Chapter 53: Fan Xiaopang: What

What a stroke of bad luck!

Yan Li rubbed his forehead—how could anyone have imagined an actor would dislike others bringing up his most famous role?

Hmm, then again, he could sort of understand—it suddenly occurred to him that he himself had played Yuwen Chengdu.

If someone ever praised him for his portrayal of Yuwen Chengdu, raving about how much they loved the character and so on, Yan Li doubted he’d feel any better.

Still, even if that was true, Yan Li felt he was innocent of malice—he’d meant well. The girl being upset was one thing, but this felt like misplaced blame.

Petty-minded. No wonder she couldn’t match Xiao Yanzi or Lin Xinru!

Yan Li muttered to himself, lowering his evaluation of Fan Xiaopang.

The remaining pieces of intelligence included two about the stock market, two about internal matters of “The Treasure Basin,” and one on Liang Guanhua’s opinion of Yan Li.

Unlike Fan Xiaopang, Liang Guanhua held Yan Li in high regard and had a distinct fondness for him.

For the first time that day, Yan Li felt comfortable.

No one feels close to someone who doesn’t like them, especially someone like Yan Li, who was clear in his likes and dislikes.

If there was some ulterior motive, fine—but in normal social interaction, if someone liked him and treated him as a friend, Yan Li treated them as a friend too; conversely, if someone disliked or hated Yan Li, he wouldn’t go crawling for their approval.

…

The next day, Yan Li went out for his usual morning run and martial arts practice; Liang Guanhua had told him yesterday the hotel had a dedicated fitness area.

But Yan Li still preferred outdoor exercise—it let him enjoy the scenery and breathe fresh air.

With no scenes in the morning, Yan Li trained a bit, checked the stock market, ate lunch, then went to makeup, where he met Peng Dan, who played his character’s wife, Su Liniang, in the drama.

How to put it? She was, in fact, something of an “old acquaintance” to Yan Li.

Back in his youthful days, Yan Li had watched plenty of her Category III films—“Evil Kill,” “Extreme Bestiality,” “Six Demon Maidens,” “Triad Society,” and others—he’d been thoroughly entertained.

Even now, recalling them, he could sum it up in just one word—

Truly huge!

Unfortunately, perhaps due to the weather, the makeup, or insufficient payment, Peng Dan didn’t showcase her strengths in “The Treasure Basin.”

This time, Yan Li had learned his lesson—he didn’t go up and say, “I love your film so much!” but instead chatted in a standard, polite way.

To his slight surprise, he’d expected Peng Dan, having starred in Hong Kong Category III films, to be bold, free-spirited, and unbound by convention.

But after talking, he realized that while her personality was still quite cheerful, her speech and manners were refined—completely unlike what he’d imagined.

One could only say that on-screen personas and real-life personalities sometimes differed greatly.

Not long after, Liang Guanhua arrived, joining them for makeup and conversation.

Compared to Peng Dan’s contrast, Liang Guanhua truly resembled Zhang Damin from “Zhang Damin’s Happiness”—kind-natured and fond of witty banter.

Yan Li enjoyed chatting with people like him—talkative, good-humored, able to joke back and forth, boast a little, and create a light, pleasant atmosphere that made work enjoyable.

After makeup, the three went to the set to film; Yan Li had few scenes, mostly involving how he, Liang, and Peng conspired to outwit Shen Wansan.

As Song Dian, Yan Li’s most frequent scene partners in “The Treasure Basin” were Liang and Peng, followed by the lead actor, Zhang Weijian.

After them came Fan Xiaopang, who played the female second lead, Zhao Xuee.

In the drama, Song Dian had always longed for Zhao Xuee, wanting to take her back from Shen Wansan; even at death, he went to her grave to pay respects, where he met Shen Wansan and made peace with him.

After filming began, Peng Dan performed normally; Liang Guanhua seemed to be testing Yan Li’s mettle, delivering a more nuanced, layered, and explosive performance, with several changes to his lines.

Yan Li didn’t know how Liang had performed before—he assumed this was just the everyday standard of a Peking Opera House mainstay.

Though surprised by the altered lines, Yan Li stuck to his own rhythm and handled the scene steadily.

After “The Conquest,” Yan Li’s acting skills had improved—though how much was debatable—but after sharing scenes with powerhouse actors like Sun Honglei and Jiang Shan, his psychological resilience during performance had clearly grown far stronger.

This point was actually very important!

Many young actors trained in drama schools had sufficient foundational skills—they could handle most ordinary, low-demand scenes—provided they performed normally.

Many young actors failed not because of poor ability, but because of poor mindset.

On set, they panicked; facing the camera, they trembled; before even performing, they were intimidated by seniors, their minds a jumbled mess, forgetting lines and character, limbs and face unresponsive—how could they possibly perform well?

So, compared to being “able to act,” the most crucial thing for newcomers was to be “brave enough to act.”

Yan Li had an advantage here—he was naturally strong-willed and bold, and with the system backing him, he was even more confident.

After training in “The Sui and Tang Heroes” and “The Conquest,” minor disturbances couldn’t frighten him.

Others might outperform him in acting, but they couldn’t throw him off or make him lose his composure and make mistakes.

After the director approved the take, Liang Guanhua gave Yan Li a thumbs-up and complimented him.

At this age, Yan Li wasn’t the most outstanding young actor Liang had ever seen, but he was certainly among the top.

Compared to those young actors brimming with talent and natural flair, Yan Li’s strength lay in his solid fundamentals and genuine ability—so his performances were steady and excellent, giving him broad versatility and a high floor.

Liang Guanhua even considered encouraging Yan Li to audition for the Peking Opera House; some of their veteran masters favored actors with such steady, reliable talent.

If Yan Li knew what Liang Guanhua was thinking, he would politely decline.

He didn’t reject stage acting, but he didn’t want to perform the same role over and over again; instead, he preferred film and television, where he could try different characters and stories and pour his all into bringing them to life.

Of course, the fact that film and television paid more and brought greater fame was also an undeniable reason.

Yan Li’s scenes today were light—he finished filming several segments early; Liang and Peng still had more, so Yan Li bid them farewell and went to the makeup room to remove his makeup.

When he arrived, he found Fan Xiaopang and another middle-aged female actress—presumably playing her mother in the drama—getting their makeup done, likely preparing for night scenes.

Yan Li gave his standard polite smile and nodded, then found a seat, closed his eyes, and let the makeup artist remove his makeup.

Since she had no particular impression of him and wasn’t someone worth cultivating a relationship with, he’d rather keep distance than cause mutual annoyance.

Fan Xiaopang watched Yan Li, eyes closed, and slightly furrowed her delicate brows.

Last time they met, though he wasn’t great with words, his attitude had been friendly—why was he so cold today?

She was puzzled, but they were only colleagues with one brief encounter; she didn’t dwell on it and continued her makeup.

A few minutes later, the makeup room grew slightly noisy; Fan Xiaopang turned to see the production manager, Cheng Lidong, had entered.

Just as Fan Xiaopang was about to greet him, she saw the previously closed-eyed Yan Li already beaming as he walked over.

“Manager Cheng, what brings you here?”

“Just passing by, came in to check on everyone.”

Cheng Lidong laughed and patted Yan Li’s arm: “How’s your first day on set?”

“Very good. Teacher Liang and Sister Peng have been very kind to me. Thank you for your concern—so busy every day, yet you still remember me.”

“...”

Yan Li chatted warmly with Cheng Lidong; after the latter greeted others, the two even stepped outside for a cigarette and talked a few more minutes before Cheng left.

When he re-entered the makeup room, Yan Li saw Fan Xiaopang watching him eagerly and asked:

“You’re close with Manager Cheng?”

Hmph. Silent before, but now that she sees I’m familiar with the producer, she’s suddenly eager to chat.

“Not bad.”

Yan Li felt annoyed and gave a vague reply; Fan Xiaopang pressed: “How did you two meet?”

“A friend introduced us.”

“What friend? Also from our industry?”

“Mm.”

Fan Xiaopang was about to ask more, but Yan Li had no patience—he gave another standard polite smile, turned to the makeup artist, and closed his eyes again, making it clear he had no intention of engaging her.

“...”

Completely ignoring him, Fan Xiaopang glared daggers at Yan Li, her almond eyes blazing, teeth clenched.

What’s so special about a producer’s lapdog?!

(End of Chapter)