Film Studio and review everything from scratch to check for any missing shots.

Most of this footage had already been reviewed at Emei Studio, and there were no major issues.

Also, Hu Weili, in charge of the score, needed to return—he’d gathered enough musical material and was now ready to produce.

Chen Kaige asked Director Wei: “So how do we get back to Beijing?”

Wei Ming: “By plane, of course. Old Han will handle the paperwork.”

Seeing they’d fly, Feng Xiaogang was envious; Zhang Yimou had told him he’d flown before, and the plane had even skimmed over a place called Jiulongchengzhai—how thrilling.

Feng Xiaogang grumbled, probably Hong Kong’s nightlife was even more thrilling.

He’d heard from Chen Kaige how the film “The Witness” was shot—so risqué, apparently filmed in places like that; old Zhang had seen it all.

When the trio of adults and six children appeared at the airport, even Chen Kaige was excited; for this first flight, he’d put on his most formal clothes.

Wang Fei, a half-grown child, could help Wei Ming look after the younger ones.

Before boarding, she counted heads, confirmed everything was fine, then turned to Wei Ming.

Huh? Another watch?

She remembered the first one was a Modu watch, then a Swiss one, now a Japanese one—looked sci-fi, looked expensive.

Wang Fei sighed: “With you like this, who knows what kind of corrupting influence Hong Kong will have on you.”

The Swiss watch she’d seen before was the Rolex given by A Min; now that they were returning to Beijing, she’d switched to Lin Jie’s.

That Rolex wasn’t cheap; Zhou Hui Min wasn’t short on cash—her two albums sold massively, and she’d earned a big cut, already a little fortune.

Plus, she’d made a lot in the stock market.

In 1982, the Hang Seng Index had dropped over 50% from its peak—could be called a stock crash, especially after Margaret Thatcher’s bow, which alone wiped out 25 points.

But thanks to Wei Hong’s prior arrangements, they’d both made a good profit.

In high spirits, A Min even attended Li Xiaotian’s wedding reception.

Li Xiaotian and Guan Juying had officially married; the wedding was full of music industry friends and TVB colleagues.

A Min sat with Zhang Guorong and Anita Mui; these two, due to their work ties, had grown close lately, often appearing together at events—A Min even suspected they were more than colleagues.

But Zhang Guorong denied it—he’d recently met a friend named Tang Hede who worked at Zhadai Bank.

The next table was full of middle-aged and elderly people, many lamenting their stock losses; Huang Zhan and veteran composer Wang Fuling were chatting.

Wang Fuling had recently been invited by the Hong Kong Youth Federation to compose a new piece.

The song was a response to the Japanese textbook incident—a commissioned piece requiring patriotic themes and national sentiment.

Wang Fuling enthusiastically invited Huang Zhan to write the lyrics.

Because of the Japanese invasion, Huang Zhan had been uprooted as a child, fleeing with his parents to Hong Kong; he gladly accepted the invitation and immediately began discussing ideas with Wang Fuling.

Later, seeing the young Zhou Hui Min had come, Huang Zhan casually pulled out a small gift for her.