Chapter 320: Holding the New Four Great Classics, the King of Distribution Returns to the Jianghu

After a while, Yan Li learned from Ning Hao who Jing Tian was.

A first-year student at Beijing Film Academy, with some background, she had released a few singles, spent a lot of money, produced by renowned musician Zhang Yadong, with Ning Hao as the MV director.

As a result, the two sides had some contact; when The Crazy Car Race started filming, they leveraged a few news stories for promotion.

Whether intentional or due to media speculation, she was again linked with Yi An, with rumors spreading that she would sign with Yi An.

After learning the situation, Yan Li nodded; the reporter had probably been paid—her description was exaggerated; anyone unaware might think she was some hot young actress.

He said he scrolled Weibo every day and hadn't lost touch with the entertainment circle, yet he'd never heard of her—turns out she was a complete newcomer.

Yan Li didn't take her seriously; there were plenty in the entertainment circle with connections, and many willing to spend big money.

For such outsiders, Yan Li generally kept his distance; few unfamiliar people came to ask for his help, especially women, given his reputation.

His wife feared he'd be stolen away, his mistresses feared rivals would pry him loose—this actually gave Yan Li more peace.

Pushing the minor incident aside, Yan Li focused on watching the filming of The Crazy Car Race.

Yan Li took this project seriously—not just because of the project itself, but because of Ning Hao.

Yi An needed a director with real clout.

Since Ning Hao joined, Yi An had been hyping him up—calling him a genius director, the leader of the Sixth Generation, and so on.

But while artist marketing might push out a few surface-level hits, directors ultimately must speak through their works.

A single The Crazy Stone wasn't enough; Ning Hao needed more works to prove himself.

Yan Li had read The Crazy Car Race's script—it was solid and brilliant, more mature than The Crazy Stone; no wonder Ning Hao had spent so long refining it with his team of screenwriters.

Yan Li trusted Ning Hao's ability; given the strong script, he would surely make a great film.

If the final product was excellent, Yi An would invest heavily in packaging and promoting the film.

Different asses, different minds.

Previously, Yan Li hadn't considered going public; he made films for profit. Now he was thinking about going public—film profits still mattered, but their importance had shifted backward; market influence and market share had to be boosted.

The Crazy Car Race could make less money, or even lose money, but its box office had to be high, its influence had to be massive.

The same applied to Painted Skin and The Wind; Yan Li intended to use these films to create blockbuster masterpieces, rapidly compensating for Yi An's lack of cinematic depth.

"I've become one of the Wang brothers or Yu the Fat."

Yan Li felt a pang of nostalgia; once, facing these men, he'd said nothing outwardly, but inwardly he'd felt a touch of superiority.

He worked in film and television; they worked in business.

The world was unpredictable—he hadn't enjoyed that superiority for even two years before he himself ended up in the coal pile, blackened along with them.

The only slight advantage he had was that Yan Li still cared about his reputation; he tried, without harming the company, to maintain project quality and corporate atmosphere, not sinking into moral decay just for listing and money.

Of course, Yan Li had to admit that having other industries as his safety net was also a factor.

The Wang brothers and Yu the Fat had only Huayi and Bona—they had to resort to any means to extract money from them.

Yan Li had diversified his investments; he didn't need to squeeze one sheep dry, exhausting the well; with several companies forming an industrial chain, influencing each other, he had to be cautious, avoiding short-term gains for long-term, holistic strategy.

Shaking his head, Yan Li thought he was full of himself—comparing himself to the Wang brothers and Yu the Fat was pointless.

The filming of The Crazy Car Race didn't really require Yan Li's attention.

The situation was much like The Crazy Stone—Ning Hao had full control; Yan Li just needed to provide funding and arrange support staff.

Yan Li's visit this time was to show his support for the film, to encourage Ning Hao and the crew.

Many bosses and leaders visiting a project, while partly for visibility, still had some positive effects.

No one coming, no one paying attention, to some extent meant no one cared.

Especially for a boss like Yan Li—who didn't cause trouble and even gave out perks—many were glad he came.

After making a brief appearance and saying some kind words, Yan Li had a small gathering that night with Ning Hao and key crew members, then left that same early morning.

He didn't rush straight back to Beijing; instead, he took a detour to Tianjin.

The Wind was about to start filming, with Tianjin as its primary location, and some exterior scenes and plotlines set in Daoshan, Nanjing, and Liancheng.

Especially in Liancheng, The Wind crew spent over three months building a full-scale Qiu Zhuang—though it was mostly for exterior shots.

If the film gained good influence, they could later complete the interior setup and turn it into a tourist attraction or filming location.

Not to mention, the TV series The Wind could use it directly.

Tianjin's shooting locations included the Five Avenues, Cadre Club, and Italian Style Street—mostly old buildings dating back to the Republic era.

Shooting in these Republican-era locations greatly helped the crew; they needed no effort—just find the right angles, set up the lights, and the era's atmosphere was instantly complete.

Unlike film studios' Republican-era sets, even if 1: replicas with aging effects, they still looked fake.

Polite term: no sense of lived-in reality; more bluntly: no human touch.

Yan Li toured the locations and had dinner with director Gao Qunshu, who was overseeing the shoot in Tianjin, catching up.

When The Conquest exploded, Yan Li made a lot of money; Gao didn't say anything, but inwardly he'd felt uneasy, leading to little collaboration between them in recent years.

Perhaps time had passed, or perhaps Yan Li's growing success and exceptional ability had gradually eased Gao's resentment.

Even without The Conquest, Yan Li would likely have still become wealthy; without Yan Li, The Conquest might have failed in Gao's hands, and he wouldn't have had these years of growth.

In short, they'd simply followed the contract; Yan Li owed him nothing—he'd even helped him.

For The Wind, Yan Li invited Gao to help; the latter didn't hesitate to come.

There's a bond from meeting face-to-face; they had no major conflict, and cooperating was about continuing their relationship.

Moreover, both had started from The Conquest—they were comrades who climbed up together; over a few drinks, reminiscing about the past, their bond instantly strengthened.

"Gao Ge, you direct, I steer, plus Hong Lei—we've got a little iron triangle. Let's make a film version of The Conquest and recreate our glory."

"Recreate… glory!"

Gao's drinking capacity was far worse than Yan Li's; his eyes were glazed, echoing Yan Li's words.

Yan Li had planned to give more instructions, but seeing him like this, he had someone send him back first.

The reason The Wind was set in Tianjin was also because Yan Li feared Gao Qunshu couldn't hold the line.

Yan Li didn't act in The Wind; unlike Painted Skin, where he could watch daily, and the two stars rarely caused trouble—if they did, he could shut them down.

But without Yan Li present, no one else could be sure.

Not to mention the relationship between the two stars, even their individual status meant few dared provoke them.

The only advantage was that after Painted Skin, the two stars had undergone some degree of adjustment and would be relatively stable—but even so, Yan Li still played it safe.

The scenes between Lu Bu and Diaochan in The New Three Kingdoms would be postponed until after The Wind was finished.

Yan Li personally remained in Beijing; if trouble arose in Tianjin, he could arrive at top speed.

Having learned from Painted Skin, Yan Li had begun to understand how to handle the two stars.

First, let them clash, vent their anger—don't just suppress them; the more you suppress, the bigger the fire grows; better to channel than block. Then Yan Li would step in, establish rules, and let them fight within boundaries, keeping things relatively calm.

Another point: Yan Li hoped the two stars' scenes would be shot quickly, ideally completed before Painted Skin's National Day release.

Because of Painted Skin's promotion, the two stars would inevitably clash; if things heated up, it could disrupt filming. If The Wind was already finished, they could fight however they wanted.

As for Painted Skin 2, if the first film was a hit, the two stars would cooperate again without Yan Li needing to persuade them.

If the performance was poor, there'd be no need for a sequel—the value of the "Two Stars" brand would drop, and the so-called "Three-Part Trilogy" might not happen at all.

In the entertainment circle, results and profit matter!

If the "Two Stars" brand exploded, even if Yan Li didn't organize it, the two stars would reach out to each other.

Even having them act out a lesbian kiss wouldn't be impossible—Yan Li could just act as the middleman…

…

After spending a day in Tianjin, Yan Li returned to Beijing and was immediately dragged in to record a VCR.

Asked about it—it was for the Olympics again.

Since last year, Olympic promotion activities had never stopped; Yan Li himself had forgotten how many videos or promotional materials he'd recorded.

No choice—he was famous, held high status, had many side roles and wide connections; many organizations and friends loved asking him to lend his name.

If it involved business or private favors, Yan Li might make excuses to decline; but for public efforts supporting the Olympics—harmless, transparent, and beneficial—he'd help whenever he could.

After recording two Olympic VCRs, Yan Li also recorded some promotional VCRs for The Legend of the Condor Heroes 2.

The summer season release of The Legend of the Condor Heroes 2 was coming; unlike the first season, where Yan Li and Fan Xiaopang were main creators and had to promote it, the second season featured them as supporting and guest roles, and since both were busy, they passed the promotional duties to the main creators.

Fan Xiaopang was joining the Chibi roadshow, preparing to support The Legend of the Condor Heroes 2 at the Xingcheng stop.

Yan Li only recorded VCRs, but online he wasn't idle.

He posted on Weibo to promote it, interacted with crew members, and gave an exclusive interview to Weibo about The Legend of the Condor Heroes 2.

Although Yan Li mainly did it for Weibo, he still helped The Legend of the Condor Heroes 2 crew.

After recording the VCRs, Yan Li returned to his office and ran into Lin Jiachuan on the way.

"Bro, you're back."

Lin Jiachuan followed Yan Li into the office, laughing and joking; in all of Yi An, he was the only one who could call Yan Li "bro" in front of others.

People like Zhou Yiwei and Yan Li's hometown brothers only called him that privately.

Lin Jiachuan could do so not only because of his closeness to Yan Li, but because he was the oldest of the company's veterans.

When the company moved to its new headquarters, they also formalized management, issuing employee badges and numbers based on seniority.

Before the badge system, former employees weren't counted; once an employee left after receiving a badge number, the number was archived.

Yan Li's badge number was 【2002120400001】—the front part was his start date, the day Yi An was officially registered; the back part indicated his order of joining—Yan Li was #01, Lin Jiachuan was #02.

Moreover, Lin Jiachuan was the only person besides Yan Li who joined on the day the company was founded.

To be more precise, Lin Jiachuan had joined even before Yi An was officially established—he'd handled some of the initial paperwork.

He hadn't invested money or made outstanding contributions, so calling him a founder might be excessive—but as the most senior veteran, he was unquestionably deserving.

One could say Lin Jiachuan wanted Yi An to grow stronger even more than Yan Li did.

Due to his limited conditions and abilities, he dared not dream of becoming a superstar—but this Yi An badge #02 might be one of the greatest honors of his life, so he sincerely hoped Yi An would thrive, so his badge number's value would rise.

Entering the office, Lin Jiachuan went straight to brew tea, lavishly praising it.

"Brother, is it your tea that's good, or is it the office's spiritual energy? Why does your tea taste so much better?"

"Stop flattery."

Yan Li pointed to the tea cabinet over there: "Take two packs later—one for yourself, one for your dad."

"Hehe, I'll thank my old man on your behalf."

"No need to be polite. I read your dad's new script—it's got real flavor. Since you're not in The Three Kingdoms remake anyway, just play the lead."

Lin Jiachuan wasn't just basking in Yan Li's favor—his father Lin Heping had also received investment or production support from Yian for several scripts.

Of course, Lin Heping was talented; last year's A Woman's Lifetime even made the White Magnolia Award shortlist for Best Screenplay.

To put it simply, Lin Heping excelled in period dramas and main-theme pieces—quality wasn't outstanding, but it wasn't bad either, solid and dependable.

Yian invested in such dramas not for big profits, but to maintain actors, teams, and distribution channels.

As for the actors, no need to elaborate—there were so many of them; they couldn't just sit idle. When there was a good script, they made it; when there wasn't, they made these ones—still profitable.

This way, the company earned a little, everyone stayed busy, and no one was just being paid to do nothing.

As for distribution, there are only so many premium dramas each year—you can't just stick with a few TV stations and ignore the rest.

So sometimes you need these decent scripts to maintain relationships; as long as ties remain, future opportunities for profitable projects can still arise.

Lin Jiachuan hesitated: "Me playing the lead in my dad's script? That doesn't feel right."

"So dramatic."

Yan Li shook his head—perhaps something had shaken him—Lin Jiachuan avoided working with his father, fearing people would call him a gold-digger; he'd never acted in any of Lin Heping's previous scripts.

"Think of it this way: the drama's funded by our company—if anyone's benefiting, it's your dad benefiting from you. Fine, if you won't act, I'll find someone else."

Yan Li wasn't going to play therapist—it wasn't like there weren't other roles. Act if you want, don't if you don't.

"No no no—I read the script for Little Aunt Duohui, it's great, I'll take the role."

Lin Jiachuan immediately surrendered—he both avoided and secretly longed for working with his father.

Besides, he wasn't some nobody anymore; he had some fame—he hardly qualified as a gold-digger. It was just that his inner mind hadn't yet adjusted.

"You're not afraid of being called a gold-digger—you're afraid you'll mess up, afraid your dad will be disappointed, afraid you'll embarrass him."

There's a saying: every man wants his father's approval.

Lin Jiachuan probably felt the same, but due to their relationship issues, his emotions were more complex than most's—he likely had a rough childhood.

"Here's an idea: I'll tell the film and TV department to list you as executive producer—give you some clout in front of your dad."

These days, screenwriters hold little power on set; executive producers oversee production and are nominally above even the director—they're the screenwriter's superior.

The son oversees the father!

"That doesn't seem right—I only know how to act. I don't know how to be an executive producer."