Chapter 331: Shooting 2

In a suburban river, out of the camera’s frame, crew members held transparent fishing lines, each end hooked to a fish.

In the shot, the transparent lines were invisible; only two fish could be seen swimming upstream against the current.

After seeing Wu Yuchen’s signal, the crew placed another dead fish into the water, and soon the camera showed the corpse of the dead fish drifting past the two live ones.

At this moment, Zhao Wenshuan, watching the scene, sighed:

“How tragic! They struggle desperately to swim upstream—just to die? In the end, death is inevitable; why suffer so much?”

Niu Ben, beside him, looked at the two fish constantly flicking their tails and said: “They’re trying to go home—to where they were born. That’s the law of nature!”

After speaking, he left without caring about Zhao Wenshuan, who was still dazed.

“Cut!”

Hearing Wu Yuchen’s command, the crew in the river climbed out, and Wu Yuchen watched the playback.

This dialogue was brief, yet carried a peculiar weight. At this point, the male lead, after his first embalming, was terrified and didn’t understand the meaning of his work.

It revealed the male lead’s confusion, while also prompting him—and the audience—to reflect: Is death the same as returning home? Is it all just a spiritual return, a special kind of coming back?

Meanwhile, the two fish persistently swimming upstream subtly hinted to the audience a truth: Death is inevitable, but while alive, one must strive to live.

This segment was shot fairly smoothly, but the next scene would not be so easy.

Wu Yuchen looked at the girl before him; though frustrated, he still spoke patiently:

“You cried well just now, but if your eyes could carry more longing, it would be even better!”

This scene depicts the male lead’s second embalming; the girl plays the deceased’s daughter, and her performance here is crucial—especially her reaction when Master You finishes restoring the mother’s face to its lifelike appearance, which must move the audience.

But Wu Yuchen wasn’t satisfied with her crying; her tears were merely empty crying, lacking the sorrow, longing, and reluctant farewell one feels for a mother’s death.

After hearing Wu Yuchen’s words, the girl nodded timidly, knowing she had failed and disappointed everyone. Wu Yuchen saw her reaction and felt a pang of unease.

Indeed, her performance grew worse afterward, forcing Wu Yuchen to call a halt and have everyone take a break—especially the middle-aged woman playing the deceased, who needed to stretch.

Wu Yuchen had shot child actors before, but this trouble made him think: Children really are unpredictable—she’d been so good during auditions.

Yet he knew that at such moments, pressure must be avoided; otherwise, she’d never recover. Meanwhile, as everyone rested, You Benchang walked over to the girl and chatted with her cheerfully.

Wu Yuchen watched, knowing Master You was helping soothe and guide the child’s emotions. He didn’t approach to interfere; as director, he’d already established authority in the girl’s mind, and any action of his would only add pressure. Better to do nothing and let Master You act freely.

After a while, You Benchang walked up to Wu Yuchen with a smile: “Wu Dao, shall we try again?”

Wu Yuchen nodded with a smile: “Thank you, Master You.”

“Three, two, one, action!”

In the shot, the middle-aged husband’s expression was numb and vacant.

After cleaning the corpse’s face, You Benchang suddenly looked up and asked the husband: “Do you have your wife’s favorite lipstick?”

Hearing this, the grieving, dazed husband slowly raised his head, his face dull and confused: “What?”

At that moment, the girl beside him, her eyes red, quickly turned and ran to fetch a lipstick, handing it to You Benchang.

Then, You Benchang used a slender cosmetic brush to pick up the lipstick and gently, meticulously, painted the middle-aged woman’s lips.

The instant You Benchang stood up, the woman in the shot looked as if she had never died—her face beautifully made up, peacefully asleep.

The husband stared at his wife’s face, then looked up at her photograph; his composure shattered, his eyes welled up, and he began whispering her name over and over.

Beside him, the girl rushed forward two steps, leaning over her mother, tears streaming down her face, crying out “Mama” in heartbroken, longing tones—overflowing with reluctance and love.

Meanwhile, the male lead, Lin Wu, was deeply moved. As the final escort of the dead, he restored life to the cold body, gave her eternal beauty, allowed the deceased to depart peacefully, and brought comfort to the living!

“Cut! Excellent!”

Wu Yuchen’s praise eased the entire crew’s tension, but the girl was still crying, clearly unable to shake off her emotion. Her parents had already walked over and embraced her, comforting her.

Wu Yuchen looked at You Benchang and gave the old man a thumbs-up; the old man merely chuckled.

That night, back at the hotel, Wu Yuchen saw Jiang Qin watching TV; the figure on screen was clearly Di Pangpang. Since Jiang Qin had no scenes today, she hadn’t gone to set.

Wu Yuchen smiled and asked: “How’s it? Is the drama good?”

Jiang Qin didn’t look away: “It’s great—I’ve been binge-watching it nonstop. Today’s the finale!”

Wu Yuchen smiled and didn’t disturb her watching Di Pangpang’s finale; instead, he picked up a newspaper and began reading. One headline caught his eye: “Wuji” wrapped filming.

Earlier, Chen Hong had approached them, asking Miracle Pictures to co-produce “Wuji,” but Miracle Pictures had politely declined.

Chen Kaizi didn’t give up; he secured funding from four countries and assembled an all-star Asian cast for “Wuji”—Xie Tingfeng, Zhang Baizhi, Jang Dong-gun, Sanada Hiroyuki, Liu Ye, and others. According to reports, filming “Wuji” was plagued with setbacks: fires, mudslides, and Chen the Great Director’s dissatisfaction with local extras, leading him to bring in 800 soldiers as extras…

When interviewed, Chen Hong claimed “Wuji” would be Chen Kaizi’s epic masterpiece to conquer the global market!

Watching the couple’s confidence, Wu Yuchen couldn’t help but sigh—they’d clearly poured their hearts into it, but unfortunately, they’d made a colossal mess.

Many said “Wuji” ruined Chinese historical wuxia films, because after “Wuji,” the overseas market for Chinese wuxia films declined sharply.

Wu Yuchen didn’t think this fault lay entirely with Chen Kaizi; after all, foreign audiences watched wuxia films primarily for novelty. By the time “Wuji” released, it was already the fifth year foreigners had been watching wuxia—diminished novelty was inevitable.

And Chinese historical wuxia films after “Wuji” weren’t truly unsellable overseas—“House of Flying Daggers” and “The Banquet” sold well too. But “Wuji”’s overseas failure did accelerate the decline, making foreign companies and theaters more cautious toward Chinese historical films.

Wu Yuchen smiled; it didn’t affect him. If Wu Da wanted to make wuxia, a long line of subsidiaries and theaters would beg him to direct.

He’d just wait and watch the show next year.

…

In a modest living room, Zhao Wenshuan and Jiang Qin sat across a coffee table, the atmosphere heavy.

“I just… occasionally worked as a model…” Zhao Wenshuan still tried to hide it from his wife.

Jiang Qin’s face was unhappy, yet she kept her composure: “I’ve already checked what your company does.”

Zhao Wenshuan fell silent for a few seconds: “So… what?”

Jiang Qin took a deep breath, then asked reproachfully: “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You’d have opposed it.”

Jiang Qin immediately replied: “Of course I would! How could you do such work? Don’t you feel ashamed?”

“Cut!”

Wu Yuchen called stop and said to Jiang Qin:

“Qin Qin, control your emotion! Here, don’t be so intense. You’re a traditional, introverted Eastern wife—gentle and virtuous are your standards. Even when angry, you’re restrained. This isn’t the moment for your explosion yet.”

Jiang Qin nodded, took a deep breath, adjusted herself, and after a moment, re-shot.

Zhao Wenshuan looked at Jiang Qin: “Why do you feel ashamed? Because you touch corpses?”

Jiang Qin, voice thick with hurt, impatience, and irritation, said: “I just want you to have a normal job.”

“What do you mean by ‘normal’?” Zhao Wenshuan’s voice rose slightly, making Jiang Qin look at him.

“Everyone will die eventually—I’ll die, you’ll die. Death itself is perfectly normal…”

As he spoke, Jiang Qin’s brow slowly furrowed, her eyes gathering fury; suddenly she interrupted: “Don’t spout philosophy!”

After her outburst, she regained control, her hands twisting together. Her tone softened slightly: “I just want you to quit now. Please!”

Zhao Wenshuan opened his mouth, then turned his head away. He bit his lip, lowered his gaze—clearly unwilling to accept her request.

Seeing Zhao Wenshuan’s silence, Jiang Qin’s face twisted with hurt:

“I’ve never asked you for anything before. Whether you wanted to quit the cello and change careers, or move back to the countryside, I always smiled and supported you. Truthfully, I was worried too…”

Then she looked at Zhao Wenshuan: “This time, I’m begging you. Just listen to me once—please?”

Two cameras shot from different angles. In one, Zhao Wenshuan’s eyes slowly filled with guilt and tenderness; his fingers twisted, meeting Jiang Qin’s concerned, hopeful gaze—but finally, he whispered:

“What if… I say no?”

Jiang Qin’s chest rose and fell. Finally, she asked, calm and restrained: “So you plan to do this for the rest of your life?”

Zhao Wenshuan looked at Jiang Qin, speechless.

After several seconds, the hope in Jiang Qin’s eyes vanished, replaced by disappointment. She lowered her head and sighed: “I’m going back to my parents’ home. Come find me when you quit.”

She rose to leave, and Zhao Wenshuan reached for her arm: “Meixiang…”

Jiang Qin violently shook off his hand, stepping back until her back pressed against the wall, crying: “Don’t touch me! You’re unclean!”

Zhao Wenshuan, fallen to the floor, knelt stunned, staring at his once gentle, virtuous wife—unable to believe she’d said such a thing. Even his closest person now despised him!

Jiang Qin leaned against the wall, tears streaming down her face. She lowered her head, stepped around Zhao Wenshuan, and walked out.

“Cut! Excellent!”

Though only a few minutes of dialogue, this scene dealt a heavy blow to the male lead—his beloved left him because of his profession, shaking the newfound respect and belief he’d developed for embalming.

This scene wasn’t achieved in one take; it was shot repeatedly, with many details refined, until Wu Yuchen was fully satisfied.

…

“Wu Dao, what do you think of the attic setup?”

Wu Yuchen looked at the second-floor attic, filled with lush green plants, vibrant and alive. On the table, as he’d requested, sat a small pot of cactus. He smiled and nodded.

Wu Yuchen deliberately created this contrast: the first floor housed an embalming company, associated with death. But the boss, You Benchang, turned the second floor into a garden.

This is where the scene will be shot: Lin Wu, the male lead, comes to resign. Not only because his wife left, but also because he faced professional setbacks—angry clients blamed and insulted him, crushing his passion for the work.

In this scene’s design, Wu Yuchen placed the two men amid lush greenery—vibrant, verdant plants capturing the audience’s attention, creating a stark contrast with the cold, solemn topic.

This color contrast also implies that life and death are inseparable; the light of life cannot exist without the shadow of death. Why fear or despise death?

This setup also makes it easier for Master You to later deliver his guidance to the male lead about the relationship between life and death.