Chapter 333: Jiang Dandan Shows Up

In the shot, after You Benchang bid farewell to Zhao Wenshan and the family and was leaving, he encountered the deceased’s father outside the door.

The man, eyes red, lowered his head slightly and said: “Since Tie Nan became like this, he’s been fighting with people outside constantly and hasn’t come home in a long time—I haven’t seen him in a very, very long time.”

Then he looked up at You Benchang and Zhao Wenshan: “But just now, when I saw his smile again… ah, he’s my son! Even if he looks like a girl, he’s still my son!”

As he spoke, the middle-aged man burst into tears, his tall frame bending forward as he bowed to them while crying: “Thank you! Thank you so much!”

You Benchang and Zhao Wenshan both supported the middle-aged man, then exchanged a glance.

This experience was unusual for both of them, yet it felt deeply meaningful—allowing the deceased to depart according to their own wishes, and offering the living some measure of comfort. Isn’t that the very purpose of their work?

“Cut!”

By now, production was more than halfway done; Wu Yuchen estimated another month would see the film wrapped.

It could only be called pseudo “wrap,” since most shooting was complete, but some scenes remained—mainly the scene of Lin Wu, the male lead, playing the cello outdoors.

It couldn’t be shot yet because the season hadn’t arrived; the backdrop required seasonal transitions—from autumn, to winter, to spring. The male lead’s cello playing would vary in tone across seasons, reflecting his changing inner state.

These seasonal shifts also mirrored the male lead’s circumstances: in autumn, when all things began to wither, he lost his job and stumbled into the mortuary profession; in winter, his wife left him, his career hit rock bottom, and he wanted to quit; by spring, both his family and career were improving. Placing spring at the end symbolized hope for the future.

Wu Yuchen had no intention of shooting this scene in Shanghai; he’d find a location near Longwang Mountain in Huzhou, farther north—somewhere with mountains and snow, to make it visually impactful.

Though Shanghai rarely sees snow, films are fictional by nature; stitching together multiple locations is normal and shouldn’t be rigidly bound to reality.

…

“Wu Dao, I showed up uninvited—don’t tell me you’re not glad to see me?”

Wu Yuchen, watching Jiang Wen’s utterly unbothered expression, pointed at him and laughed: “You’re already here—what choice do I have but to welcome you?”

“Hahaha! They say Wu Dao is generous and righteous—this reputation is truly deserved!”

Hearing Jiang Wen’s flattery from the moment they met, Wu Yuchen glanced at him, didn’t bother hiding his intent, poured him tea, and said directly: “Old Jiang, we’re not strangers. You come in and praise me right away—what do you want?”

Jiang Wen’s expression turned serious; he extended his hand: “Wu Dao, you’re wrong. I praise you because you’re talented, your films are excellent, you’re righteous, and you’re universally respected in the industry. You’re the leader of Chinese-language cinema now—why shouldn’t I praise you? It’s all sincere!”

Wu Yuchen swallowed his tea and waved his hand urgently: “Enough, get to the point!”

The more Jiang Wen spoke, the more Wu Yuchen was certain he had something to ask.

“One thing at a time—what I said before was heartfelt!”

Jiang Wen emphasized again, then pulled a script from his chest and handed it to Wu Yuchen: “Wu Dao, you’re the expert—take a look?”

The moment Wu Yuchen saw the script, he guessed Jiang Wen’s intent.

It was already late 2004; Jiang Wen had been banned in 2000, and next year he’d be officially “released.”

Though there were still half a year left, Jiang Wen was already desperate—he was preparing his comeback film, ready to shoot the moment the ban lifted.

Wu Yuchen took the script and saw it was indeed *The Sun Also Rises*. The film was a financial disaster—50 million invested, only 17 million at the box office; international rights sales likely barely covered costs.

Still, Wu Yuchen opened the script and began reading. In his past life, many criticized Jiang Wen’s film as obscure, confusing, and incomprehensible—its main reason for box office failure.

*The Sun Also Rises* superficially consists of four seemingly independent stories, structured in a circular narrative like *Pulp Fiction*. The film’s sequence is 1, 2, 3, 4—but the true timeline is 4, 2, 1, 3. This alone created viewing difficulty.

The film also layered heavy symbolism. On the surface, it’s about love and desire—but it’s really the story of an idealist’s collapse.

The four stories are “Madness,” “Love,” “Gun,” and “Dream.” The first three occur in spring, summer, and autumn of 1976; “Dream” takes place in winter 1958. The final image of flowers and herbs in “Dream” signifies the transition from winter to spring—expressing hope for the future, just like the seasonal structure in *Departures*.

Anyone familiar with the era’s history would know what happened: from the Great Leap Forward in 1958, to the death of the Great Leader in 1976, and the turbulent decades in between.

As Wu Yuchen read, he couldn’t help but mutter in admiration—Jiang Wen was still that Jiang Dandan.

Even glancing casually, Wu Yuchen saw metaphors everywhere. From 1958 to 1976, the character Li Dongfang’s life span matched those 18 years—representing a generation of youth. His mad mother was the motherland; Alyosha clearly referred to the Russians—these were nearly explicit.

There was the “Cutest People,” the train symbolizing Marxism-Leninism, velvet hinting at Mr. Democracy. Uncle Li, the departing Russian, the estranged elder brother…

The story, viewed this way, showed Alyosha and the mad mother’s passionate affair in 1958—but he forced her. When she realized his motives weren’t pure, she broke with him, rejected Russian influence, and the consequences were severe—many minor figures died unjustly.

Meanwhile, Jiang Wen, the man with the gun, was still loudly proclaiming his ideals. But the female lead Kong Wei, representing Western seduction, tempted Li Dongfang. Though Li had destroyed the white palace built by the mad mother, he still yearned for the velvet revolution symbolizing democracy. Jiang Wen exposed it as nothing but a veil, and shot him dead.

But before this, a friend from Beijing had warned Jiang Wen: recognize your errors, or history would wash away his shoes and clothes as it did the mad mother’s. And the sun—symbolizing ideal, dream, future—would rise as always.

As Wu Yuchen read, he felt awe—and dared not dwell on deeper layers. When he finished the last page, he pointed at Jiang Wen and cursed:

“You still haven’t learned! Always testing the limits of sensitive topics! You haven’t even released it yet, and you’re already planning something huge?!”

Jiang Wen looked wounded: “Wu Dao, what am I testing? This is just a simple love story. Isn’t it just your imagination running wild?”

But Wu Yuchen remained unmoved:

“You’re pretending with me? You fool the censors, but you think you can fool me? Do you even want investment anymore?”

Jiang Wen immediately grinned: “Hey hey, Wu Dao, I was just joking! How could this hide from your eyes? Will you invest?”

Wu Yuchen snorted but didn’t answer. Instead, he said: “Don’t think the censors are easy to fool—they’ve got plenty of sharp eyes. No one’s stupid.”

Jiang Wen spread his hands: “Come on! I’ve gone this far with the script—can they still ban it?”

Wu Yuchen glanced at him: “Whether you can shoot it depends entirely on their whim. But even if you can, you’ve made it so obscure—how many people will actually watch?”

“Wu Dao, I’ll be honest—I’ve been cooped up for years. Even if I have to sell my pots and pans, I’ll make this film!” Jiang Wen declared firmly.

Wu Yuchen snapped: “Sell your pots and pans? You’re selling other people’s pots and iron! You come to me now—do you think we’re easy to take advantage of?”

“Oh come on! Wu Dao, in all of China, who dares to bully you? It’s the other way around—you bully me!” Jiang Wen softened his tone.

Wu Yuchen scoffed: “I bully you? I can’t bully Jiang Dandan.”

Seeing Wu Yuchen wouldn’t budge, Jiang Wen asked directly:

“Wu Dao, tell me—what would make you invest? How about I act in your film for free?”

Over the past few years, Jiang Wen couldn’t direct but acted in several films—besides his well-known role in *The Search*, he appeared in *Heaven and Earth*, *Green Tea*, and *Letter from an Unknown Woman*. The latter was Xu Cairen’s directorial debut, but Jiang Wen likely had little interest in the subject and left no mark.

Wu Yuchen waved him off: “Forget it. You’d just disrupt my film. Even playing a corpse, you’d make the coffin too small!”

Then Wu Yuchen said: “This film is 100% a money-loser. I don’t want to be the fool who funds it.”

Jiang Wen immediately grew anxious: “Hey, Wu Dao, you can’t treat me differently! You invest in art films for others—why label me a money-loser?”

“Hah! You dare say that? When I fund others, they budget every cent. What’s your reputation? Are you planning to break China’s highest budget-to-box-office ratio again?”

Jiang Wen held up his hand: “Hey Wu Dao, don’t say that—I’m not even top of the list! Wang Yijin’s ahead of me!”

Wu Yuchen cursed: “Damn, you’re proud of being second?”

Jiang Wen and Wang Yijin were the two most extravagant directors in Chinese-language cinema.

Jiang Wen wasn’t offended; he chuckled, then bowed to Wu Yuchen: “Wu Dao, just tell me—what will make you invest?”

After hours of talk, he understood Wu Yuchen’s stance—if he’d had no intention of investing, he wouldn’t have spoken so long—he’d have just politely dismissed him.

Wu Yuchen studied Jiang Wen for a moment. He did intend to invest in this film—but not just for this one. He was thinking ahead to the next.

In his past life, *The Sun Also Rises* was funded by Emperor’s Entertainment’s Yang Shoucheng, and it lost heavily. Later, Jiang Wen made *Let’s Bullet*, which earned Yang Shoucheng everything back.

Wu Yuchen said: “I can invest—but there’s a condition.”

Jiang Wen immediately said: “Speak!”

“This film is just for your own satisfaction—I guarantee 95% won’t understand it. I’ll give you 40 million. Not a cent more. You solve the rest.”

“If this film loses money, you must promise me—you’ll make me another film, one everyone can understand, one they’ll want to see, one they’ll fight to get tickets for, climb walls for, stand on bricks to watch!” Wu Yuchen said, staring at Jiang Wen.

In his past life, Jiang Wen appeared on *Roundtable* and was asked about entertainment films:

“Talking about how to make money with film, or how to seduce women—that’s nothing!

What is entertainment? If you make me rush to buy tickets, climb walls to sneak in, stand on bricks to watch—that’s impressive. Entertainment isn’t streetwalking. Singing a little tune, struggling to speak, sitting with a big brother over dinner—that’s not entertainment—that’s begging.”

Jiang Wen didn’t look down on common people or commercial films. He meant films like *Titanic* or *Avatar*—ones people would climb walls to see—were impressive. But trash films that relied on flashy promotion and begging for likes? That was streetwalking. That was begging.

Jiang Wen hadn’t said this yet, but he understood Wu Yuchen’s meaning. To anyone else, this offer would be a dream—agree instantly, earn next film’s funding.

But Wu Yuchen wasn’t easy to fool. If this film lost, Jiang Wen’s next script would be instantly exposed—was he truly aiming for profit? He’d be bound tightly.

Still, Jiang Wen’s current situation meant few dared invest—everyone feared another *Devils on the Doorstep*.

“Fine, Wu Dao, it’s settled!”