Chapter 335: Final Cut

Wu Yuchen didn’t criticize Jiang Qin and Jiang Wu harshly for multiple NGs; he simply offered brief encouragement when the performance went too far. It was perfectly normal for a few-minute scene to take a full day to shoot—sometimes two or three days, even a week.

Wu Yuchen’s advantage over other directors was that he knew exactly what he wanted to film; he rarely shot ineffective scenes—not just ineffective shots, but ineffective scenes.

When a director clearly knows what he wants to capture, and spends a week shooting the same fragment in different ways before selecting the best version, even the unused footage isn’t wasted.

What’s more frightening is when the director hasn’t figured out his purpose before shooting—or has no clear goal. Many directors, despite having a script, lose control once filming begins, wanting to capture everything. By the editing stage, most of those scenes end up unusable and must be cut.

Even more extreme is Wang Mojing, who doesn’t care about scripts at all—he doesn’t even know what story he wants to tell. All he wants to capture is a feeling, spending one or two years gathering raw footage, then stitching it together through editing into a narrative.

At this moment, Wu Yuchen was confirming tomorrow’s shooting schedule with the crew: “Have you contacted the funeral home?”

“Yes, they’ve reserved a dedicated space for us tomorrow.”

Tomorrow’s scene involved the bathhouse owner being sent to the funeral home for cremation, with one key detail: Niu Ben, the old man who had long bathed and played chess there, was now a cremation worker at the funeral home.

The next day, evening, Wu Yuchen watched the day’s footage playback:

Niu Ben, dressed in uniform, held the coffin, gazing deeply at the old woman, and whispered: “Thank you. Until we meet again.”

Then, Niu Ben closed the coffin lid himself and placed the owner inside the incinerator.

Behind the incinerator, Jiang Wu rushed over, wanting one last look at his mother. Niu Ben smiled and nodded in agreement. Then, as if recalling, he said: “Maybe people sense death before it comes.”

Jiang Wu turned to look at Niu Ben, who continued: “On New Year’s Day this year, she invited me to celebrate with her.”

Niu Ben smiled faintly: “I thought, at my age, why celebrate? But she insisted. She bought a tiny red-ruby cake, lit candles, and we made a wish together. Then, suddenly, she asked me: ‘Can we keep the bathhouse running?’”

Niu Ben lowered his head, staring at the incinerator: “Now I understand—it’s probably because I do a good job with the fire.”

As he spoke, Niu Ben chuckled unconsciously, but Jiang Wu’s eyes had already filled with tears, for at first, he had always urged his mother to sell the bathhouse. Now, looking at the coffin inside the incinerator, guilt and longing for his mother surged again.

Niu Ben turned his head, as if offering comfort, as if reflecting, and continued:

“The longer I stay here, the more I believe death is a door. Passing away doesn’t mean the end of life—it’s passing through into another stage.”

“I’m honored to be the gatekeeper, to see them through that door, to say ‘safe journey, until we meet again,’ and send them off.”

This segment used character contrast: the old man had previously seemed humorous and funny, but now, in uniform, speaking such philosophical words, he moved the audience deeply.

But Wu Yuchen wasn’t reviewing this footage just for checking—he opened another set of footage, specially shot by a cinematographer near Poyang Lake, capturing white cranes soaring and taking flight.

Every November, white cranes migrate from the north to the south, their destination being Poyang Lake. Though Chongming Island’s Dongtan near the metropolis occasionally sees passing cranes, their appearances are irregular, so Wu Yuchen sent people to Poyang Lake to wait and film various footage.

Now, he needed to select the right shots from this footage and splice them after today’s scene.

Wu Yuchen envisioned the scene like this:

After Niu Ben pressed the ignition button, flames rose. Jiang Wu, sobbing uncontrollably, knelt before the incinerator, choking out: “Mom, I’m sorry!”

The camera focused on the roaring flames, then transitioned via an optical dissolve to a flock of white cranes soaring into the sky.

White cranes are auspicious creatures, symbolizing good fortune and elegance.

Any culturally aware Chinese viewer would understand this symbolism: “riding the crane westward.”

It also metaphorically interpreted Niu Ben’s earlier words: death is not an end, but a passage to another stage.

To achieve the desired effect, Wu Yuchen was now comparing segments, selecting the most suitable footage. Not just him—his assistant director, cinematographer, and several others were watching with him, reviewing and discussing repeatedly.

“Wu Dao, how’s this one? The crane’s wings spreading wide—so beautiful!”

“Wu Dao, I think this segment’s better—the takeoff to the formation flight is seamless.”

“We can’t show the whole process—it’ll be too long. We’ll pick only the two most beautiful clips!”

That was true—this was just a transition. Showing the full flight would be excessive, boring the audience.

“Alright, let’s go with that wing-spreading shot. Now pick one more for the soaring sequence.”

Wu Yuchen made his decision and continued selecting the next clip.

…

By a stony riverbank, Zhao Wenshan crouched on the ground, hands pressed against his forehead, eyes closed, utterly focused.

Seconds later, he rose and extended his hand to Jiang Qin: “Here.”

Jiang Qin looked down and saw a smooth stone in his palm: “What’s this?”

Zhao Wenshan took her hand, placed the stone in her palm, and said: “Stone letter.”

Then he looked toward the horizon:

“Long ago, before humans invented writing, people would find a stone that expressed their feelings and give it to someone to convey their bond.”

“The receiver would interpret the sender’s heart by the stone’s texture and weight—a smooth stone meant happiness; a rough, uneven one meant worry.”

Around them, birds chirped merrily. Jiang Qin looked at Zhao Wenshan and smiled happily. She closed her eyes, clutching the stone, as if sensing the emotion within.

Then she opened her eyes, lifted her head slowly, and smiled with joy: “Thank you.”

Zhao Wenshan asked softly: “What did you feel?”

Jiang Qin tucked her hand behind her back, playfully: “Secret!”

They smiled at each other. Jiang Qin asked: “Who told you this beautiful legend?”

Zhao Wenshan’s smile froze. His brow furrowed. He turned his face away: “My father.”

Jiang Qin said: “That big stone at home… it wasn’t just any stone, was it?”

“Yes. He gave it to me.”

Zhao Wenshan nodded, then turned and walked back to the stony bank. “He said he’d give me one every year. But I only ever got that one…”

He picked up a stone from the ground and hurled it hard into the river, shouting angrily: “What a bastard!”

“Cut! Perfect. One more take!”

Wu Yuchen was satisfied with their performance—it passed on the first try.

This “stone letter” scene served two purposes.

First, it showed Jiang Qin’s relationship with her husband had been restored, even deepened—where Lin Wu once kept secrets, he now opened his heart to her.

Second, it set up future developments, revealing the male lead’s resentment toward his father, who abandoned him and his mother. Earlier details had already hinted at this: Lin Wu sold his cello at first; now he plays an old one he dug out from home. He’d also dreamed of his father—but his face remained blurred, forgotten.

Wu Yuchen had now filmed eight funeral scenes. Throughout, the male lead, Lin Wu, as a mortician, personally sent off eight deceased. But he was more an observer—witnessing each funeral, indirectly sensing the true passage of life, experiencing different families’ attitudes toward death, and the living’s varied choices and steadfastness.

This observation wasn’t easy. Life’s cruelest truth lies in death’s irrevocability. To witness such unchangeable natural laws without being consumed by grief requires a calm, gentle heart.

Thus, teacher-like figures appeared: the company boss, You Benchang, taught Lin Wu to treat every passing life equally, instructing him as a farewell-giver: “Be calm, precise, and carry tender emotion.”

The old man who always played chess alone at the bathhouse bathed with Lin Wu, watched fish swimming upstream, and told the confused Lin Wu: “Death is a natural law—they’re born this way…”

In this process, Lin Wu, as a naive observer, gradually grew. He came to understand death’s inevitability and naturalness, and began to respectfully, equally honor each deceased. This was the first level an observer could reach: calm, yet not cold; tender, yet not sorrowful.

But no observer can escape becoming a participant. This applied to every character in the film. Lin Wu faced multiple contradictions: societal discrimination and even his wife’s misunderstanding as a mortician, and the emotional void left by his father’s abandonment—all awaited his confrontation and resolution. After all, one cannot simply exist as an observer—or rather, “observing oneself” is a challenge no one can avoid.

Now, after witnessing others’ life changes, after long contemplation through countless deaths, after each funeral’s spiritual journey, Lin Wu had finally reached the second level of the observer: confronting himself.

He had never spoken of his father before—that pain lay buried deep. Now, he dared face his resentment toward his father and confessed it to his wife.

The final funeral scene to shoot—the climax—would have the male lead, Lin Wu, confront his father directly, achieving reconciliation with his father and with himself.

“You two stand here, back to the window. Lin Wu, stand here—block the light coming through the window. Let your father’s upper body lie in your shadow.”

Wu Yuchen was now instructing Zhao Wenshan and Jiang Qin on their positions.

This final scene wasn’t just about following the script—lighting and atmosphere were crucial. This segment was shot with natural light: side-backlighting, diffused. Light intensity would subtly shift, controlled by opening and closing the curtains.

Wu Yuchen then reiterated to the cinematographer and crew: “Before the funeral begins, the curtains are half-open, light ratio slightly high. When the funeral starts, close the curtains.”

“Three, two, one, action!”

“This… is Dad?” Jiang Qin whispered.

The old man’s body lay in Zhao Wenshan’s shadow, his face aged and pitiful. At this moment, Zhao Wenshan gazed down at his father—the power dynamic between father and son had reversed from childhood.

“It’s laughable—I can’t remember what he looked like. Even now, looking at his face, I still can’t recall.”

Then Zhao Wenshan looked at a large box, his gaze lost, murmuring: “What was his life for? Lived over seventy years, left only a box of clutter.”

Before this, when Lin Wu heard of his father’s death, his resentment made him want to stay away. But Jiang Qin’s company, and colleague He Saifei’s personal story, convinced him to come for his father’s final farewell.

At that moment, the local funeral company arrived, intending to carry the body away immediately. Zhao Wenshan couldn’t bear their brutality—he shoved them aside. When they questioned him, Jiang Qin stepped in front: “My husband is a mortician!”

Wu Yuchen gave a signal. The crew pulled the curtains shut. Zhao Wenshan began the funeral rites himself.

As he pried open his father’s tightly clenched right hand, a small, smooth stone fell out.

The camera zoomed in on Zhao Wenshan’s face. His pupils shrank. He gently picked up the stone, stared at it—the same stone he’d given his father as a child—and turned, stunned, toward his dead father.

Zhao Wenshan turned back. The camera followed his gaze to Jiang Qin—her eyes wet, tears of emotion streaming, smiling as she gently took the stone from Zhao Wenshan’s hand.

Zhao Wenshan bent down, cupping his father’s face in both hands, lowering his head to touch and gaze, as if trying to rediscover his father’s childhood image.

Tears slipped from his nose, falling onto his father’s face. He softly applied foam, then carefully shaved him with a razor.

Wu Yuchen watched the frame intently—not just Zhao Wenshan’s performance, but the lighting’s overall atmosphere. The curtains acted as natural diffusers, warming and softening the light within, enhancing the revival of familial love, pushing emotion to its peak.

After cleansing his father’s face, Zhao Wenshan cradled the familiar face again, lips trembling, nodding silently, eyes filled with longing.

Moments later, he looked up at Jiang Qin—wounded, yet joyful, like a child who’d found his father again. Jiang Qin smiled through tears, cradling the stone letter.

Zhao Wenshan clasped both hands around Jiang Qin’s, holding the stone, and slowly placed them on her belly—as if passing the stone letter to the new life growing within her.

In the small room, the lost father was reclaimed, the unborn child welcomed. The bond between two generations of fathers was sealed through the stone letter.

Wu Yuchen watched the two, smiling happily in the soft light, and called out: “Cut!”