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 North Electric University, with some background, previously released several singles, spent a lot of money, produced by renowned musician Zhang Yadong, with Ning Hao as the MV director.

Thus, the two sides developed some connection; when The Crazy Car started filming, they leveraged a few news stories for promotion.

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

After learning the situation, Yan Li nodded; the reporter probably got paid—his description was exaggerated; someone 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—apparently 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 people, Yan Li generally kept his distance; few unfamiliar with him came to ask for help, especially women, given his reputation.

Young female relatives feared they'd be outshone, mistresses feared being replaced—this gave Yan Li a bit more peace.

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

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

Yi An needed a director with a credible reputation.

So since Ning Hao joined, Yi An had been promoting him as a genius director, a leader of the sixth-generation filmmakers, and so on.

But while the artist's frantic marketing might push out a few face-saving products, 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'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 excellent script, he would surely make a great film.

As long as the final product was outstanding, Yi An would invest heavily in packaging and promoting the film.

Different people, different thinking.

Previously, Yan Li hadn't considered going public; he made films for profit. But now he began thinking about going public—film profit remained crucial, but its importance had to be pushed back; market influence and market share had to be boosted.

The Crazy Car could make less money, or even no money, but its box office had to be high, its influence had to be great.

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

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

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

He worked in film and television; these men worked in business.

The world is unpredictable—who would have thought that after just two years of superiority, he himself had become a crow landing in a coal pile, joining them in the blackness?

The only slight advantage was that Yan Li still cared a bit about face; under conditions that didn't harm the company, he tried his best to maintain project quality and corporate atmosphere, not as indiscriminately profit-driven as they were, obsessed solely with going public and money.

Of course, Yan Li also had to admit that having other industries backing him was also one reason.

The Wang brothers and Fatty Yu only had Huayi and Bona—they had to resort to any means necessary to squeeze money from them.

Yan Li had diversified his layout; he didn't need to squeeze one sheep until it bled dry, exhausting the resource; with several companies forming an industrial chain, influencing each other, he had to exercise restraint, not greedy for short-term, local gains, but thinking long-term and holistically.

Shaking his head, Yan Li thought he was truly overfed and bored—comparing himself to the Wang brothers and Fatty Yu was pointless.

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

The situation was essentially the same as The Crazy Stone—Ning Hao had full authority; Yan Li just needed to provide funds and arrange personnel for other matters.

Yan Li's visit this time was also to show his seriousness toward the film and to encourage Ning Hao and the crew.

Many bosses and leaders visiting a project, while partly for self-promotion and other reasons, still had some positive effects.

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

Especially for a boss like Yan Li, who didn't hassle people and even gave out benefits, many were glad he came.

After making a brief appearance and saying some polished words, Yan Li had a small gathering that night with Ning Hao and other key personnel, then left that same dawn.

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

The Message was about to start filming; its primary location was Tianjin, with some exterior scenes and plot elements shot in Dao City, Jin Ling, and Lian City.

Especially in Lian City, the crew of The Message spent over three months building an entire Qiu Zhuang from scratch—though it was merely a façade, designed only to support exterior shots.

If the film's influence proved strong, they could later complete the interior setups and turn it into a tourist attraction or filming location.

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

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

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

Unlike those replica Republic-era sets in film studios, even if built 1:1 and aged well, they still looked fake.

Polite phrasing: lacking a sense of lived-in realism; more bluntly: lacking humanity.

Yan Li toured the various locations and had dinner with Director Gao Qunshu, who was overseeing filming in Tianjin, catching up on old times.

When The Conquest became a massive hit, Yan Li made a lot of money; although Old Gao said nothing aloud, inwardly he felt a bit uneasy, leading to little collaboration between them in recent years.

Perhaps time had passed, or perhaps Yan Li had grown larger, demonstrating exceptional ability—Old Gao gradually let go of his resentment.

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

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

For The Message, Yan Li invited Old Gao to assist; the latter didn't hesitate and came.

There's a bond from meeting face-to-face; there was no major conflict, and his willingness to collaborate stemmed from a desire to continue their relationship.

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

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

"Recreate… glory!"

Old Gao's alcohol tolerance was far worse than Yan Li's; his eyes were glazed, echoing Yan Li's words loudly.

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

The reason The Message 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 it daily; the two soldiers rarely caused trouble, and when they did, he could suppress them.

But with Yan Li away, no one else could say anything.

Leaving aside the relationship between the two soldiers, just their status alone meant few dared provoke them.

The only advantage was that, having shot "Painted Skin," the two soldiers had undergone some degree of mutual adjustment and would be relatively calmer—but even so, Yan Li still held the upper hand.

The scenes between Lu Bu and Diaochan in "The New Three Kingdoms" will be postponed until after "The Wind" is finished.

Yan Li personally remained in Jingcheng to oversee things; if trouble arose in Jinmen, he could arrive fastest.

With experience from "Painted Skin," Yan Li had gradually figured out how to handle the two soldiers.

First, let the two clash a bit, vent their anger—don't just suppress them; the more you suppress, the fiercer the fire grows; it's better to channel than to block. Then Yan Li steps in to quell them, sets the rules, and lets them fight within bounds, so things can settle down relatively.

Also, Yan Li wanted the two soldiers' scenes finished quickly, ideally completed before "Painted Skin" premiered during the National Day slot.

Because of the promotion for "Painted Skin," the two soldiers would inevitably clash; if a fire broke out then, it could disrupt filming. But if "The Wind" was already done, they could fight however they liked.

As for "Painted Skin 2," if the first film was a hit, the two soldiers would continue collaborating without Yan Li needing to persuade them.

If the performance wasn't strong, there'd be no point making a second film—the value of the "two soldiers" brand would drop, and the so-called "Two Soldiers Trilogy" might not happen at all.

In the entertainment industry, results and profits matter!

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

Even having them act in a yuri scene and kiss wouldn't be impossible—Yan Li could just act as the intermediary…

…

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

He asked—it was another Olympic promotion.

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 multiple side roles, and broad connections; many organizations and friends loved asking him to lend his name.

If it involved commercial matters or private favors, Yan Li might make excuses to decline—but for public efforts supporting the Olympics, which required little cost and were openly beneficial, he'd help whenever he could.

After recording two Olympic VCRs, Yan Li went ahead and recorded some promotional VCRs for "The Investiture of the Gods 2" too.

"The Investiture of the Gods 2" was also scheduled for the summer slot, but unlike the first season, where Yan Li and Fan Xiaopang were main creators who had to promote it, the second season featured only supporting roles and cameos; since everyone was busy, the promotional duties were handed over to the main creators.

Fan Xiaopang was touring with "Red Cliff," preparing to appear at the Xingcheng stop to support "The Investiture of the Gods 2."

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

He posted on Weibo to promote it, interacted with the crew, and gave Weibo an exclusive interview about "The Investiture of the Gods 2."

Although Yan Li mainly did it for Weibo, he still helped "The Investiture of the Gods 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—Yi'an was the only company where he could call Yan Li "bro" in front of others.

Even Zhou Yi and Yan Li's hometown brothers only called him that privately.

Lin Jiachuan could do this not just because he was close to Yan Li, but because he was the eldest among the company's founding members.

When the company moved to its new headquarters, it also formalized management—issued employee badges and IDs based on seniority.

Before badges and IDs were introduced, former employees weren't counted; once an employee received an ID and left, the ID was archived.

Yan Li's ID was 【2002120400001】—the front part was his hire date, the day Yi'an was registered as a company; the back part indicated his order of hiring—he 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.

That's not entirely accurate—he joined before Yi'an was even officially established; he was the one who ran all the initial paperwork.

He never invested money or made outstanding contributions, so calling him a founder might be excessive—but as the most senior veteran, he was unquestionably entitled to the title.

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

Because of his limited conditions and abilities, he dared not dream of becoming a superstar—but this "Yi'an #02" badge might be one of his life's greatest honors, so he sincerely hoped Yi'an thrived, so his badge's value would rise.

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

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

"Stop flattering me."

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

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

"Don't be polite. I read your dad's new script—it's got flavor. Since you've got no role in 'The New Three Kingdoms' for now, just play the lead."

Lin Jiachuan wasn't just riding on Yan Li's coattails—his father Lin Heping's several scripts had also received investment or production from Yi'an.

Of course, Lin Heping had real ability; last year's "A Woman's Lifetime" was even nominated for the White Magnolia Award for Screenwriting.

How to put it? Lin Heping specialized in period dramas and main-theme pieces—quality wasn't outstanding, but it wasn't bad either; solid, standard work.

Yi'an invested in such dramas not for big profits, but to nurture actors and teams and maintain channels.

The former doesn't need explanation—there are so many actors and crew; they can't just sit idle. If there's a good project, make it; if not, make these kinds of dramas—they still make money.

That way, the company earns some income, everyone gets to work, and the company doesn't have to support them for free.

The latter considers distribution: there are only so many premium dramas each year—you can't just work with a few TV stations and ignore the rest.

So sometimes you need these decent dramas to maintain relationships; as long as ties remain, you can still collaborate on profitable projects when the right opportunity arises.

Lin Jiachuan looked uneasy: "Me playing the lead in my dad's script… doesn't that seem off?"

"Pretentious."

Yan Li shook his head—perhaps something had traumatized him; Lin Jiachuan strongly avoided working with his father, fearing people would say he was living off his dad's fame. 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 benefits, it's your dad benefiting from you. Fine, if you won't act, I'll have the crew find someone else."

Yan Li wasn't going to play a therapist—he had other projects anyway; act if you want, don't if you don't.

"No no no—I read 'Little Aunt Duohui'—it's a great script. I'll do it."

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

Moreover, he was no longer an unknown—he had some fame, so he couldn't truly be called a freeloader; it was just that his heart hadn't yet adjusted.

"You're not afraid people will say you're a freeloader—you're afraid you'll perform poorly, afraid your uncle will be disappointed, afraid you'll embarrass him."

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

Lin Jiachuan probably had this mindset too, but due to his relationship with his father, his psychology was more complex than most's—he likely had a hard childhood.

"Here's what I'll do: I'll speak to the film and television department and get you listed as producer, so you can stand tall in front of your uncle."

These days, screenwriters hold little status on set; the producer oversees the entire production and, nominally, outranks even the director, and is the screenwriter's superior.

The son commands the father!

"That wouldn't be right—I only know how to act; I don't understand what a producer does."