Chapter 110: Fortune Star Blesses Zhu Bajie, Goodbye Fan Xiaopang

The filming of "Emperor Wu of Han" began in March this year, and by September, when shooting the grassland scenes, it had already lasted half a year.

Thus, the grassland scenes became the final location for "Emperor Wu of Han."

Yan Li joined the crew in September and wrapped up in early October.

His role was relatively minor; there were still scenes to shoot with generals like Wei Qing, Li Guangli, and Li Ling, as well as the Xiongnu side.

For example, Lu Shuming portrayed Li Guang, including not only his middle-aged campaigns and death in old age, but also youth scenes from the reign of Emperor Jing of Han fighting the Xiongnu.

Yan Li estimated that after he wrapped, the crew would still need to shoot for several more days.

Thus, the actual total filming duration for "Emperor Wu of Han" exceeded eight months; including preparation of costumes, makeup, sets, location scouting, and post-production, it would take at least a year.

It is said the script and creative development for "Emperor Wu of Han" took a year, with over a thousand named characters on the cast list alone; estimated at sixty episodes, post-production would also take half a year.

Rounded off, "Emperor Wu of Han" is a three-year premium historical epic.

Considering the budget and cast of "Emperor Wu of Han," though unconfirmed, many guessed it would be a strong contender for CCTV’s 2005 New Year drama.

Others were guessing; Yan Li already knew for sure.

Not only from future information in his monthly intelligence reports, but crucially, he had personally seen CCTV personnel visiting the set.

The CCTV team concealed their identities, but they couldn’t fool Yan Li, who had an intelligence system—he even learned CCTV’s bottom purchase price for "Emperor Wu of Han."

Sixty-five to seventy thousand yuan per episode, total price kept around forty million.

Meanwhile, "Emperor Wu of Han"’s target price was merely sixty thousand yuan per episode; they’d be satisfied with a total of roughly thirty-five million.

This five-million-yuan gap made Yan Li anxious just watching.

But anxiety was useless; this drama was produced by China Film Group—they wouldn’t entrust distribution to him.

Still, Yan Li felt a bit envious of "Emperor Wu of Han."

Big-budget productions cost a lot, but they make even more money!

"Emperor Wu of Han" originally planned for a thirty-million-yuan investment, but as filming progressed, they found it insufficient; the producer added more funds, claiming fifty million, though the actual cost was around forty-five to forty-eight million.

CCTV alone would recoup more than half; DVD rights were reportedly under negotiation, expected to exceed ten million, breaking the TV drama DVD audiovisual rights record.

With these two together, "Emperor Wu of Han" had basically broken even!

Additionally, dramas of this caliber could negotiate some advertising revenue sharing, and China Film Group had overseas export channels.

Plus, if ratings after CCTV broadcast were strong, subsequent reruns wouldn’t be priced too low.

Yan Li calculated: the total profit of "Emperor Wu of Han" wouldn’t be less than thirty million.

Don’t think that’s small—it still seems less than what Yan Li earned from "Conquest."

"Conquest" was too accidental: low cost + high ratings + high return—a dark horse among dark horses, only two or three such hits emerge in a year.

Not to mention Yan Li’s system had given him an edge; anyone else distributing "Conquest" would struggle to sell it this well.

As always: film and TV investment carries high risk; losses are common, and total write-offs are not rare.

Most crews are lucky to make a few million; projects like "Snow Goddess Dragon," which might profit over ten million, are premium.

"Emperor Wu of Han" not only profits tens of millions, but crucially, it’s nearly guaranteed to make money—without China Film Group behind it, every company would fight to snatch it.

Even with his system, Yan Li couldn’t claim any of his projects were guaranteed profits.

Bringing in investors was necessary for funding, but also for sharing risk.

For example, with "Happy Seven Fairies," Yan Li invested nothing; even if the drama flopped, he only lost time and energy, and could even recover some capital according to his share.

Dishonest… cough, no—excellent businessmen shift as much risk as possible onto others and keep all the profit for themselves.

Honestly, Yan Li felt his talent for business was indeed superior to his talent for acting…

————

Compared to before, Yan Li now had a bit more status on "Emperor Wu of Han"—at least he received flowers at wrap.

But Yan Li, preferring to keep a low profile, didn’t make a fuss; he simply greeted the director and a few acquaintances, then quietly left the set.

He didn’t return to Beijing; instead, he went directly to Dali, Yunnan—the filming location for "Fortune Star Blesses Zhu Bajie."

Almost upon arrival, Yan Li entered negotiations with producer Fan Xiaotian.

"Director Fan, I’m truly grateful for this opportunity, but you know my own project has just started and I’m swamped."

"Niuwang’s role is too big—I don’t have the schedule. Could you assign me a small part? I won’t take any pay—I’ll do it as a favor."

"What nonsense."

Seeing Yan Li’s firm stance, Fan Xiaotian didn’t press further but compromised.

"I’ll find you a distinctive role—you won’t act for free; you’ll get plenty of spotlight."

"Thank you for your understanding, Director Fan."

Yan Li toasted Fan Xiaotian, who then asked about "Happy Seven Fairies."

Since both were mythological dramas, Fan was very interested—even hinted he might want to invest.

But Yan Li wasn’t short on cash, and his project shares were already fully allocated, so he dodged the question and shifted to asking about "Fortune Star Blesses Zhu Bajie"’s distribution.

Fan Xiaotian’s Funa Company had been established for years and was well-known in the industry, with solid reputation and connections.

They had their own distribution team and typically handled sales in-house, never giving away profits to external distributors.

Still, Yan Li pushed a bit.

After all, he wasn’t an ordinary distributor; even if he took a cut, he could sell more, benefiting the production side.

But since Yan Li had only distributed two dramas so far, and because money was involved, he couldn’t disclose specifics, so Fan Xiaotian, who prided himself on his distribution team, showed little interest.

Yan Li wasn’t disappointed—he was just testing the waters; if business came, good; if not, no loss.

…

After meeting with Fan Xiaotian, Yan Li bought two bottles of fine wine, planning to wait for director Meng Ji to finish work and chat with him.

He had previously mentioned the director position for "Happy Seven Fairies."

Meng Ji hadn’t refused, but hadn’t agreed either—he was still hesitating. Yan Li’s primary reason for coming to the "Fortune Star Blesses Zhu Bajie" set was to persuade him.

He didn’t find Meng Ji, but ran into two actors finishing work—one of whom was an acquaintance.

The acquaintance was Huang Haibo, who played Zhu Bajie in "Fortune Star Blesses Zhu Bajie" and had previously starred in "Passionate Years."

The other, though Yan Li had never worked with him, he recognized: Hu Ke, host of "Happy Total Mobilization."

Yan Li nodded to Hu Ke, then shook hands with Huang Haibo: "Senior, long time no see."

Huang Haibo was from Beijing Film Academy’s Class of '97; when Yan Li enrolled, Huang was a senior, so they’d met on campus.

They weren’t close.

Back then, Yan Li and his classmates were freshmen, clueless about acting, unsure how to rehearse skits, so they had to ask seniors for help during auditions.

Zhang Songwen had a heavy accent early on and often practiced Mandarin alone on the field, where he met a senior girl who also practiced there.

That girl was then called Huang Yi; later she changed her name to something like Haiqing.

Haiqing and Huang Haibo were close friends, so through her, they connected.

When Yan Li’s dormitory group rehearsed plays, they invited these two seniors to give advice a few times.

By Yan Li’s second semester of freshman year, Huang Haibo was nearing graduation, busy with auditions, and they rarely saw each other again.

Now, nearly three years had passed, and unexpectedly, they met again on the "Fortune Star Blesses Zhu Bajie" set.

While Yan Li recognized Huang Haibo at once, Huang’s memory of him was fainter.

He simply assumed Yan Li was a fellow Beijing Film Academy junior, murmured a few polite greetings, and didn’t recall his name.

Yan Li felt slightly hurt, but understood.

Not just juniors—he struggled to remember classmates from Dong Xuan’s undergraduate class; he’d only met Huang a few times, and their interactions were brief. It was normal he didn’t remember after years.

As for that article in "Southern Metropolis Daily," it wasn’t a world-shaking news story—many hadn’t read it.

Even the Hong Kong superstar who jumped to his death over half a year ago still had many who didn’t know or notice.

The "Southern Metropolis Daily" article and interview did generate some buzz at first.

Only those with intent or who knew Yan Li remembered it clearly; others were briefly surprised, then forgot—perhaps only recalling the gossip about his rumored affair with Li Bingbing.

A self-made millionaire with a net worth of tens of millions didn’t give them a cent, but gossip about him dating movie stars was entertaining to joke about.

Yan Li wasn’t so vain as to boast about who he was or how well he was doing; he chatted politely, then politely excused himself.

The female co-star, however, looked at Huang Haibo strangely after Yan Li left.

"You don’t recognize him?"

Huang Haibo replied: "Of course I do—he’s a Beijing Film Academy junior."

Hu Ke hesitated; young actresses were relatively more aware of Yan Li.

Because "Happy Seven Fairies" had openly cast, many young actresses submitted resumes—including Hu Ke.

Though she didn’t even pass the preliminary audition, she still knew about the project and Yan Li, so she recognized him immediately.

After all, he was the producer of a project investing tens of millions—considered a big shot by non-popular actors—and Huang Haibo treated him so dismissively.

Are Beijing Film Academy seniors really this arrogant?!

…

Unaware of the situation, Yan Li searched for Meng Ji, then wandered back to his hotel. Shortly after entering his room, someone knocked.

Yan Li opened the door and was slightly stunned—it was Fan Xiaopang, along with Han Xue, whom he’d met at a dinner.

"What are you…?"

"Han Xue has something to ask you. She’s shy, so I came with her to knock."

Fan Xiaopang explained simply. Yan Li nodded and gestured them in: "Come in."

Han Xue glanced at Fan Xiaopang, then nodded politely: "Sorry to disturb you, Director Yan."

Fan Xiaopang stepped forward to enter, but Yan Li blocked him: "She has something to discuss with me—why are you coming in?"

"Huh?"

Fan Xiaopang was stunned, then saw the smile on Yan Li’s face and realized he was joking—he rolled his eyes and shoved him aside.

“That girl’s so beautiful—what if you lose control? I can’t trust you.”

Yan Li shook his head, closed the door, and poured Han Xue a glass of water; Fan Xiaopang stared at his empty hand.

“Is this how you treat guests?”

“I’m afraid you’d suspect I drugged it and refuse to drink—pour it yourself.”

Yan Li threw his own words back at him; Fan Xiaopang muttered under his breath, didn’t drink the water, and instead opened a bottle from the hotel room’s minibar.

Han Xue watched the two with a strange expression; earlier, Fan Xiaopang had told her their relationship was poor—they’d even had conflicts on a previous set.

But when she said she wanted to meet Yan Li, Fan Xiaopang volunteered to help arrange it.

After meeting Yan Li, the way Fan Xiaopang and he interacted wasn’t warm, but it carried familiarity and ease—more like friends than enemies.

In truth, Han Xue had misunderstood this point.

They had indeed been more enemies than friends before, but now both wanted reconciliation—one wanted to befriend a rising star, the other wanted to recruit him.

To bow down directly would be too embarrassing, especially with Han Xue, an outsider, watching.

Yet their past grudges couldn’t vanish overnight; at least, Yan Li felt an urge to provoke Fan Xiaopang whenever he saw him, and Fan Xiaopang didn’t find Yan Li particularly likable either.

Thus, they settled into a state of sharp-tongued banter—never quite breaking ties, more like bickering rivals who knew each other too well.

Let’s be honest, they’d clashed before on “The Treasure Basin,” so they had some understanding of each other—and once they saw the other was useful, they immediately wanted to reconcile and cooperate; their personalities were also similar.

So their rapport was quite good; after a few exchanges, they instantly understood each other’s intent.

Yan Li didn’t rush to cozy up to Fan Xiaopang; instead, he focused on Han Xue, hoping to get rid of her first.

The moment he saw Han Xue at the door, he knew her purpose—especially since Fan Xiaotian had hinted at it both openly and subtly before.

She was here for “The Seven Fairies of Joy and Happiness!”

To be fair, Han Xue’s looks were decent—youthful, radiant, sweet and charming; she’d suit the roles of the sixth or seventh fairy well.

But Yan Li, having already sized her up during their last meeting, knew she was complicated.

Though she didn’t have major backing, any mishandling of her would be troublesome; Yan Li had no desire or need to flatter her, so there was no point bringing a spoiled princess home to cause himself trouble.

So Yan Li quickly made an excuse that the roles were filled and politely declined Han Xue’s self-recommendation.

Han Xue was disappointed, but had no recourse—Fan Xiaotian’s company was in Suzhou, which happened to have ties to her family.

But beyond Suzhou, her family’s influence was weak; since Yan Li refused to bow to her, she could only accept it.

After Han Xue and Fan Xiaopang left, Yan Li picked up his phone and sent a text.

A few minutes later, the door knocked again; Yan Li opened it, and Fan Xiaopang slipped inside.

Yan Li smiled without warmth: “I thought you were too scared to come.”

“Scared of you? You gonna eat me?”

Fan Xiaopang sounded tough, but her hand moved obediently, shaking slightly to signal Yan Li not to act up—she could call for help—or the police—any second.

This time, Yan Li poured Fan Xiaopang a glass of water himself; she didn’t drink it, just held the cup and asked:

“You said you wanted to talk—what about?”

“Of course, about cooperation.”

Yan Li looked at Fan Xiaopang—fair-skinned, beautiful, curvaceous—and wanted to say something else, but with her fiery temper, he feared that if he spoke, she’d leap up and scratch his face off…

(End of Chapter)