Chapter 107: Yan Li

Hu Siyan, from Beijing, grew up with her grandparents and later debuted after appearing in commercials.

Soon after, at age twenty, Hu Siyan met the first benefactor of her acting career.

Shen Haofang, director of “The Happy Life of Zhang Damin the Chatterbox.”

Director Shen greatly admired Hu Siyan’s pure appearance and cast her as Zhang Daxue, Zhang Damin’s younger sister; considering her youth and lack of formal training, he frequently offered guidance and support.

Through this role, Hu Siyan successfully entered the entertainment industry and met another benefactor—Liu Heng, the screenwriter of “The Happy Life of Zhang Damin the Chatterbox.”

Compared to Director Shen, Liu Heng, a renowned writer and screenwriter, had far stronger connections within the industry.

For starters, he co-wrote Old Master Zhang’s “Ju Dou” and “Autumn Chrysanthemum’s Lawsuit,” and even had several of his novels adapted into films.

With enthusiastic recommendations from Director Shen and Liu Heng, Hu Siyan appeared in multiple productions.

Later, in “The Young Emperor,” written and directed by Liu Heng, Hu Siyan portrayed the pivotal role of Wuyunzhu—a character who stood out and brought her minor fame.

When assembling the “Happy Heaven and Earth Seven Fairies” project, Wang Decai’s executive producer happened to know Liu Heng.

The producer thought the project promising and highly favorable for boosting careers, so Hu Siyan’s materials were sent over.

Yan Li reviewed Hu’s materials, found her appearance and aura appealing and well-suited for historical costume, and decided to audition her.

More importantly, Liu Heng hinted they could exchange resources.

If Yan Li cast Hu Siyan in “Happy Heaven and Earth Seven Fairies,” Liu Heng would help introduce Yan Li’s actors to one of his upcoming film or TV projects.

For instance, he had connections for “Iron Teeth and Copper Jaw Ji Xiaolan 3” and “The Young Kangxi.”

He also knew many film directors—even Old Master Zhang himself—could be reached through him.

This was an almost openly acknowledged industry rule.

If your upcoming project isn’t suitable for your own people, use mine; later, when I have a fitting role, I’ll use yours.

You help me, I help you.

Exchange of benefits, sharing of resources!

Whether it’s the Hong Kong and Taiwan circles, the so-called Beijing elite circles, or even Japan, Korea, and Hollywood—the core principle remains unchanged.

The central figures and cliques may shift, but the relationships and rules endure: seniors mentor newcomers, newcomers become seniors, then mentor the next generation—this is the eternal cycle of “passing on knowledge and support.”

Yet Yan Li wasn’t particularly interested in Liu Heng’s resources.

Though his network was still limited and his experience shallow, he was already a producer and financier on multiple dramas, with cumulative project costs nearing fifty million yuan, and even higher in publicized figures; he had successful works like “Conquest.”

With these credentials, many in the industry were willing to give him face.

If Yan Li truly wanted to secure resources, he didn’t need to trade with Liu Heng—leading roles might be hard, but supporting roles were easily obtainable.

What he truly valued in Liu Heng was his status in the mainstream literary circle and his creative ability.

Through his intelligence system, Yan Li learned Liu Heng was about to become chairman of the Beijing Writers Association and a Beijing delegate, and that “Beijing Literature,” under the Beijing Federation of Literary and Art Circles, was considering appointing him as chief editor.

Don’t think these have nothing to do with Yan Li.

In fact, the film and television industry and the literary circle were extremely closely linked at this stage, as evident from Liu Heng’s own resume.

Before the internet rose, whether a film or TV drama was good depended on critics and experts—most of whom were deeply tied to the literary circle.

Many film companies and renowned directors or crews maintained ties with multiple figures in the literary circle.

Whether seeking authoritative validation, creative support, or someone to publicly champion their work.

Having literary circle figures involved meant associating with art and culture, saving plenty of trouble.

Take “Happy Heaven and Earth Seven Fairies,” a mythological adaptation.

It might be criticized as “all fairies falling in love,” a ridiculous distortion of mythology, a lowbrow melodrama.

But if the literary advisor was the chairman of the Beijing Writers Association and chief editor of “Beijing Literature,”

then “Happy Heaven and Earth Seven Fairies” became a groundbreaking innovation, boldly breaking rigid mythological narratives, inspiring young audiences to appreciate classical myths, and fostering cultural confidence, and so on.

The power of interpretation truly lay in their hands!

Moreover, in today’s film industry—especially inland—a significant portion of screenwriters were former or part-time writers, forming the core creative force.

Some crews even centered themselves around writers and screenwriters—famous adaptations like Jin Yong’s, Qiong Yao’s, and Hai Yan’s works followed this model.

Renowned directors like Old Master Zhang, Chen Da, and Feng Xiaogang all had writer friends supplying them with scripts and material.

Many film companies’ first step upon founding wasn’t hiring directors or signing actors, but contacting several writers.

Though Yan Li had an intelligence system to snatch projects, cultivating his own creative team was equally crucial.

In this regard, Liu Heng could offer Yan Li both ability and connections.

This was the real reason Yan Li was willing to grant Liu Heng face and consider Hu Siyan—though of course, the girl’s own qualities also mattered.

Others had previously offered Yan Li conditions and recommendations, but he rejected them outright when the candidates were unsuitable.

For suitable candidates, exchanging favors was fine; for unsuitable ones, Yan Li couldn’t afford to waste a project worth over twenty million yuan.

…

“Alright, the interview is over for now—go change into costume so we can see your look.”

In the meeting room, Wang Decai, as interview host, told Hu Siyan to go change, then turned to Yan Li.

“Director Yan, what do you think?”

Yan Li said nothing, turning to director Chen Yongge and screenwriter Fei Yingli: “What do you think?”

If the boss speaks first, the tone gets set too quickly—so Yan Li always let subordinates speak first, to hear genuine opinions before forming his own judgment.

Chen Yongge thought a moment: “Her aura is good, her looks are fine, but her acting experience is lacking.”

Screenwriter Fei Yingli had a different view: “I’ve seen her play Wuyunzhu in ‘The Young Emperor’—she did well, with real spirit.”

Wang Decai also spoke up—he’d been quietly observing Yan Li’s expression and already had a sense of things.

“This girl has a pure look, with delicate, charming eyes—heartbreaking, delicate, I think she’s excellent.”

Yan Li remained silent, flipping through the script, pausing thoughtfully, then pulled out his phone and called Wang Xiu, who was handling the costume trial.

“Have Hu Siyan try on the costumes for the Fifth and Seventh Fairies.”

The Seven Fairies each have different personalities: the eldest is dignified and elegant, the second is strong and coldly beautiful, the third is proud and straightforward, the fourth is quirky and clever, the fifth is pure and charming, the sixth is quiet and obedient, the seventh is gentle and kind.

Hu Siyan’s “white flower” appearance and aura suited the sixth, fifth, or seventh—sixth was too quiet, fifth was defined as absolutely beautiful, so Yan Li leaned toward the seventh.

This role had substantial screen time, almost the lead female, and Yan Li had originally planned to save it for Dong Xuan.

But Dong Xuan desperately wanted to act opposite Yan Li; knowing he might play Jintā, she kept hoping for the third fairy and showed little interest in the seventh.

Had Yan Li planned to manage artists, he might not have let the “lead female” role go to someone else.

Not long after, Hu Siyan returned to the meeting room, dressed.

The crew's costumes hadn't been fully finalized yet, but a clear style had already emerged.

Elegant, refined, ethereal, with accessories and adornments designed for each character’s traits—Hu Siyan in her purple fairy gown looked even more gentle and soft, not stunning, but pleasing to the eye.

After showing herself from all angles, Hu Siyan stood quietly in the open space, unsure whether to try another outfit or wait—obediently awaiting instructions.

Wang Decai turned to Yan Li, who was scribbling on paper, then capped his pen.

“Don’t try the Fifth Fairy—go get photographed.”

Hu Siyan, confused, softly asked: “Director Yan, is the interview over?”

“Yes, go get photographed—we’ll compare and decide later. We’ll notify you when the results are ready.”

Casting was still long—no telling if better candidates would come later.

So though Yan Li had a preference, he didn’t lock it in yet—he’d wait until everyone had been reviewed before making a final decision.

Hu Siyan nodded, opened her mouth to say something, but seeing so many people around, she quietly left.

Yan Li pulled out the paper he’d just written on and showed it to Wang Decai and the others.

Confirmed: First Fairy (Li Lin), Second Fairy (Li Bingbing), Third Fairy (Dong Xuan)

Pending: Fourth Fairy (Jiang Xin/Zhang Ting), Fifth Fairy (Yang Rui/Sui Junbo), Sixth Fairy (Yang Xue), Seventh Fairy (Hu Siyan/Dong Jie)

Yan Li thought again and deleted Zhang Ting—she was currently popular and unlikely to accept a supporting role.

Dong Jie, though popular after “The Golden Powder Family,” was still new and lacked depth; the Seventh Fairy was a lead role, so inviting her was highly likely—but her fee and benefits wouldn’t be as favorable as Hu Siyan’s.

Sui Junbo was out too—her aura was too mature; she might suit the earlier fairies, but there was no slot.

Yang Rui wasn’t absolutely beautiful, but she was charming and wouldn’t ruin the Fifth Fairy’s image as a beauty.

Crucially, Yang Rui and Jiang Xin, the other contender for the Fourth Fairy, both played roles in Zhang Dahu’s “The Legend of the Condor Heroes”—Yang Rui as Zhong Ling, Jiang Xin as Mu Wanqing.

Yan Li knew this drama would be a hit, so he planned to ride its wave.

He’d even considered bringing over Wang Yuyan too, but she turned him down outright, uninterested in his project.

As for Yang Xue, she was genuinely suitable—the Sixth Fairy had low visibility, so anyone could play her.

Also, Yan Li wanted to repay Sister Hua’s favor—she had many artists under her, and inviting them for cameos would greatly benefit the crew.

“Alright, that’s the gist—check with Dong Jie. If she says no and no better candidate emerges, use Hu Siyan. Then invite Jiang Xin and Yang Rui for auditions. Send contracts directly to Li Lin and Yang Xue.”

Yan Li set the tone, then turned to Wang Decai: “What’s the situation with Liu Xiaoqing? Can we shoot with her?”

“Should be fine—no rumors of blacklisting, and we’re not the only crew approaching her.”

“Then negotiate with her.”

Yan Li waved his hand—she was mainland China’s most famous film actress, perfect for the role, Zidai publicity, and cheap—worth the gamble.

…

“The rest is up to you—we’ll stay in touch.”

With the roles of the Queen Mother and Seven Fairies roughly decided, Yan Li no longer personally handled casting for the male roles and supporting characters—he’d only review the final decisions.

“Rest assured, we’ll give it our all.”

Wang Decai puffed his chest loudly; Director Chen Yongge was also eager—this was his first time leading a major project; though inexperienced, his enthusiasm was undeniable.

Yan Li gave a few more instructions, then took his briefcase and left.

Downstairs in the parking lot, Yan Li drove his BMW 530i; as he pulled out of the garage, someone stopped him.

It was Hu Siyan, the very actress who had just been interviewed!

At this moment, Hu Siyan’s fair complexion was flushed from the heat, beads of sweat glistened on her forehead, and her silk blouse clung to her body, faintly revealing the contours of her skin.

Slowly lowering the window, Yan Li leaned out and asked, “What is it?”

Hu Siyan stepped forward, bending slightly as she whispered softly, “Director Yan, I’d like to invite you to dinner and ask your advice about the role.”

Yan Li raised an eyebrow slightly, a touch surprised.

To be honest, over these past days, countless actresses had blocked his path.

Not just him—even Wang Decai had people waiting for him, but because Yan Li was young, handsome, and had decision-making power, more women targeted him specifically.

The day before yesterday—or maybe the day before that—his classmate from Beijing Film Academy, Zhao Ke, also Huang Shengyi’s classmate, had invited him to dinner.

And there was a young model named Wang Ou who bluntly said she didn’t mind if she didn’t land the role—she simply admired Director Yan very much and wanted to sign with Yi’an Pictures to serve him faithfully.

These were relatively subtle cases; even more direct ones had handed him sexy photo cards with phone numbers, stuffing him with several room keys.

One card had been shoved so tightly he didn’t notice it; he only found it at home when Qin Lan rummaged through his bag.

If Yan Li hadn’t been skilled with words and smoothed things over, that woman almost came to the company to monitor him.

As a result, for these past few days, before going home, Yan Li had to check his bag and pockets to make sure nothing suspicious was inside before entering.

Still, those girls were eager to advance—it was understandable. But Hu Siyan wasn’t alone behind the scenes; why bother blocking him?

Did she think he was young and handsome and wanted to switch patrons?

Yan Li thought the possibility was quite real—he’d only realized after comparing himself to others that he was, in fact, a high-quality benefactor in his circle.

To put it bluntly, when he took advantage of someone, it wasn’t clear who was really getting the better deal.

Thinking this, Yan Li glanced at Hu Siyan—her skin was fair, her figure decent, her aura both pure and alluring; sampling her wouldn’t be a bad idea.

But she already had a patron, and now wanted to drag him into the same mess—no thanks. Yan Li wasn’t short of women and had no desire for the hassle.

“I’ve got something at home. Another time.”

Saying this, Yan Li waved his hand and stepped on the gas, driving off.

Hu Siyan was taken aback, but after calming down, she found his reaction perfectly reasonable.

Given his own good looks, there would never be a shortage of women around him.

Add to that his youth, talent, and position as head of a film company—with money and resources—he likely had a whole flock of beauties vying for his attention; he wasn’t someone easily won over.

Hu Siyan watched the BMW 530i disappear, her eyes flickering faintly…

(End of Chapter)