Chapter 366

Xu Qing, Jiang Wen, Ge Daye, and Zhang Guoli were all acquaintances.

Aside from their earlier work on “The Founding of a Nation,” Jiang Wen and she had collaborated on “Qin Song” and “Da Qing Fengyun,” two films in which both Xu Qing’s husband and father had starred.

Ge Daye had also appeared in “Qin Song,” making this her second collaboration with him.

To audiences who had seen “Qin Song,” the characters and plot of this new film, “Let’s Shoot,” seemed like Gao Jianli and the Princess of Yueyang eating hot pot and singing, only to be ambushed by Qin Shi Huang, who then… had relations with the Princess of Yueyang…

Zhang Guoli had never acted with Xu Qing, but they moved in the same circle—his friends were her friends, so naturally they were friends too.

The least familiar of them all was probably Yan Li.

During the years Yan Li rose rapidly, Xu Qing had semi-retired due to personal reasons, and their professional paths had barely crossed.

Privately, Xu Qing was known as the princess of Beijing’s circle—her background was solid; her father had once been General He’s bodyguard, her mother’s family included several diplomats, and she herself was a member of the General Political Department Song and Dance Troupe.

So she was a genuine big-yard kid, well-connected with Beijing’s old-guard elite.

She had ties with Zhao Baogang, Ye Daying, Jiang Wen, Wang Shuo, and this year she even landed a major role in “The Founding of a Nation.”

Soon after, she officially joined Huayi Brothers; the two Wangs of Huayi, fellow big-yard kids, treated her with great importance and promoted her as if she were a de facto top actress, elevating Xu Qing to extraordinary heights.

Li Bingbing had previously complained to Yan Li, saying the two Wangs of Huayi were foolish to treat an older woman like a treasure.

Well, she was only four years younger than Xu Qing.

In contrast, Yan Li, though also active in Beijing, had limited ties to the traditional Beijing circle.

From the start, he had carved his own path, primarily collaborating with various TV networks; later, as his influence grew, Yi’an recruited widely, expanding his network to include people from every faction and group.

Some called the group centered on Yan Li the “Yanzhi Faction” (from the character “Yan”), while others referred to it as the “Yi’an Faction.”

Others, combining the notions of “old Beijingers” and “new Beijingers,” labeled those who had succeeded in Beijing’s entertainment industry since the new century but were not native Beijing residents as the “New Beijing Circle.”

Yan Li was the largest power base—and even the de facto leader—of the New Beijing Circle.

Some even divided the Beijing Circle into eras: starting with Wang Shuo, Zheng Xiaolong, Hai Yan, and their generation, Huayi Brothers was barely considered the previous generation’s leader, while the wildly rising Yi’an would become the new leader of the Beijing Circle.

I’m from Shandong Province—how did I become the boss of the Beijing Circle?!

Yan Li neither resented nor particularly liked this title.

What Beijing Circle? What New Beijing Circle? I’m an entrepreneur, a youth role model—why should I play some gang boss?

Even if he truly wanted to be a boss, Yan Li had no interest in the Beijing Circle—he aimed to become the uncrowned king of the entire entertainment industry.

So Yan Li waited for Jiang Wen to finish his pleasantries before shaking hands with Xu Qing.

“Hello, Teacher Xu, I’m Yan Li.”

Xu Qing’s smile naturally brought out two dimples, giving her a sweeter, younger appearance that made her seem younger than her actual age.

“Director Yan, I’ve heard so much about you. This is our first collaboration—please take care of me.”

Yan Li nodded with a smile, though in reality, he and Xu Qing had no scenes together in the film.

Oh, there was one scene—except Xu Qing played a corpse.

Still, it wasn’t surprising that a group of older men were fixated on her.

Though over forty, Xu Qing’s figure, skin, and demeanor all still looked remarkably youthful.

Compared to her earlier, slightly naive and innocent look, the years had added depth and allure to her, giving her the sensual charm of a mature woman.

The combination of youthful nostalgia and mature seduction was a double strike—hitting every weak point for those older men.

Jiang Wen was relatively decent—he still had his wife, Zhou Yun, after all.

Zhang Guoli was fine too; his son was here, he wasn’t close to Xu Qing, and he was leaving soon anyway.

But Ge Daye, with no ties to the production, showed unmistakable enthusiasm toward Xu Qing.

Yan Li wasn’t surprised—he’d dined with Ge Daye before and knew the man occasionally indulged in youthful whims.

Don’t put old artists on a pedestal; their seniority and professional skill don’t guarantee good character.

Their scandals, due to era and popularity, never spread widely, so many viewers didn’t know—and their roles, plus the need to contrast them with newcomers, kept them shielded.

All three of these men had their scandals.

Jiang Wen had the most—he’d once been ambushed and beaten at his door; Zhang Guoli’s sets were often rumored to be raided by Deng Jie.

By comparison, Ge Daye was almost a decent man—mostly just loose talk and minor flirtations in private.

Yan Li didn’t interrupt their old-friend reunion; he went off to check his own set.

His role as Huang Silang, except for a few middle and late scenes, mostly followed a separate storyline.

So while Jiang Wen’s crew shot one thread, Yan Li’s crew shot another—this was more efficient.

It meant Jiang Wen had to run back and forth, working late into the night—but he had no choice; Yan Li was the one he’d begged and bullied to join.

Yan Li’s schedule was limited, and he needed time to handle work—he couldn’t afford to follow the production’s slow pace.

Jiang Wen could’ve prioritized shooting Yan Li’s scenes first, making things easier—but instead, he gathered all actors and split them into two groups.

In his words, he was “finding the feeling!”

Yan Li didn’t care whether Jiang Wen was finding feeling or setting a trap—he’d given 40 days. If filming wasn’t done by then, the one panicking wouldn’t be Yan Li.

After touring the sets, Yan Li went for makeup tests; he’d already done a round in Beijing, but Jiang Wen now had new ideas.

Huang Silang’s hairstyle was a slicked-back pompadour, with a glued-on mustache; his clothing was mostly suits, but also included brocade horse jackets and long gowns.

This blend of Eastern and Western styles was intentional.

Capitalist yet feudal, progressive yet conservative, East meets West, authoritative yet decaying—it spoke of the man, and of the era.

After Yan Li’s costume test, Jiang Wen felt Yan Li looked younger than the original Huang Silang, so the character should be sharper, more flamboyant—his performance and posture needed greater aggression.

The wardrobe now had more layers: privately, Huang Silang preferred suits, but in public or when asserting authority, he wore traditional Chinese attire.

This subtly implied that while he outwardly pursued Western ideals, inwardly he clung to feudal traditions.

Yan Li and Jiang Wen discussed this “new Huang Silang” in detail; Yan Li even drafted a character biography, giving the role new dimensions and subtle allusions.

Well, all of that was Jiang Wen’s doing—Yan Li was just an actor who showed up to perform.

Dressed in a white suit and wearing his final prop—gold-rimmed glasses—Yan Li stood tall, smiled slightly, and looked every inch the elegant gentleman, with not a trace of villainous aura.

This was a concept Yan Li and Jiang Wen had developed together.

Bandits fighting tyrants—does the bandit always have to look like a bandit? Must the tyrant always look like a tyrant?

Evil that shows on the surface isn’t terrifying; the truly terrifying evil hides behind a good face.

After several costume changes and official character photos, Yan Li’s morning work was done—he waited for the afternoon shoot.

During this time, Yan Li met a few of his on-screen subordinates: martial instructor Jiang Wu, Hu Qian, Yao Lu—but he didn’t know Hu Bai.

Hu Wan hadn’t arrived yet; Deng Chao wouldn’t join until a few days later.

Yes, Deng Chao was also cast in “Let’s Shoot”—recommended by Yan Li to Jiang Wen, who met him once and immediately approved him.

Though he played only a minor supporting role, “Let’s Shoot” had such a massive cast that Deng Chao didn’t feel diminished—he happily accepted, even turning down “Ip Man 2.”

At lunch, they hosted a welcome dinner for Zhang Mo and Xu Qing; Jiang Wen arranged for the core crew to dine out.

Yan Li didn’t isolate himself—wherever he ate was fine; he’d try local dishes to avoid trouble.

In fact, Yan Li’s demands for this production weren’t much smaller than those originally made by Fa Ge.

He was given separate lodging with high-end specifications.

He was chauffeured in luxury cars and required a private luxury RV for rest.

He refused the crew’s boxed meals, insisting on custom meals from upscale restaurants, plus premium fruits and drinks.

Other demands, compared to most actors, were outright luxurious.

But one difference: Fa Ge demanded the production pay; Yan Li paid for all this himself—in a way, he was saving the production money.

For Yan Li, these were minor expenses—even a fraction of his salary could easily cover them.

Handling it himself was more comfortable and reliable, and he didn’t want to be labeled as someone who took advantage.

Spending his own money—even if he had a helicopter hoist two oxen to roast every day—was his personal choice, none of the production’s business, and no one could comment on it.

Yan Li’s few demands on the production were reasonable call times.

No days overloaded with shooting, then days with nothing to do—ideally, minimize overtime.